The Broken Isles

TWENTY — NINE

‘It’s a shame,’ Malum muttered to his gang members. They had just returned from disposing of the bodies in the harbour — just like he said he would. For some reason, it seemed the least he could do. ‘I almost liked the guy, despite the fact that he’d expose us. How did you find the killing, boy?’

‘All right,’ the lad replied. He refused to make eye contact, despite Malum’s best efforts. He was only eighteen and Malum was conscious that his nervous nature, his great uncertainty, needed training out of him sooner rather than later. The lad had been a runaway, had spent most of his time working in a decrepit bistro on the edge of the Wastelands, and had only recently come into Malum’s gang because he was scared about aliens threatening their way of life.

‘It gets easier,’ Malum replied, and placed a fatherly arm around him. ‘You did a good thing. You helped progress our cause. You did that for the city — you just remember that. You’re protecting people. It’s hard to see, but it’s like an elaborate, strategic game. Every little move doesn’t seem much at the time, but when you see it in the context of the game, it all becomes clear. You helped with a great move, an important defensive one. I’m proud of you. Hey, aren’t we proud, guys?’

The other men in the room suddenly erupted in cheers, and Malum pushed the boy into their masses so that he could soak up some of their energy.

It had been a productive day, Malum concluded. Despite the minor disturbance earlier, he had managed to muster a decent number of fighters, around four thousand in all, which would be more than enough. What made him most proud, though, was that these were largely people who could have sided with the commander, but who chose not to. They were committed to Villiren, not him. They wanted a city free of alien intent, and they would draw blood to have it so.

Evening came. Both moons remained low in the sky. A relatively warm breeze drifted across the rooftops of the city. The night seemed full of energy and promise. The gathering masses in the street outside brought a huge sense of pride to Malum.

He had been disappointed that those cultist youths could not provide a living monster in time for his needs. Monsters would have been ideal to cause havoc, or to use in convincing the citizens that their lives were under threat. Perhaps the military had warned off the youths, Malum couldn’t be sure — but one thing he knew in life was never to piss off people who dabbled in relics.

A couple of minor explosions detonating in the distance gave Malum reason to smile.

His plan benefited from a simple fact: the military were now out of the way. He hadn’t expected them to leave the Citadel completely unguarded, but his rag-tag army of four thousand would be enough to deal with whatever had been left. There were watchtowers and a few guard stations scattered throughout the city, which about now were being overcome. He had sent groups of youths with crossbows, machetes and munitions purchased from cultists to deal with such stations. He had ordered them to show no mercy. As of now, they were engaged in the business of war. Anyone wearing an Imperial uniform was to be killed outright, and no citizens should be harmed unless they were loyal to the Empire.

Though much of this was hasty planning, Malum needed to make the most of this opportunity. It was important that such positions were taken out one by one before the rest of the surge could move forward. It meant they could storm the Citadel without anyone forewarning them. Once the Citadel was under his control, then he could go on with the rest of his plan.

Malum had already begun contemplating a vague manifesto. He had some vague notions of protecting people from the Imperial skirmishes, which would be easy enough to do once he had the people on his side, but then he knew he’d have to think about other matters such as employment and prosperity, things that people would rightly care about. His gangs would issue true protection — for a fee from those who could afford it. Once he was in command, he could use an old trick of the former portreeve — issue a new property tax: that way he would force those with a little power and wealth to submit to him. He’d also have to employ people who could deal with all the paperwork.

Malum looked up from his musings. All that can wait, he told himself.

He could hear his people outside — the gangs and those they had brought to their side. They were making a lot of noise. He stepped outside to greet them. Instantly, those closest in his gang stepped to his side for his protection, but he quickly leapt up on a barrel to address the gathered masses. It was a wide street, and people were rammed in thickly. From one end of the street to the other, they had come together to rebel against their Imperial rulers and make a show, to give the impression that a powerful force would soon be in charge. Many had come carrying torches that flickered strongly in the calm breeze. Others brandished their swords above their heads like some tribal clan.

They cheered as soon as they saw Malum and he basked in their adoration for a while. He finally held up his hands for calm, which took a while to settle down.

He reminded them of the oppression that the military would bring, of the dangers of aliens walking alongside humans and rumels, of what would happen if they failed. He ordered that no one wearing a military uniform be spared, because if the Night Guard did return one day soon, then they would try to free their comrades. There could be no second chances. If they were to free Villiren and maintain a force to protect it against aliens, they would have to do it properly. They’d raid the Citadel’s vaults and make sure people who supported them had plenty of food on their tables to feed their families. Cheers went up again and this time he could barely hear himself talk.

He bellowed instructions. He shouted for them to walk — as one — to the periphery of the Citadel. Then they would try all the entrances and accessible doorways. If that failed, they would use industrial ladders to scale the walls. They would use rope, stone, fire, whatever it took to get inside that building.

Brynd arrived at the sky-city district where the power mechanisms were located, which turned out to be in the same region as the huge multi-storey buildings. As they slowed, more hominids revealed themselves; there were houses here, shops, various kinds of market, people, children, all the elements of a society. What did he think there’d be? These were people, too, but registering this fact didn’t make his job any easier.

Creatures began to call out aggressively; military figures headed into view. He blanked them out and continued along with Artemisia. Had she seriously expected them to come in here in a small team on foot? It would have taken hours, possibly even days and more than likely they would have been massacred.

She hovered her dragon for a moment and Brynd pulled his Mourning Wasp in alongside her, and flipped up his visor. All kinds of strange scents reached his nose, but it was overpowered by a harsh, vaguely metallic odour. He had no idea where it came from. There were people gathered in small enclaves, gaping at them. Brynd checked again to see if Frater Mercury was still there, and he was, remaining as inert as ever.

Artemisia gestured to a path between tall, red-coloured buildings, before riding off. Brynd pulled down his visor and they picked up speed again. Everything blurred past — lights and sounds and people becoming one incoherent assault on his senses.

Eventually they arrived at a junction with immense yet thin honeycomb domes arranged side by side. There must have been twenty or more, all of them a good hundred feet tall. They were silver, with a black skeletal framework, each one lit up in a slightly different shade of purple or violet. Surrounding these was a glossy black floor, utterly bare.

Artemisia slowed to a halt. Brynd steered in next to her and opened his visor.

‘We deploy him here,’ she said.

Brynd was amazed, when it came to it, at how little reverence she had for someone her culture treated as a god.

He leaned over and called down, ‘Sir, now is the time. Could you release yourself?’

Making no acknowledgement of having heard Brynd’s words, Frater Mercury placed a hand on the underside of the wasp’s skull for a moment before the creature slowly peeled away its legs, placing them on the floor one by one, and finally stopping its wings. Frater Mercury slid out and stood up; he rearranged the devices on his person before looking at Artemisia. She spoke in her own tongue for a minute or two, Brynd’s heart thumping with impatience. With her sword she pointed towards the honeycomb towers and Frater Mercury walked calmly, like a priest to a sermon, towards them.

Brynd called out, ‘We will ensure your gesture is not forgotten — we will see to it that people know of who you are and what you did.’

Forget me, Frater Mercury said, without facing him.

Brynd could hear more explosions in the distance, more bells, more chaos.

‘We should make our retreat now.’

‘I want to make certain he heads in there.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘To give us the same amount of time as it took us to get here to make our retreat, in addition to a few more minutes in case of attack.’

‘Then we’ve no time to waste.’ He turned to do a quick head count and confirmed to himself that three more Night Guard soldiers had fallen, though he didn’t know who at this stage. And this was only half the mission. They still needed to get out.

‘Now I am satisfied,’ she said. Frater Mercury was no longer to be seen, lost in the purple glow of the honeycomb towers.

The Mourning Wasps started up again and this time they would take a different formation, riding in threes, as wide as the narrowest street, and in a straight line. They drifted up off the ground, turned in an arc and sped quickly into the alien cityscape.