The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (45 page)

‘Yes, Lady Eir,’ the soldiers muttered as close to unison as they could manage.

*

The Citadel was built with defence in mind. The walls were high and, unless you possessed special powers, relatively non-scalable. It was built to an old design, redesigned,
hacked back, and new sections added with the same stone so, over the years, it was impossible to know what was left of the designer’s original vision. Old-style grates were available so that
hot oil could be poured down over those assaulting the main door, and this task was left to two soldiers. The crenellations provided adequate cover from which to launch arrows at those attacking.
Someone managed to make contact with the cultist, who reluctantly agreed to lend some explosive relics to the cause.

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.

He opened his eyes again and began to make a slow arc upwards trying to count how many were present: Artemisia, one of her people, fourteen Night Guard soldiers, and that was it.

There was no trace of the Policharos. An absence stood in its place, and various objects or creatures were circling in that vacant space, but now they’d lost all formation and consistency.
They began to drift aimlessly.

Artemisia steered the group away, to safety.

*

They barricaded themselves in a room on the top level of the Citadel that overlooked the courtyard. As the moons glided above the city, they watched the slow progress of those
down below, wondering how long it would be until they were freed from the time trap. The noise they generated was audible still, but was now a low, dull mumble, nothing that generated fear or
intimidation. They broke bread around a table and served it with cold meats from the kitchen. Two of the soldiers sat with them, more for reassurance than security. Blavat also joined them
momentarily. Randur observed this elusive woman who had played such an important role in the defence of the city against the Okun, an event that already seemed a distant memory. She seemed a
nervous type and picked at her bread and ate it in tiny morsels. After a while she got up and left.

Eir said, ‘The woman spends so much time on her own that she must feel uncomfortable up here, without her relics.’

‘She’s welcome to bring more,’ Randur said. ‘I won’t say no to some of the more deadly ones on standby. So how long must we wait now, do you think? What will the
gangs do next?’

‘They’ll tire at some point,’ Eir observed. ‘This isn’t an organized military campaign. They haven’t thought about the needs of their own, like the commander
does so well. Not planned for nourishment and bedding. They will be cold and hungry soon and then they will dissipate.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Randur replied, and stuffed a chunk of bread into his mouth.

They managed to get some sleep, curled up in their same quarters as if nothing was happening. While they rested, the soldiers managed to take it in turns to hold back those intruders who had not
been slowed by the relics, but they were in small numbers and more confused by what was going on with their own kind. The act of cultist magic seemed enough to scare some individuals away. Those
who came up the ramp to join in the uprising were probably shocked by the absurd scene that presented itself.

*

Dawn broke, the sun spilling its muted light cast the scene in the colour of blood. Randur woke to the sounds of the gangs being freed from their temporary imprisonment. The
noise built up again. The crowds stirred as if they had been stunned. People were trying to make sense of their surroundings again. Though they did not seem to promise the same level as violence as
before.

‘Maybe by now they hoped they’d be inside,’ Randur suggested.

‘Their momentum has been considerably slowed,’ Eir said. ‘I wonder if they’re tired now?’

One of the soldiers came to find them to report that all was well and that no further levels had been breached.

‘I guess now we just wait,’ Randur said.

*

‘Where’re you going?’ Jeza said to Coren, who was standing with his belongings in a case and a sack full of relics over his shoulder.

‘I’ve bought a place, on the edge of the city – a nice place.’

‘Haven’t you heard what’s going on?’

‘What? The gangs? Sure, but that’s none of our business. Well, none of my business at least.’

‘Why’re you leaving?’ Jeza asked. ‘You can’t leave me here.’

‘We’ve got money now, haven’t we? There’s more than enough for each of us to do our own thing. Why hang around? I’ve always wanted to see more of the world. You can
come with me if you want.’

She pondered the point for a long while. Things had certainly been awkward since she’d observed Diggsy and Pilli that night, and she’d not even had the guts to say anything, or to
act upon her knowledge. ‘Buying a place on the edge of the city is hardly going exploring now, is it?’

‘No, but that’s not . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’ve just had enough of this, all right. We’ve fulfilled our contracts. It just feels right.’

Jeza moved over to him and for the first time since she had known him she realized he was someone she would miss being around. What was absurd was the fact that she was the one who should have
left by now, but where would she go? The culture at Factory 54 was all she had.

‘I’ve been thinking about it for ages,’ he continued. ‘Sure, the place isn’t quite ready to be filled with drugs and dancing girls, but I’m halfway
there.’

Jeza gave a sad laugh. ‘It feels wrong that you’re going right now. I wanted to help do something about the gangs. They’re taking over the Citadel. You know that they used our
monster to help plan an uprising?’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘The corpse they bought off us – that’s what they used. They tried to create fear. They made it look as if aliens were entering the city so that they could get the people of
Villiren to support them in an uprising. It’s working, too.’

‘I don’t want to get involved in crazy politics,’ Coren muttered. ‘Not my scene.’

‘This politics stuff affects
everything
though,’ Jeza said in despair. ‘They could take over the factory, take our possessions, take our money, who knows what. Every
little move we make in life will change as a result of
crazy politics
.’