Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

‘Do you feel aggrieved she doesn’t consult you much?’ Brug muttered grimly, as if egging him on for a scrap.

‘I don’t mind that so much. These are her people, after all. Her soldiers.’

‘Her corpses , at any rate,’ Brug replied. ‘Fuck knows how many have died in this first wave. At least they’re getting a chance at glory.’

They both glanced down again, watching the scene remain almost exactly as it had been minutes ago. Line after line of creatures, each rank stretching for miles it seemed, piled in to prevent the Okun from breaching the shoreline and up onto the grassland beyond, but even there, waiting for them, would be more creatures.

Whether it was because of his remoteness from the scene, or perhaps because these were not his people — they were not of his world — Brynd couldn’t help but think of the clean-up operation, removing this many bodies. There were already thousands, and the conflict had not yet lasted for more than an hour.

‘Commander, take a look at this,’ one of his men urged.

Brynd faced the cauldron again. This time, something was flying over — a dragon perhaps? — dropping what appeared to be a liquid over the Okun. A moment later there was a flash. Fire exploded out in dozens of tiny plumes at first and then it became more intense, occupying more of the cauldron’s image, more of the scene on the shore — an inferno — while the flying creature moved further up the coast continuing to release fire.

‘I’d be surprised if anything survives that,’ Brynd said.

‘It’s annoying we can’t see the full scene,’ Sergeant Tiendi added.

‘This is frustrating, commander. When can we get down there to help out?’

‘You think we can help much here? Artemisia’s right, even though it pains me to say it. We’ll engage in our operation soon enough.’

Indeed, the time did arrive for them to begin their operation. After what Brynd estimated to be another hour watching the repetitive carnage, Artemisia invited them around the table with the elders so that they might discuss the final moves. On the table lay maps and technical drawings, some on vellum, some on a slate-like material. Artemisia showed how they delineated the internal structure of the enemy’s sky-city. It seemed vast, a place of habitation much like the one in which they currently stood, as well as housing many separate units, limbs of civilizations ready to detach and drop to the ground. Its purpose was to transport a population through another world, driven by arcane powers that would — she claimed — take too long to explain.

As a result, there were several central structures of importance. These not only housed the population’s noble blood and ruling individuals but also their sophisticated communications, as well as encasing the ‘drive’ that kept the city floating in the sky.

‘That means the most essential targets are clustered together,’ Brynd observed.

‘The dangers,’ Artemisia suggested, ‘of centralized power.’

She pointed out the main access routes — inevitably the hardest part was getting inside, but once they were there, it was much like any other city, with roads and pathways, bridges and so on.

‘And Frater Mercury?’ Brynd enquired. ‘If he is to become our very own weapon, before he self-destructs, we presumably need to get him as close as possible to the central districts?’

‘It is indeed the case. Your wasps,’ Artemisia continued, ‘will certainly help. I did suspect we would have to travel on foot, in the shadows, which would have been a painfully slow option. Now if we can gain speed. . Will there be room for me? No. Perhaps I need to see what fliers we can spare to go with us. Frater Mercury will need transporting.’

‘He can ride with me,’ Brynd said, ‘or failing that, I’m almost certain the wasps can carry small loads underneath them.’

‘This is good. .’ Artemisia said. She whispered to the elders in their exotic language, and eventually they nodded their agreement, and seemed sadly satisfied with the notion.

‘Which is the best route inside?’ Brynd enquired. ‘If possible, we should commit it to memory.’

‘I had previously anticipated,’ Artemisia said, spinning one of the maps towards Brynd with a huge hand, ‘that we would take this road here.’ It was marked red on the map, a complex, almost spiral circuit that led towards the centre of the structure.

‘How many miles is that — in our equivalent terms?’

‘It is. .’ Artemisia said, ‘about five miles. It is not, admittedly, the most direct route, but it is one that provides the most secrecy and shelter.’

‘This is a big structure indeed,’ Brynd breathed. ‘But surely if we breach their defences, they’ll be aware of our presence, and there won’t be much shelter at all? We’ll be hunted.’

‘This may be so. We are calculating they will be distracted sufficiently by events on the ground.’

‘That’s too much of a risk,’ Brynd said. ‘We have the Mourning Wasps. We have speed on our side. Surely there’s a more direct route that doesn’t involve us dicking around waiting to be killed?’

Artemisia appeared confused by his choice of words before regarding the maps once again. ‘You could be correct in your statement, if I understand it. You wish for us to simply strike quickly, deploy Frater Mercury and get out?’

‘It makes more sense, don’t you think?’ Brynd asked despairingly. How could such an advanced culture have such weak military ideas?

Brynd’s mind was flitting with last-minute logic at such a rate that he didn’t recognize time passing by. The Night Guard soldiers remained at the periphery of his vision, of his mind, committing the route to memory. He had to take a step back and breathe quietly to himself to regain composure. Don’t let the pressure get to you, he warned himself. Think how far you’ve come. To lose control now would be catastrophic .

The plan was simple. Artemisia’s people would provide cover in the sky while the Night Guard and a few other creatures would bust their way into the enemy complex.

Dragons and garudas would patrol the skies outside the city, acting as decoys, distractions, eliminating whatever enemies came their way. There would, Artemisia explained, be aerial combat, so the Mourning Wasps would have to travel over great heights to retreat, something he had not yet tried out. Despite the awkward stares of his regiment, he dismissed the point — he had to put his faith in them. There was no other choice in the matter.

Out on the landing platform, Brynd stood gripping one of the ornate rails, looking down on the scene below. The structure was drifting lower, through the cloud base, and towards their enemy — now he could see the swarms on the island of Folke.

Everything appeared abstract from this height. Breathtaking numbers drifted across the landscape, dark tides changing the face of the island permanently. Further out to sea, the ships still lined up to pummel the island.

‘Normally I couldn’t wait to get into a scrap,’ Brug muttered, appearing at Brynd’s side. ‘We feel invincible, with our augmentations, don’t we? Almost immortal, dare I say it. Seeing that down there, I’ve never felt more humbled. It was frustrating in there, too, going over things again and again. Don’t they ever just fancy a good fight instead of being so aloof?’

Brynd said: ‘I nearly lost it. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t let on — but sometimes I wish there was just one person making the decisions.’

‘You mean like a dictator?’

Brynd laughed. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind, but it would certainly get the job done a lot quicker. I gave them good plans down on Y’iren; I thought it was all decided. Yet, every time I have a question or we make a refinement, Artemisia consults with the bloody elders. Meanwhile, down there, people are having their heads split open.’