Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

It was a piecemeal and very slow operation.

Randur became immensely frustrated at the fact that success simply meant that the status quo was maintained. There seemed no way of actually winning — all they were doing was holding off one group of bodies, for another wave to come crashing against the doors and walls. There were a few valiant efforts to scale the walls: ropes were launched upward, only to be cut by the handful of soldiers on the roof. Eir and Randur found themselves directing things more than being much use.

As the hours rolled towards midnight, there was an explosion that managed to blow a gap in the front of the portcullis. Moments later came a second blast.

The gathered defenders reconvened to discuss a new plan of action.

Everyone’s tone was noticeably more panicky now. There was a great deal more urgency to proceedings. People spoke over one another until Eir managed to calm everyone down to develop a solution.

They concluded that, should the doors be breached and the gangs make it into the courtyard, it did not necessarily mean that the Citadel could be accessed easily. The courtyard could be sealed off, and Randur suggested they could hold the gangs in there for a little longer, cutting off routes to the rest of the building as best they could. Having ascertained what would happen if the gangs did breach these boundaries, they planned to close down the Citadel section by section, wearing the attackers down, throwing in more relics, drawing more blood.

A third blast came a few minutes later.

An enormous metallic scraping sound suggested the portcullis was being removed. The cheers were more audible, the noise of the mob accumulating within the confines of the walls. Still they couldn’t see the numbers of assailants they’d be dealing with.

Blavat, the cultist, had set off a couple of relics in the entrance way to the Citadel — Randur didn’t know what exactly; he could only hear the screams — but it managed to buy them some more time. They locked doors, barricaded passageways, drew down further, smaller portcullises, the presence of which surprised everyone but the guards. It seemed the Citadel was not only built well for an external defence but also for an internal one.

They ran back along corridors, sealing themselves in, moving up a level.

The gangs passed the cultist trickery and flooded in. The noise was intense and frightening. Randur could hear the vile chants now, the names, the curses, their promises. Their anger filtered up through the stone.

As they moved up a stairway, between the cold walls, Randur caught a glimpse of the courtyard below. ‘Eir, look. There are hundreds of them.’

‘They mustn’t get up. We must keep them there, locked in, and wear them down.’

‘They’re not going to just go. They’ll stay until we’re dead.’

‘If that happens, then so be it, but we must hold until the commander returns.’

‘That could be any time. It could be days. It could be weeks.’

‘It could be soon, too, we’ve just no idea.’

The gangs were milling about the place now, as if they were in an iren. With nowhere to go they had been stalled. Somehow one of them had managed to get up on the raised platform, several feet above the ground. It was too dark for Randur to identify him, but he seemed to be giving instructions. . no, he was rallying them.

‘Could Blavat throw something in there to kill them all?’ Randur asked. He noticed Eir cringe at his intentions.

They looked down the line at the grey-haired cultist, who simply shrugged. ‘The military have taken most of my damaging relics for their operations. I have very few of use any more. At best, things that give off smoke, things that may slow down time for them. .’

‘That’ll do,’ Randur said.

‘All it does is make it appear as if they’re wading through treacle, and it doesn’t last for more than a few hours.’

‘I don’t care,’ Randur said. ‘It’s our best chance of holding them off.’

Blavat ran up the stairs to her quarters. Randur and Eir waited by the window as the soldiers continued their work of barricading themselves in.

A few moments later, something whistled outside like a firecracker and exploded over the thugs below.

It was difficult to observe fully, but the crowds below were very definitely moving slowly. It was bordering on comical, the way the man on the platform walked in a painfully slow manner back and forth. Was he aware that he had been slowed down? Randur couldn’t be sure.

‘There,’ Blavat said, returning breathlessly. ‘It’s done.’

‘Thank you,’ Eir said. ‘Has it got them all?’

‘No, only those in the courtyard.’

‘There will still be a few kicking about then,’ Randur muttered. ‘It’s bought us time — and time is our best weapon so far. I’d say we should continue barricading ourselves in, working up the levels, and setting traps, all the way up to the roof. We’ve food on the levels above. We can last a longer siege. If they can’t get to us, we’ll be fine.’

‘I agree,’ Eir said. ‘We just wait it out. Wait for the commander to return. But what about. .’ She moved in to whisper, ‘What about Rika?’

‘She’s higher up. We’ll think about her when — or if — we have to.’

More attacks came on their way out. Alarms had been sounded. A defence had been mounted. Soldiers in armour lined certain streets and they had to pull their wasps high to fly over them. Artemisia pulled out another one of her strange field crystals, crushed it for protection; it lasted long enough to stop minor explosives from detonating, and whatever missiles came their way rebounded back to cause havoc.

They lowered themselves to the ground and continued to race along the network of roads.

Though it was harder to steer the wasp with one hand, Brynd withdrew his sword and gestured for the Night Guard to follow suit. Their formation spread out into rows of five now, for greater presence and to intimidate; warriors came at them but didn’t stand a chance: Brynd cleaved this way and that, beheading and then ramming them with the skull of the Mourning Wasp; and as soon as he discovered his steed’s resilience in close combat like this, he gave the signal for others to do the same.

Whenever he identified a block of warriors ahead he ploughed into them at chest height, the wasp’s skull knocking people to the floor rather than up in the air. Many spat blood on impact.

When Brynd saw the corpse of a metal dragon he recognized that they’d reached the zone where three soldiers had been downed; he slowed and began circling the region, but it was too late.

Artemisia waved them on. Back along the roads, back the way they came, back past people and buildings and blockades, projectiles firing from all sides, but their plan was to keep up their speed, racing too fast for anyone or anything to catch up.

A white glow appeared ahead.

They headed towards it.

Fuck. The walls started to stutter in and out of existence, flickering dark and light. What the hell was that?

Brynd lowered his body as close to the wasp as possible and mentally urged it to go quickly, towards the light.

Whiteness engulfed them. The sky opened up. Wind assaulted them. A sign of his concern, he had to remember to breathe, forcing himself to take in air. The platform gave way and his wasp descended down at a severe angle, but eventually smoothed out. Still they flew fast; still he refused to look behind. He heard something ripping behind him and turned to see only half a dozen soldiers alongside. The Policharos was flickering now, almost vibrating in and out of vision.

It happened so quickly. One moment it was there, the next it was drawn into the centre, folding in on itself. The vast, city-wide presence vanished inwardly. Suddenly a blinding line of light shot past towards the horizon, followed by an enormous bass explosion. Brynd closed his eyes and waited for calm.