Mark Newton: The Broken Isles

‘Nothing, then,’ he declared, but Artemisia stood staring at the archway.

He followed her gaze, and then he noticed that the darkness within the arch was different from that outside. Inside was an utter blackness, totally devoid of light, whereas outside he could see the edges of branches and tree trunks picked out by torchlight.

‘An absolute nothing,’ Artemisia confirmed smugly. ‘This is, I believe, progress.’

‘Where’s this assistance then?’

‘I never said it would come naturally. I may have to enter through here in order to retrieve it. No one on the other side would have known of my summons. This is merely a gateway.’

‘The descriptions of the other Realm Gates were different,’ Brynd said. ‘They suggested a purple mesh of light — this has nothing.’

‘There are different methods of construction — also, the light may be on the other side. This might only go one way. I would have to turn it around.’

‘You mean, go in? How can we be certain you’re not wasting our time — that you’ll go back to your world and that’s that?’

‘Dimension,’ she corrected. ‘It is the same world. Why would I waste my time coming here in the first place? If it works, then I will be back immediately. Time works differently, I assure you.’

‘Go on, then,’ Brynd commanded. ‘We might as well get on with it if our situation is as bad as we think it is.’

‘Very well, I will return immediately,’ Artemisia replied, and simply marched towards the archway — and then into a void.

Gasps came from the archers, and Brynd had to admit his own surprise at her nonchalance at the act. Then again, if she had breached worlds before, it might be second nature to her.

People began murmuring, and Brynd could hear the question arise of how long they would stay out here in the cold. Bitter disappointment was apparent on everyone’s face; hopes began fading as the minutes passed.

But no sooner had the gathered soldiers begun to murmur when the archway began to emit light. A grid began to form, one similar to those that Brynd had heard about out across the ice, where it was thought that other races had infiltrated this world and gathered the invasion force that attacked Villiren. The purple lines of light bulged in hypnotic ways, as if a force were trying to push from the other side. The lines of light peeled outwards.

Brynd immediately called for order, stopping the panic from spreading and dragging the archers back to attention and telling them to focus their arrow-tips at the archway, because something was certainly trying to enter the clearing.

A moment later, a blue head pushed through — followed by its body.

It was Artemisia.

She appeared to be different, wore strange new clothing — dark armour with a red sun emblazoned on her chest.

‘Prepare,’ she muttered, and stumbled forwards.

Behind her, the gateway bulged again: this time in several places. Something pressed against it, then burst through — human hands, attached to. . yes — human warriors. Brynd had expected something stranger, given the nature of the recent invasion. He was almost relaxed at the familiar sight.

Then it struck him: humans exist in this other dimension?

Clad in body armour and carrying circular shields and short, thick swords, warriors tumbled forward out of the gate, flooding into the clearing. They all bore the same emblem on their chest and on the forehead of their regal-looking helmets: a hollow red sun.

Brynd turned to face his own military lines, ordering them to stand down: ‘Take ten paces back for space, keep your aim squarely ahead. Do not fire.’

His men shuffled back into the darkness as these otherworld soldiers continued flowing through the gates into the ruins of the cathedral, maintaining impressively precise ranks. There must have been two hundred of them. Here was a mix of dark-skinned and light-skinned men, some bordering on albino, and they were all broad and muscular.

Artemisia approached him. ‘These are the elite of our warriors.’ The pride was clear in her voice.

‘Fine-looking soldiers,’ Brynd admitted. ‘Though I had hoped for more.’

‘There are many more where they came from,’ Artemisia replied. ‘Tens of thousands, though of a more inferior quality. I located the ones that could be spared immediately. More will be brought soon enough. You should know I was gone from here for over five days in my nation. I also bring some news.’

Brynd nodded for her to continue.

‘Frater Mercury, our creator, has already, it seems, made it into this world.’

‘How? This is your ruler, right?’

‘No — creator not ruler. Our society is democratic — there is no one ruler, but a working, interchangeable council of elders. Frater Mercury’s work was in enabling us to exist and to breed more, but he has only ever advised.’

‘What’s he doing in our world?’

Artemisia seemed for the very first time to show concern on her face. ‘I am not entirely sure. He had not. . alerted any elders of intentions. It is a surprise to all of us. He has since left only a handful of messages.’

‘I’m guessing you’ll need to locate him,’ Brynd said.

‘A possibility, yes.’

‘We’re going to have to combine tactics — your nation, and ours — if we’re not only to fight together, but also to live together peacefully. If you would head back to your world,’ Brynd indicated the gate, ‘I would like to meet with your elders. They should speak with Jamur Rika. We should begin diplomatic discussions immediately.’

Artemisia nodded. ‘It could take a while to assemble them, but I will.’

To Brynd the obsidian chamber situated high up in the Citadel was becoming the nearest thing he knew to a home. As a soldier he could spend months away from the normal elements of life: family or friends or the comforting familiarity of daily routine. The Night Guard had long replaced his family and friends; as for a home. . well, being shipped from mission to mission for more than half his life had long relieved him of any attachment. In that sense he shared more with the nomadic tribes of the Archipelago than with the people of this city.

The obsidian chamber had been the main war room for mounting the defence of Villiren. Blood-red volcanic glass lined the walls, upon which cressets were burning, mirrored in the glossy surface, and in the centre of the wide room was a vast oak table. A fire crackled in a grate. Thin, arched windows on one side revealed the harbour of Villiren, or what was left of it, and the sea beyond. The weather was unusually fine today: a few clouds scudded over the horizon, but other than that the choppy sea was a deep blue, the sky above slightly paler.

Brynd had spent many hours in here. Though he had seen more than his fair share of combat, much of his expertise had been concerned with logistics: food supplies, civilian evacuation procedures, military tactics, enlistment, all the time negotiating with the city officials — whenever they felt like engaging professionally, that was. Brynd hadn’t seen the city’s portreeve for many weeks now, the man presumably having long since fled. Now the city had fallen under military rule, and this suited Brynd just fine — it made Villiren all the easier to annex from the Empire.

He cleared the maps and draft budgets from the table and heaped them on his desk to look at later. Then poured himself a glass of decent wine that had been ‘rescued’ from the crippled cellars of a bistro by the citizen militia and took a sip.

There was a knock at the door and he called for them to enter. A muscular and the most thuggish-looking of the Night Guard soldiers, Brug, poked his shaven head around the door. Brynd could make out the tattoos on his thick neck as he stretched into the room. ‘Commander, Jamur Rika says she’s ready to see you now.’