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

of the street to the other before it
disappeared into the darkness.
    Eventually, after a clang of bolts, Brynd found himself facing a slender young man in his late teens or early twenties, with short blond hair and a wide smile. He stood a little shorter than
Brynd, and was wearing what looked like overalls. His face was smeared with grease.
    I’ve come all the way out here for this youth?
    ‘Hey, it’s the Night Guard commander,’ the lad beamed. ‘Can tell by your eyes. Glad you could join us, man. You got our message, right?’
    There was no salute, no signal of respect. ‘Would I be here otherwise?’
    ‘True, true. Hey, come in, it’s freezing outside.’ He backed away and let Brynd walk in. The door closed with a thud behind, and the young man bolted the door.
    ‘What’s your name?’ Brynd asked, his voice echoing.
    ‘Diggsy,’ he replied.
    ‘Funny-sounding name,’ Brynd said.
    ‘That’s just what the lads call me. Real name’s Thongar Diggrsen.’
    ‘I can see why they call you Diggsy.’
    ‘Hey, you’ve got a sense of humour. Was beginning to think you were all po-faced.’
    You would be, if you’d seen what I’d seen, boy.
    ‘Lead on, Diggsy,’ Brynd gestured. ‘I’m keen to see what all the fuss is about and hope that I haven’t wasted my time traipsing across the city for no good
reason.’
    ‘Right you are.’ Diggsy turned and walked down a dark corridor. Though Brynd could cope with the poor lighting, how Diggsy was finding his way in front of him was a mystery, but the
lad seemed to move as if the passage was committed to his memory.
    Something didn’t make sense: why was someone so young occupying a factory? Was it his home? The building smelled like a blacksmith’s workshop, of charred materials and molten metal.
There was also the tang of cultists down here, too, that weird, unmistakable chemical odour from messing with things people shouldn’t.
    ‘How long have you been working here?’ Brynd enquired.
    ‘Now that’s a question,’ Diggsy replied. ‘Way before the war, if that’s what you mean. Pilli’s father was one of those ore-owning types, and she knew this
building of his – like quite a few others – wasn’t being used at all. Anyhow, Pilli’s good stock – not like her father – and so this has become our headquarters
for the most part.’
    ‘Headquarters? So are you part of an official order?’
    ‘Ha, no. Hell no. We don’t like to get involved with other cultists. They can be shitting well poncey if you ask me. All about structures and etiquette and whatever. That’s not
our kind of thing – we prefer to live by our own rules, in our gang.’
    ‘How many are in your . . . gang , then?’ Brynd felt the situation was growing increasingly absurd. The way this Diggsy talked, his mannerisms and nonchalance, his references
to his social circle, suggested this was all going to be a complete waste of time.
    ‘Depends on when it is. We lost one in the war. Got the odd seasonal, but that dried up a year back. Oh, watch the corner here – it’s a sharp one.’
    ‘I see it. You didn’t want to join in the war effort yourself?’ Brynd asked. ‘We had people far younger than you.’ They turned to the left, along a narrow corridor,
the sound of their feet occasionally scuffing along the smooth stone.
    ‘We were too busy, to be honest. Sounds lame, doesn’t it? But seriously, once you see what we’ve got, I think you’ll understand.’
    Diggsy’s voice suddenly gave off a lot of reverb. They had entered a large chamber, lighter with a lot of energetic conversation and laughter at the far end. Brynd could smell arum weed
mixed with cooking meat. There were four, maybe five people there, and they turned to face Diggsy when he hollered out to them.
    Diggsy turned back to Brynd, gestured with wide arms, and smiled. ‘Welcome to Factory 54. I think you’ll like it.’
    Brynd looked around to take in the scene. All around the walls and