The landing came suddenly. Brynd marched to the back of the container, as one of the others unlocked the hatch, unhooking the landing ramp, and opening it.
‘Bohr. .’ someone in front of him muttered. ‘What the hell is this place?’
‘Artemisia’s so-called cathedral in the sky, I assume,’ Brynd replied cheerily. He marched down the ramp, into daylight, no longer surprised at the fact that nearly every new experience these days left him in awe.
Some hundred feet long and just as wide, the platform was bordered by an ornate, green balustrade. It was large enough to fit at least five dragons and their dismounting troops and was crafted from the same greenish stone, very much like marble. Brynd crouched down to assess the material and saw that gemstones had been pressed flat in its fabric. Beyond the balustrade, everything was lost to cloud, so it looked as if they were on another world entirely. He turned around and gazed up a cliff face of architectural elements. He could understand why Artemisia had compared it to a vast cathedral. Huge pillars disappeared into the cloud. Massively ornate gargoyles stood either side of long balconies, on which there were people in blue and red robes standing, observing them. There were at least three arched doorways nearby, each one high enough to accommodate a dragon stretched tall. It was cold up here — and there was the groaning sound of a strong wind, yet little of it seemed to reach the platform; it was as if they were protected from the elements, but there was no shelter.
Brynd turned to see Artemisia heading towards them, strapped up in full battle gear, her sword handles poking above her shoulders.
‘Welcome, commander!’ she bellowed. ‘Your arrival is an honour. This is Ekkpolis, our most important vessel.’
‘It’s enormous,’ Brynd replied.
‘This is true, yes,’ Artemisia said. ‘You are on the first of ten such landing. . harbours? Bays?’
‘Landing bay would make more sense in Jamur.’
She nodded firmly. ‘Yes, landing bay. There are nine more, and this is the smallest.’
‘What is this structure precisely?’
‘It is where we accommodate the most important members of our civilization. Come, let us not talk out here. Bring your soldiers.’
‘I wanted to show you something first.’ Brynd took Artemisia back to one of the dragons and up the ramp to reveal his new weapons — the Mourning Wasps.
Artemisia looked impressed, which was saying something for her. Brynd explained that the Night Guard intended to ride the creatures instead of horses, and discussed the advantages this would bring.
‘Narrow spaces, different altitudes, and all at high speed. I don’t think they cope well with long distances, but they’re certainly an improvement in all other aspects on our usual military horses.’
She nodded, thoughtfully. ‘This will be useful, very useful,’ she said. ‘It may change our plans perhaps. We will talk more of this inside. We must now refine the final tactics. These. . Mourning Wasps’ — she stressed the name slowly, as if to commit it to memory — ‘will help us when we need to enter our enemies’ inner sanctum.’
They headed back down the ramp and on to the platform. There, they progressed as one unit inside the Ekkpolis.
Once inside, it no longer felt as if they were in the air. What struck Brynd most about the Ekkpolis was not how alien it was, but how normal it appeared. Admittedly, there were sophisticated alien technologies obviously running in the background, but the layout, structure and function was much like a grand building found in the Archipelago.
As Artemisia escorted the Night Guard soldiers through the main doors, they headed on to a large street, which led through apartment-style blocks. Here it was generally dim — lighting coming from a few large torches and a thin skylight.
The buildings were made of varied materials, a stone like granite, but possessing more interesting textures; there were shimmering sheets of white stone, fat bricks with precious stones pressed into the surfaces. There were ornate signs in a language Brynd could not understand, though he vaguely recognized some of the symbols from the military camps, so he guessed they represented clans or families.
Clusters of humans, of all ages, peered over their balconies to watch the Night Guard as they were escorted past their homes. Further along there were stalls lining the streets, though there were no basic goods to be found here — these were craft items, jewellery, decorations and the like. A few people meandered underneath beautifully textured awnings, but there wasn’t any of the energy of their own irens; people wore morose expressions, there was no haggling, and barely any coin being exchanged.
‘Everyone looks so tired here,’ Sergeant Tiendi observed.
Brynd didn’t say anything in response. Perhaps eternal warfare tends to grate after a while. .
There were further city blocks, people crammed above each other in tight spaces; there was the drone of distant, indecipherable conversation. There were plenty of new aromas, too, sweet and bitter, and he did not recognize them.
Brynd admitted to himself that he was disappointed with this place. He had expected the most exotic structures, the most baroque cityscape, confusing and baffling buildings — but there was little of that. More unusual goings-on could be seen on the streets of Villiren.
No, this seemed a sanitized culture, as if the most conservative elements had been ring-fenced and shot up into the sky.
He told Artemisia his thoughts.
‘You are not entirely incorrect in your assumptions.’ Artemisia walked by his side, stooped slightly, muttering her words with discretion. ‘You must understand that the people gathered here are our elites. These are the royal bloodlines, the assemblage of noble kin.’
‘I thought your culture more. . democratic than this?’
‘It is indeed democratic for the most part. But the Ekkpolis is a relatively new vessel, the result of great expenditure, which has been partially commandeered by our military rulers. The people here feel safer with protection and the military have a first-class vessel on which to base their operations.’
‘Why are all of the people here human?’ Brynd asked.
‘It is humans who have hoarded the wealth. Other races do not seem so bothered by coin and manage by other means. So it goes in your world, too, does it not?’
Brynd confessed that it did, more or less.
They headed along increasingly empty roads. Admittedly, the further away from habitation they marched, the more interesting the architecture became, but it still felt perfunctory to Brynd, as if the buildings were mere shelters. There were a few other races — some small, interesting creatures with complex body shapes and bizarre faces, engaged in menial work, polishing some of the surfaces, carrying items that looked like building materials. The streets were curved as gracefully as a river’s meander, passing through minimalist decor. Soon it became nothing more than a path between pale, glossy walls, with thin slits for windows, which overlooked nothing but patches of cloud. The walls met at the top in a vast arched ceiling. There were no other markings, nothing else to suggest they were going somewhere important.
They arrived in a small antechamber, which again was minimalist in style. Artemisia ushered them through a white door, then another. The soldiers found themselves in a room around fifty paces wide, with a large, black table upon a raised platform, around which Artemisia’s elders were seated, along with other people garbed in military-style clothing, one human wearing bright-silver chest armour and a sour expression. The elders regarded the Night Guard pensively.