Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

‘At least they’re not our own people dying down there,’ Brug said, ‘not yet anyway.’

‘We’ll eventually need to stop thinking in those terms.’

‘They’re not our responsibility though, are they?’

‘They soon might be. Besides, they’re sacrificing themselves in huge numbers so both our races can survive into the future — I’d much rather chuck some of those scumbags in Villiren into another dimension to make room for people who are willing to shed their blood in such a way.’

Other Night Guard soldiers approached and most of them remained in companionable silence. There seemed to be nothing left to say any more. Everything had been decided. All that was left was to find Frater Mercury. They milled about for a few minutes, agitated, anxious, eager to get into battle.

Brynd headed back into the wooden cages to tend to the Mourning Wasps. They had been fed some liquid prepared by Jeza, though he was not sure what it was exactly. It seemed to satisfy their appetites. He felt a strange affinity to them; and though he might have been convincing himself of the fact, he felt they responded to him positively as time went on. He took the unusual step of placing his hand affectionately on one of their skulls; it was smooth to the touch, and through it he could feel the minute vibrations from their powerful wing muscles.

It seemed inherently obvious to Brynd why he was drawn to creatures that were so different. No, not different — unique. He could never escape the company of others, but he felt consistently isolated. Facing battles never bothered him for this very reason, and at the back of his mind was the niggling sensation that if he did die in battle, it would be no bad thing. Even before the arrival of other cultures, his faith in Bohr had been long eroded, so there was solace to be found in the fact that he might die and nothing would happen. Nothing, other than the fact that his corpse would burn, his ashes would be scattered, and the very fabric of his body go back to the earth. There was something comforting about that fact, especially when confronted with such uniqueness as the Mourning Wasps.

The Boreal Archipelago was full of weird wonders. It was about to receive even more.

There was a hubbub outside the cage so Brynd left the wasps, strode down the platform onto the landing bay. Artemisia was approaching, with Frater Mercury, half his face glistening, his expression as always hidden and out of reach. He was wearing a rich blue cloak and tunic with a fine gold stitching of bold shapes; around all of this were strapped thick metal objects.

‘Are those relics?’ Brynd asked Artemisia.

‘I still do not know what you mean by relics,’ she replied. ‘They are devices that Frater Mercury will use to terminate his life.’

‘And the lives of those around him, presumably,’ Brynd replied.

‘As confirmed earlier, yes.’

‘Is he still comfortable with killing himself for the greater good?’ Brynd asked.

I am , came the thunderous reply in Brynd’s mind. Frater Mercury seemed furious with those two words, a gesture that hinted at far greater powers — and dangerous powers, too.

‘My apologies,’ Brynd replied, to strange looks from his comrades, who must not have heard the comment. ‘Your suicide is a noble one, a gesture that will last for generations to come.’

I want it over now. No more. I have seen all I need to see. I am more than ever disappointed in the results of the experiment.

Brynd felt as though he’d let the man down, though it seemed irrational to think so.

They all prepared for the mission. Brynd guided down the Mourning Wasps one by one, until they lined up in a neat row. For creatures who could manoeuvre so well in the air, they seemed to cope awkwardly walking down the platform, their movements stuttering and clumsy. They were to be deployed into smaller cages, on the backs of smaller, more agile dragons — lithe, green creatures that appeared more like lizards — so that the intention of a smaller force heading into the sky-city would be disguised as best as possible. Their stance was crouched and alert, their wings massive and venous. As the last few Mourning Wasps were taken to their new transport, Frater Mercury moved towards one of them, his hands aloft. Brynd ordered to halt the movement of the wasps. Three of them stood there as Frater Mercury walked around them.

Brynd tried to sense whether or not Frater Mercury wished to communicate with those around him, but whatever went on in the man’s head now remained private. He seemed to recognize the Mourning Wasps. He touched their skulls with great respect and for the first time Brynd saw him appear like an ordinary human. His profound presence fell away: instead this could have been a man greeting his own dog at the end of a hard day’s graft. Even Artemisia seemed surprised at Frater Mercury’s gestures.

He gradually turned his attention away from them.

It will be , Frater Mercury said to Brynd, a great honour to travel with these creatures. Where were they found?

‘I believe they were excavated and brought to life on an island further up the Archipelago.’

For a moment Brynd felt as if Frater Mercury was not going to continue with his suicide mission; he felt his heart thumping in his chest as he waited for further communication.

I remember these the first time around, many ages ago , Frater Mercury said.

Brynd stared at the two halves of his face, waiting. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask them. How this figure could have lived so long was beyond Brynd’s comprehension — but then there were a lot of things he did not understand.

Artemisia stepped between them. ‘We must go now. The weather is in our favour.’

So it must be , Frater Mercury said, much less intense than ever before.

There was a dripping sound coming from somewhere. Wherever he was, the place was utterly dark. The ground was moving softly. . no, not the ground. They were somewhere else entirely. A boat, on water, drifting. . Fulcrom sat up and felt a stiffness in his chest, but that soon faded. He then felt nothing at all.

Lan was beside him. Sweet Lan, lying there peacefully. Fulcrom tried to remain as logical as possible, and examined her: there was a hole in her uniform where the sword had penetrated, but other than that she looked exactly as he remembered. Well, not exactly — her skin was far paler than before, almost giving off a glow in this darkness. He checked his own body, and he, too, had a sword wound in his chest, right above his heart. He checked optimistically for any sign of his tail, which had been cut off by Urtica’s men in Villjamur, but it was not there.

Bugger .

All around them was water, but the boat — a small vessel — was drifting in one direction, that much he could be sure of. Lan stirred and a few moments later she rose up to see what Fulcrom was describing. He explained to her what happened with Malum.

‘I can just about remember, though it’s a bit hazy. I wasn’t unconscious, but I was really, really dazed at the time.’

‘He kept good to his word.’

‘What?’

‘Malum. Once I clicked he was going to kill us, I had no choice but to persuade him to kill us in an appropriate manner and not burn our bodies.’

‘We’re dead then?’ Lan asked.

‘Or undead. I’m not so sure how to label the dead, now we’re one of them.’

‘Why did you do that? Didn’t you want our souls to go on to other realms?’

‘It would’ve meant we would be apart. I didn’t want that. It was — if you could believe it — a selfish gesture of love. I just wanted to be with you. Is that so bad?’

‘No, not at all,’ Lan replied. ‘Eternity together is certainly more meaningful than flowers.’ At least her sense of humour had followed her down here. . ‘So Malum hasn’t burned us, and our physical bodies are probably somewhere in the harbour in Villiren?’