‘They must have gone to some lengths to cart all this stuff here,’ Randur suggested.
‘They were ready for war,’ Brynd said. ‘War should be all they know, judging by what Artemisia has told us, having fought against their enemy for millennia. These are people on the run.’
They were led to a vast tent where dozens of warriors were seated in a large circle, on rugs made from animal furs. It was dark in here, with a glowing brazier in the centre burning spices, and standing around the perimeter were more of the bull-like soldiers with their spears gripped firmly in their hands. Whatever language was being spoken faded to silence on their entrance as everyone turned their way.
The two of them were prodded forward, through a parting gap in the crowd. Brynd felt the thrill of excitement of new races, of new sentient species. He was concerned that he might say something stupid and betray his entire race. I hope they might be more forgiving of me.
In the centre of the gathered warriors, several considerably older humans, rumels, and members from the other species were seated on cushions. Brynd couldn’t quite make out their faces in this light, but they were grey-haired and frail-looking men and women. Even one that possessed the head of a bull seemed aged and tired, a little frayed at the edges.
Through hand gestures, Brynd and Randur were instructed to sit alongside them.
There was another bustle of activity nearby and a young soldier was beckoned forward. He was a fine-looking man, lean and broad-chinned. Brynd felt an attraction that leapt across the cultural divide. His armour glimmered in the light of the brazier. He took off his helm and knelt before the elders. Words were exchanged. There was an announcement of sorts and Brynd suspected that they were being introduced to the other warriors.
There were signs, in the faces of these old men, that this was an important moment, that they were just as nervous as Brynd. The kneeling soldier leant in to hear a whisper from one elder, then the man shuffled towards Brynd and, in a broken Jamur accent, one nowhere near as refined as Artemisia’s, said, ‘You were. . tress-pass. On our camp.’
‘I meant no trouble. I came to see what was here — if you were established, if you had settled in your temporary home.’
The soldier translated to the elder, before returning. ‘There should be official channels. . We would make you a guest.’
A relief. The discussion would not continue to be about their incursion.
‘Next time,’ Brynd replied, ‘we will remember.’
As the soldier translated, Brynd turned to Randur. ‘What do you make of this?’
‘Honestly,’ Randur whispered, as if furtively, ‘they’re not all that. . weird, or anything. I mean from Artemisia’s appearance, I had expected more. Even in her seeing-contraptions, the images of the cultures she showed us seemed darker. But I guess, up close, they’re nothing wilder than some tribes you get out in the sticks, or some of the strange folk you get rambling around the city.’
‘Indeed,’ Brynd replied. He felt both comforted and disappointed in the fact that this alien people were not utterly alien. As Randur suggested, many of their characteristics — respect for a group of elders, hierarchies, customs of welcome — all of this could be found in many tribes scattered throughout the Archipelago. Brynd had expected more, but he was glad of their vaguely familiar customs. It would make negotiations less intimidating.
The translations continued back and forth. Brynd explained his minor mission: he came because he was curious, because he wanted to see for himself how many of them had come to the Boreal Archipelago. They, in turn, quizzed him on the geography of the island, of the people who lived here, of more abstract points like the quality of the air and the direction of the ocean currents. They asked him about food and where they could store what he imagined to be their livestock. They wanted to know in which direction the sun rose and how frequent the tides were. There were questions on hours of daylight, what herbs or crops grew locally, what stone ‘grew’ nearby, and how many people lived on the island. They asked how many gods lived here, and questioned them about deities that Brynd did not know about.
Some of the warriors, later, came closer, many of them decorated in skulls he did not recognize, and wearing layers under their armour made from rough animal hide. They asked about his weapons — indicating the sabre by his side. They queried the material, on how it was held, and he showed them. He made sure to communicate around the translator through his smiles — it seemed important for them to know he was happy they’d come — and some of them smiled back. He would, after all, ask them to spill blood for the preservation of his people, too.
My people. . get that thought out of your head. You’re not the bloody Emperor.
Brynd plucked up the nerve to ask if these elders were the rulers of the incoming races, a question that could potentially cause insult, but they did not seem bothered.
‘We are. . approximately third, fourth, seventh, and tenth in command,’ the warrior explained.
Brynd nodded, glad he was not wasting his time, impressed at the seniority dispatched to the island. Brynd complimented them on their camp, on the impressive races and animals that stood outside, at the discipline and organization. He enquired about the animals that looked like dragons, expressing his admiration for them and wondered about their purpose.
The elders smiled and seemed to like that. They used the word spakov, which he committed to memory. ‘Do you fly them?’ Brynd asked. ‘How do you use them?’
They are used in battle, came the reply, much to Brynd’s delight. They also help to transport warriors to inaccessible places.
The soldier translated, ‘You would be happy, yes, to fly with the transport?’
Brynd eagerly nodded his answer. ‘I would indeed.’
The evening went on, with Randur remaining silent, observant, and Brynd wanting to learn more about these newcomers. If these people would be integrated with their own culture, then he would not make them feel unwelcome.
After a couple of hours of exchanges, Brynd and Randur were escorted back through the camp, past all the exotic races and back to the hilltop where they were discovered. There, they picked up their horses, and rode slowly back to the city.
SEVEN
It was the morning of his rest day, something that tended to be little more than a token gesture rather than a genuine opportunity to put his feet up. However, today he had somehow found himself with a couple of free hours. He had left two of the other Night Guard soldiers in charge and their only orders were not to bother him.
He sat alone by the fire reading a book of social philosophy he’d taken from the Citadel’s library. Sunlight streamed in through the window of his personal chamber. This was a simple place with a large bed in which he could stretch out fully, a few nicely designed pieces of dark-wood furniture, a stone floor, and a fire. The window, too, was an improvement, as it overlooked Port Nostalgia and the sea beyond. Outside it was a calm day, with enough sunlight to suggest it might melt some of the snow.
It was good to get the time to think alone. It energized him. As soon as he stepped outside his door, the incessant questions and demands would begin. This side of the door he had a book and a fire and that was all he needed.
Overall, things seemed to be shaping up well. He might have a decent army. A ruler was in place. There was a chance the city could be rebuilt if the money flowed well enough. From these embers, something resembling an empire could be rebuilt. There had still been no word from Villjamur though. Had Emperor Urtica even received his message, and what would be the consequences of his decision?