Mark Newton: The Broken Isles

It would be another hour before the event started properly, but people were relaxing, drinking and singing already. A band struck up under a bright yellow awning.

Artemisia’s elders were present, as well as some of her more exotic kin but, pleasingly, there were also a good number of humans and rumels too. There were only a handful of people to bring across from her world now; very little remained there, apart from the last skirmishes of the long-fought war. Any remaining Realm Gates were being sealed off by their agents, and should be little for anyone to worry about and given the passage of time anything beyond the gates would be uninhabitable. Of course, when the last of the gates closed, there would be a gradual warming to come. Artemisia’s elders had given specific instructions that they never be opened again.

Jokull was still an island to be healed: the enemy had established a few minor settlements around the coast and inland, so Brynd had dispatched several regiments of Dragoons along with some alien military units to eliminate the threat. Soon they should begin sifting through the rubble of Villjamur. One day, Brynd thought, they might even start rebuilding it.

There was still some time to kill, and everything seemed to be proceeding well enough. Brynd walked through the warm sunlight before he grabbed a lager from a stand in the shadows of the Citadel.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jeza dancing with one of the kids that she had been staying with at the factory, not the blond one but the one with all the wisecracks. Brynd never could remember their names.

Jeza was now living at the Citadel — it seemed the least he could do in her desperate situation and, besides, he could now keep an eye on all her crazy inventions and ideas. He felt vaguely paternal towards her — a quality he merely dismissed as a sign that he wasn’t getting any younger.

After a refreshing sip, he approached Artemisia at a table near the front of the crowds. She was seated alongside some humans from her world, people old and young. They were wearing green, fitted tunics with bold sashes across their chests. Artemisia appeared much more approachable now she wasn’t wearing her swords, garbed instead in a garish yellow and brown patterned uniform. In the rows behind them were businessmen and businesswomen that Brynd recognized. There were bankers here, too, never ones to shy away from a free meal. He didn’t tell them it was their money paying for all of this.

‘A good offering, by the look of it thus far,’ Artemisia muttered.

‘Thanks,’ Brynd replied, standing behind her. ‘Who are these people?’ He gestured to the two rows nearby, facing each other and divided only by the banquet.

Overhead a garuda swept by, causing a gentle downdraught before coasting up above the nearest row of timber-framed buildings.

‘They are not so much soldiers but dignitaries or ambassadors or organizers,’ Artemisia said, ‘not unlike me, but skilled in dealing rather than the arts of war. I hope you will speak to many of them in the coming days, for they are important people, representing many of our business houses. Though they still aim to keep fighting-ready, as we say. Be cautious, however, for dignitaries in our world are educated in the arts of seduction — of both sexes, they are not picky when the urge strikes them. I tell you this now, to give you an advantage in bargaining with them, should you find yourself in a tricky spot.’

One of the men caught Brynd’s eye, a muscular man about his own age, dark-haired and with a fine jaw. They exchanged smiles. ‘I think I can handle myself.’

Brynd took a sip of lager, before he decided to head through the throng and introduce himself.

The garuda followed the line of the streets before drifting up and over towards the Onyx Wings that guided her like a beacon in the daylight. She soared above the rooftops, looking down on the activities below. Every street was rammed with festivities; even the poorer districts were making the most of their allocations of food and drink.

Low sunlight forced harsh shadows between buildings, and there were clear patches of dark and light across the cityscape. She turned to bank higher, arcing away from the sea and briefly towards the south of the city. Further beyond Villiren’s borders, the Newlanders’ encampments were growing daily, big but tidy sprawls that stretched beyond the forest. A few dragons circled in the sky high above her, enjoying the benefits of a thermal or two; she reflected that it would take a while to grow used to the presence of others. These skies were once the domain of the garuda, and now they would have to share the freedoms that flight offered.

But that was better than having no freedoms at all.

The garuda spun in a slow arc and headed north, back in a straight line over Villiren, suddenly eager to catch the start of the official ceremonies.

She didn’t want to miss out on what might happen next.