Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

‘Everyone looks so tired here,’ Sergeant Tiendi observed.

Brynd didn’t say anything in response. Perhaps eternal warfare tends to grate after a while . .

There were further city blocks, people crammed above each other in tight spaces; there was the drone of distant, indecipherable conversation. There were plenty of new aromas, too, sweet and bitter, and he did not recognize them.

Brynd admitted to himself that he was disappointed with this place. He had expected the most exotic structures, the most baroque cityscape, confusing and baffling buildings — but there was little of that. More unusual goings-on could be seen on the streets of Villiren.

No, this seemed a sanitized culture, as if the most conservative elements had been ring-fenced and shot up into the sky.

He told Artemisia his thoughts.

‘You are not entirely incorrect in your assumptions.’ Artemisia walked by his side, stooped slightly, muttering her words with discretion. ‘You must understand that the people gathered here are our elites. These are the royal bloodlines, the assemblage of noble kin.’

‘I thought your culture more. . democratic than this?’

‘It is indeed democratic for the most part. But the Ekkpolis is a relatively new vessel, the result of great expenditure, which has been partially commandeered by our military rulers. The people here feel safer with protection and the military have a first-class vessel on which to base their operations.’

‘Why are all of the people here human ?’ Brynd asked.

‘It is humans who have hoarded the wealth. Other races do not seem so bothered by coin and manage by other means. So it goes in your world, too, does it not?’

Brynd confessed that it did, more or less.

They headed along increasingly empty roads. Admittedly, the further away from habitation they marched, the more interesting the architecture became, but it still felt perfunctory to Brynd, as if the buildings were mere shelters. There were a few other races — some small, interesting creatures with complex body shapes and bizarre faces, engaged in menial work, polishing some of the surfaces, carrying items that looked like building materials. The streets were curved as gracefully as a river’s meander, passing through minimalist decor. Soon it became nothing more than a path between pale, glossy walls, with thin slits for windows, which overlooked nothing but patches of cloud. The walls met at the top in a vast arched ceiling. There were no other markings, nothing else to suggest they were going somewhere important.

They arrived in a small antechamber, which again was minimalist in style. Artemisia ushered them through a white door, then another. The soldiers found themselves in a room around fifty paces wide, with a large, black table upon a raised platform, around which Artemisia’s elders were seated, along with other people garbed in military-style clothing, one human wearing bright-silver chest armour and a sour expression. The elders regarded the Night Guard pensively.

At the other end of the chamber, Frater Mercury was seated in an immense glass-like throne. Around the room were large, golden cauldrons, each with levers and dials, and when he passed one Brynd peered in to see a clear liquid inside with steam rising. The floor tiles they walked upon were almost porcelain-like in their appearance, but they remained strangely soft underfoot, like a luxurious carpet. The white walls contained designed panels here and there; whether they had function or not, he didn’t know.

The man in silver armour, grey-haired yet still young-looking, marched down to Artemisia, and began to speak in hushed tones. His uniform was interesting, not dissimilar to some of the more ancient costumes from the Boreal Archipelago: a white tunic over which he wore stylized armour that had been moulded to look like a muscular chest and boots of dark brown leather.

Artemisia turned to Brynd. ‘My people wish to confirm our plans.’

‘Of course,’ Brynd said. ‘How shall we continue?’

‘Stand by any one of the cauldrons,’ she instructed.

Brynd turned to his comrades and shrugged. They peeled off in small groups to stand around the vessels.

They were tall objects, reaching to just under Brynd’s ribs, and they were at least several feet wide. On closer inspection, the fluid within was not transparent, it was mirroring what was above. Brynd saw his own pale features reflected, though his face was distorted slightly by slow ripples passing across the liquid. ‘What should we be looking for?’

Artemisia was looking at the elders, who were conferring and gesturing to their table. Were there maps on there?

Suddenly the liquid began to bubble slightly, then simmered, though Brynd could feel no heat from the container. He looked at the expressions on his comrades’ faces, and they were as cool as his own.

‘Look down into the cauldrons,’ Artemisia called.

The liquid began to change tone — its mirror-like qualities dissipated, and in their place appeared images of small black dots.

‘What are we looking at?’ Brynd enquired.

‘These are the. . Boats?’ she looked to Brynd for confirmation of the word and he nodded. ‘These are being sent out, as we converse, across the waters towards the coast of Folke.’

Brynd looked down again into the liquid. He could now see that while there was a cloud around the perimeter of the cauldron, the liquid was in fact the surface of the sea, and there were hundreds of small dots. ‘Just like Villiren,’ he breathed. ‘Where did the boats come from, another Realm Gate?’

‘Not this time. These were contained within a limb of their vessel.’

‘So the enemy has launched their offensive already?’

‘They have indeed.’

Brynd’s heart skipped a beat, but he wanted to be sure. ‘How are you acquiring such. . such pictures? Moving ones, of that.’

‘We have our. . surveillance beings, not dissimilar to your garudas. They are equipped in a fashion that means what they see is transmitted to these cauldrons.’

‘What size is this force?’

‘There are approximately ten thousand ships heading to the shore in the first wave, and one of your hours behind them lies a second, larger wave. Our estimates suggest the first will arrive in two hours.’

‘Most of our forces will take another day to meet us. They’re currently protecting towns situated further from the coast, where the populations are dense.’

‘They will be of more use there, for we have tens of thousands of our own people ready to meet this. We will, however, require your guidance. The elders,’ Artemisia gestured respectfully towards them, ‘will need to know what this terrain of sand is like.’

‘It’s nothing you want to fight on ideally,’ Brynd replied. ‘Depending on where they make landfall, however, your best bet is to assault them hardest as they land on the beaches. The waters are shallow, which means that the boats won’t be able to penetrate deep enough. If the ships are of the same type as those that hit Villiren, they’ll probably run aground thirty or forty feet before the low-tide mark: this means wading through water.’

‘We will need to know the quality of your water. Is it saline?’

‘It is.’

‘We have oils that will be useful here. Liquid fire, commander.’

Brynd raised an eyebrow. ‘That will be more than useful, if it does what I think it might. After this, I suggest holding them up as best you can with airborne assaults, archers, catapults, anything to keep them from establishing a position on the beaches. It will be messy. We’ll have the advantage as there will be nothing for them to shelter behind at first. They will suffer a lot of casualties if you’ve the numbers to keep the attack up.’