Artemisia climbed onto her dragon. The three creatures lined up at the rear of the cage, facing outwards. They could feel the cage tilt as they began what must have been the final arc when they peeled away from the main squadron of dragons. Explosions came and went, noises bursting out of sight.
They were falling now, at high speed, gravity pushing Brynd back so hard he became instantly satisfied that the modified straps that the youths had made would hold him in place.
He positioned himself so he would be prepared to steer his mount. He looked across to Tiendi and she indicated her readiness with a salute. Artemisia remained totally fixed on the door of the wooden cage. Brynd indicated for the wasps to begin to hover; he felt the tiny vibrations of their muscles become something more distinct.
The dragon tilted. The door gave way to a crack of light, then a full-blown whiteness, then extreme winds, before the dragon levelled off to reveal their hideous destination.
Artemisia gave the word. Her dragon lunged out of the cage and the Mourning Wasps quickly followed.
They spiralled out into the sky, the Night Guard on wasps, following Artemisia’s silhouette, wind buffeting their descent. Brynd attempted to absorb what was going on around him — amidst the clouds, hundreds of creatures were spaced apart in rows, at varying distances, engaged in combat, and down below what he initially mistook for land was the dark scar of the Policharos — the sky-city. He glanced over his shoulder to see the Night Guard lined up behind him or drifting from the other cages, joining his ranks, alongside people who looked very much like Artemisia, on reptiles identical to her own. The sound of the wind managed to block out much of what was going on; he could not hear the cries of the dying or the clash of weapons — this was a kind of warfare he was totally unfamiliar with.
Directly above, dragons were engaged in skirmishes with similar-looking animals; missiles or bombs were exploding far away, and Brynd couldn’t be certain whether or not they were like the mute bombs or something more hideous. Tucked safely underneath his wasp, lay Frater Mercury.
Artemisia guided their large group in a graceful arc to the left, down towards the Policharos. It loomed into view, black and elaborate in detail. Little flickers of light shot across spires at the top; huge spiked structures leered out on multiple levels; there were platforms on which he could see tiny figures, some of them firing into the sky. Massive alien beings — or possibly statues — stood on others, looking out onto the battle.
Their attack force dashed towards the underside of the Policharos, but not quite all the way. They halted on one of the lowest levels, where there was a void amidst the black architecture. Artemisia levelled out and Brynd steered the wasp accordingly. Another glance to check everyone was following and then straight in towards the void, which turned out to be a doorway beyond a landing platform that headed into the Policharos.
As they flew in low over the platform, Brynd relaxed slightly, before steeling himself for what lay inside the sky-city, which had brought so much death to his world.
*
Walls and buildings appeared to be impossibly tall, lurching up into the blackness above. There were slits of green and purple light scattered around that appeared to be windows, but he was moving too fast to really know. Though Artemisia led the group, it was so dark in here that the benefits of having memorized the way were obvious. They hovered a few feet above the ground and sped along a winding route; their formation changed so that Brynd, carrying Frater Mercury, was at the centre of the group. Surrounded by Night Guard soldiers, he didn’t have to worry too much about attacks from any direction, so he could concentrate on their surroundings.
They passed through what he took to be civilian areas; there were hominids, but not humans or rumels, alongside taller, fatter, more grotesque and exotic creatures, whose own noises were weirdly animalistic. Everyone here was panicking. Groups of figures in military-style uniform emerged onto the scene but only after the attack group had passed. As his eyes settled into the darkness he could see buildings defined against the black roof; tall structures that must have been over forty storeys high.
A noise behind drew his attention to two-legged creatures lumbering at the rear, and gaining on their group, but Artemisia’s people had this under control; in an instant they peeled back from the flight pack, withdrew their swords and hacked at their pursuers’ legs. He heard a faint scream blend into the distance before they were too far out of range. Then artillery — arrows and spears — began to whip by above his head at a ferocious velocity. Artemisia reached down to her side, picked up a small glass sphere, held it above her head and crushed it; immediately there seemed to be a field of translucent light around them and the projectiles aimed their way clattered against it before falling uselessly to one side.
The group rounded several corners at high speed and after that there were long straights; the surroundings were a blur; only the looming buildings in the distance remained in focus. If Brynd remembered correctly then they’d only have a short distance to go now, possibly another mile.
The drones of the wasps prevented him from hearing the attack that suddenly occurred: three metallic dragons crashed into their force field; one of them seemed electrified with static and fell away, taking with it their defences. The other two dragons attacked and dispersed their group. At least two of the Night Guard were sent reeling and clattering to the ground. Brynd looked down to note the area in the hope that he might pick them up on the way back.
He could not stay and fight but had to go straight on and hope that as many of his own could keep up with him. A glance over his shoulder and he saw there was no right flank now. It had been totally decimated — three of the Night Guard and one of Artemisia’s lookalikes gone.
The group quickly re-formed around Brynd and his precious cargo. There seemed to be some kind of bell being rung. Lights flashed close by. Strange objects lurched in and out of view. He had no idea what was going on at times. It was all happening too fast to register. Artemisia still led the way, true to her word, and all he could do was follow.
TWENTY — NINE
‘It’s a shame,’ Malum muttered to his gang members. They had just returned from disposing of the bodies in the harbour — just like he said he would. For some reason, it seemed the least he could do. ‘I almost liked the guy, despite the fact that he’d expose us. How did you find the killing, boy?’
‘All right,’ the lad replied. He refused to make eye contact, despite Malum’s best efforts. He was only eighteen and Malum was conscious that his nervous nature, his great uncertainty, needed training out of him sooner rather than later. The lad had been a runaway, had spent most of his time working in a decrepit bistro on the edge of the Wastelands, and had only recently come into Malum’s gang because he was scared about aliens threatening their way of life.
‘It gets easier,’ Malum replied, and placed a fatherly arm around him. ‘You did a good thing. You helped progress our cause. You did that for the city — you just remember that. You’re protecting people. It’s hard to see, but it’s like an elaborate, strategic game. Every little move doesn’t seem much at the time, but when you see it in the context of the game, it all becomes clear. You helped with a great move, an important defensive one. I’m proud of you. Hey, aren’t we proud, guys?’