The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) Read Free Page A

shivered: the temperatures were plummeting as night approached. ‘Luck would have had you
elsewhere in the first place. But, by Bohr, a lot of good men and women were just hacked apart like nothing I’ve ever seen.’
    ‘What was the death toll in the end?’ Beale asked.
    ‘The official estimate now stands at a little over one hundred and twenty-five thousand who died in or just after combat . . .’
    ‘Shit . . .’ Beale shook her head in disbelief. ‘Pardon my language, sir.’
    He waved her apology away. ‘Though some of those deaths might be due to the cold weather and lack of food in the aftermath.’
    ‘You’ll see the place made good again, won’t you, commander?’
    The albino gave a shrug. ‘We can but try. However, I’m not entirely sure that those events – that huge loss of life – weren’t the beginning of something bigger.
There are millions scattered across the Jamur Empire—’
    ‘Don’t you mean Urtican?’
    ‘No,’ he said and looked at her with intensity. ‘The Jamur lineage has been reinstated for the foreseeable future. Empress Rika is safe and placed in senior command once
again.’
    ‘But . . . I don’t understand.’
    ‘That’s the least of your worries tonight, sergeant,’ he said, and walked away. ‘As you were – and remember to forget what happens later.’
    Brynd wondered again what the former Emperor Urtica must have thought upon receiving his letter in Villjamur via garuda all that time ago, effectively annexing the city of Villiren from the
Empire and taking what was left of the armed forces to support Jamur Rika. Brynd had received nothing in return, no indication that their declaration had even been read.
    *
    Later on in the night a torch flickered, moving between the branches; one, two, three of them now, all leading a small band of figures through the forest. Among the gathered
silhouettes came Artemisia, a figure who towered over the others by at least a foot, and she moved with a fluid gait. At the front of the group walked Brynd, and he peered back to assess their
progress.
    He was surrounded by members of his Night Guard, the elite regiment that he led. More soldiers shuffled into line at the back, about two dozen archers with their bows poking up over their
shoulders.
    The group headed towards Sergeant Beale’s post. She stepped out onto the path with her hand on her sword, and saluted Brynd.
    ‘At ease, sergeant,’ he called, his voice absorbed by the black, dead forest. ‘You can fall in line with us at the rear now. We’ve scouts skimming around the edge of the
forest.’
    ‘Am I relieved of duty?’
    Brynd considered this for a moment before he called out, ‘Are you any good with a bow?’
    ‘As good as any,’ she replied.
    ‘Good.’ Brynd turned behind and gave some sharp orders. A bow was brought forward, along with a quiver full of arrows; he slung them towards Beale, and ordered her to fall in with
the archers at the back of their unit.
    They reached a clearing, the location of one of the ruins that littered the Wych Forest. Crumbling masonry of once-immense structures sprawled across each other, which was nothing new in the
Boreal Archipelago, but here there was a key difference: none of these ruins was covered by moss or lichen like the adjacent deadwood – the smooth, pale stone remained blemish-free. This
particular ruin seemed to have once been a kind of cathedral, with huge arches facing directly north. Little of the walls remained, but at the other end – opposite the slightly curved remains
of the apse – lay a fully intact arch. It must have stood twenty feet high and, on closer inspection, its surface was remarkably smooth, like new – as if time had not touched it.
    Artemisia moved past Brynd and marched right up to the archway as he gave instructions for the archers to line up in two rows extending from the archway, facing each other. Once assembled, they
stood silently, in the cold.
    The commander was not all