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

head. What do you want now?
    ‘The rear of our convoy is under attack, I believe. People are saying that there are ghost-like killers – spectral forms.’
    Frater Mercury contemplated his words without expression.
    ‘Did you hear my words?’ Fulcrom asked.
    Of course. It takes me time to remember the language .
    ‘Are they from the Policharos?’ Fulcrom asked, using Frater Mercury’s original term for the sky-city.
    Yes , he replied. I know what they are.
    ‘Are they a threat?’
    Yes they are.
    ‘Then would you be able to help?’
    It seemed to take the greatest effort for this man – this god, perhaps – to oblige Fulcrom’s request. Why was there no sense of urgency?
    I will follow you, if I must.
    *
    They located two black mares and rode off to the western end of the convoy. Fulcrom was impressed by Frater Mercury’s finesse at riding, the ease with which he moved in
the saddle and directed the animal.
    People seemed to be moving more quickly, the further west they rode, and there were more panicked expressions upon people’s faces.
    Fulcrom tried to peer further ahead but the forest was too thick to make anything out. His frustration grew. Fulcrom began to worry that leading the refugees through a vast clearing in the
forest had been a mistake. He had hoped it would provide cover from two sides, wood for campfires and potential food. He forced his guilt from his mind: he could not possibly know what he was
dealing with.
    Panicked faces became more distressed; there were piercing screams in the distance, then – through the darkness – Fulcrom could discern glowing forms.
    ‘Oh fuck, no . . .’ he breathed. ‘What now?’
    They had reached the fringe of the convoy. Jamur soldiers, perhaps a hundred in all, as well as citizen militia who had picked up arms, had formed a line of defence stretching perhaps a hundred
feet from one side of the clearing to the other. Along the fringes of the trees, archers were firing into the open.
    As Fulcrom approached, he could see beyond them stood blue-white glowing forms, exactly like ghosts, and they were brandishing swords. They did not wear military armour: in fact, they seemed to
be sinewy muscle and tendon, as if stripped of skin. Their faces, too, were featureless. Only their swords seemed real: huge curved blades that shimmered in their own light.
    Two Jamur soldiers were suddenly carried back through the lines, their arms bloodied and blistered. One man was unconscious, the other screamed, his face creased in agony. He shouted,
‘It’s fucking burning me, it burns, get it off!’ before being taken to one side where his screams became whimpers.
    Fulcrom scanned the crowd of soldiers and civilians for Lan: there she was, on the far left, much to Fulcrom’s relief, hauling two people out of the combat zone to safety. It was then that
Fulcrom noticed the dead bodies – civilian casualties – that lay around.
    So many of them . . . this time we’re surely finished.
    A burst of soldiers moved forward, shields locking behind to protect the next row. From his horse, Fulcrom watched the men move to engage the spectres in combat. The ghost-warriors seemed
undisciplined; they fought like feral savages, though for the most part the soldiers were holding them off. Yet more of the ghosts came from behind, twenty, forty, maybe more flooding into view.
Fulcrom could not see the sky-city, could not see where these things were coming from.
    ‘Frater Mercury,’ Fulcrom called across. ‘Please, help us. What do you suggest we should do? Do you know how to stop this?’
    The god-like figure remained inert, merely observing the scene. He gave no sign of having heard Fulcrom’s questions, but instead he nudged his horse in a tight arc and behind the thin line
of Jamur soldiers.
    The soldiers moved back and locked their shields again and, from their flanks, archers released another wave of arrows. None of them connected with their targets; the arrows merely