The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) by Mark Charan Newton Page A

and food.’
    ‘I’m not as alert to human and rumel needs as yourself, Lady Eir. You were very good earlier.’
    ‘Well, such emotional things probably aren’t necessary for a military man when you’ve so many other things to worry about; but you have compassion in your heart, and that is
what these people so clearly need. Compassion.’
    I’m glad someone thinks that , Brynd thought, as they neared the imposing Citadel.
    ‘If what Artemisia tells us is true,’ Eir continued, ‘if another war is genuinely coming, what will happen here in Villiren?’
    ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Brynd said.
    ‘To these people, I mean. Will they be expected to fight again?’
    ‘Some will be more willing than others.’
    ‘And the rest of the island – the rest of the Empire’s citizens?’
    ‘I don’t know yet, Lady Eir. Although Artemisia’s people could provide significant support, we should plan for all eventualities, war or no war. Though I suspect that war is
more likely.’
    ‘On which front?’
    ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Lady Eir. It may be that we have to mass an army to defend some other corner of the Empire, or it may happen in Villiren again.’
    ‘One final thought,’ she added.
    Brynd indicated for her to continue, then steered his mare towards the cobbled road that led up directly to the Citadel. A unit of soldiers began to move forward but, on recognizing him, moved
aside to let them through.
    ‘Please, no more of this Lady Eir. It hardly seems fitting any more. Just Eir will be sufficient.’
    ‘As you wish,’ he replied with a smile.
    ‘Commander,’ one of the soldiers called.
    Brynd looked away to see a sergeant running towards him. When he reached his side he held up a letter. ‘This arrived when you were out, sir.’
    Brynd took the letter, thanked the man and placed it in his pocket.
    *
    Night-time traditionally brought out the worst elements in Villiren, though the war had put a stop to most of that. When he had first arrived, Brynd had found underground drug
dens, whorehouses importing kidnapped tribal girls, and a black market larger than the Imperial registered channel. Brynd could not concern himself with these matters; he had his mind set on the defence of the city. When the war came, this more colourful side of the city
was forced to the fringes and beyond – out of sight, out of mind. But now the more insalubrious kinds of city life were finding their way back to the heart of things, where money and people
met.
    Brynd headed out on horseback along with two young archers from the Dragoons. They were riding towards a sector of the city right on the tip of where Deeping met what used to be the Wastelands, a former area of new growth that hadn’t lost its old moniker. There were rumours of illicit goings-on here, but he had other matters on his mind after reading the letter.
    Brynd dismounted and tied his horse securely to an iron bollard alongside some former industrial works, while the two archers remained on standby, their eyes fixed on the surrounding shadows.
The streets were wide and largely featureless, the buildings no more than a storey high for the most part, until they reached one area that appeared to be a row of large disused warehouses. Along
this stretch of road, homeless people were gathering around small fires, their hands out for warmth, their faces illuminated by the flames.
    There was a warehouse at the end with a large double door, on which the number 54 was painted crudely in white. The building was vast and reminded Brynd of some of the industrial fishing units
near Port Nostalgia – just like the one in which he and some of the Night Guard had nearly died. It had a gently sloped pyramid-style roof, with ornamentation at the top.
    This must be the place, then , Brynd thought as he approached.
    He banged three times with the ball of his hand and waited, peering around into the gloom. Then he waited a little longer, watching a dog trot from one side