Free City Of Ruin by Mark Charan Newton Page A

– were staring back at her, and Larkin began to shudder and whimper underneath her and something warm covered the bed. He had pissed himself.
    Fireworks continued to explode outside, the shouts of enjoyment drowning out her own screams.
    The monster gurgitated something from its mouth and silk began to fill her throat. She gagged – and fainted away.
    *
    Commander, I’m about to embark upon the reconnaissance journey , Flight
    Lieutenant Gybson signed by making complex shapes between his finger, palm and thumb. Are there any territories you wish me to explore?
    As Commander Lathraea addressed the garuda, the bird-soldier standing a foot taller than himself, his vision swept across the brown and white plumage visible beneath the bronze breastplate. Touches of red tingeing the soldier’s facial features reminded him of tribal warpaint. Two arms protruding beneath those mighty wings were a reminder of something vaguely human that Brynd could never quite comprehend. They never spoke much about themselves, these bird people, so all he knew of them essentially came from journals, reports, a bunch of statistics and strategies. Who they were exactly, he suspected he’d never know. Personality was so difficult to ascertain without being able to decipher the subtleties of a facial expression, the nuance of their voice.
    ‘I’ll check the maps.’ A few stops to the other side of the chamber brought him to a large desk, where he picked out a map of Tineag’l – one of the more up-to-date ones commissioned two years ago for tax purposes – and brought it over to the table. ‘If you could investigate the channel running directly north from here, keeping the sun always behind you, then we can judge more accurately the depth and level of enemy forces. We know there’s little sign of them along the coast itself, yet they’re constantly massing on that opposite shore. Nothing more than a two-hour flight should be necessary. I’d like to get more of an impression of the potential longevity of their assault, when it arrives.’ And how many of his own soldiers he could anticipate dying.
    Very good, sir. Gybson exited the room towards the viewing platform, and mounted a merlon.
    Brynd moved to a viewing hatch encased in the wall. A flick of wing obscured the red sun for a moment, as the garuda leapt off the side in a sudden freefall, before catching the wind and pushing a little higher to catch a thermal.
    *
    Days like this were what flying was all about: rare, clear weather on all sides, with nothing that threatened snow. There were few days like this one, when he could make out the horizon so exactly, when he could feel a sudden thrill. Winds raced underneath his spread feathers.
    It wasn’t an ideal life, all the same. Gybson had family back on
    Kullrún, in the garuda caves on the north-western coast. Two chicks to see fed well, another egg in the nest. The money was good, being employed in the Empire’s service, so they could afford a good life compared with their garuda kin. The last time he was on leave, his youngest had only just begun to fly: it had been a sprawling, messy attempt that led to Gybson having to swoop down in order to stop the little fellow splitting his head on the rocks below.
    Talking to some of the other lads in the air force about his homeland always brought a vague nostalgia for the good old days when he just wanted to explore the skies, climb higher, travel further. And enjoy endless summers – when there were summers, of course. But he had been one of the garudas selected at an early age for military service, so those expansive days of soaring through infinite skies were soon over.
    The harbour below was crammed with the old refugee vessels, making it difficult for the fishermen to navigate any of the channels exiting Port Nostalgia. All along Y’iren’s northern coast, military stations and warning beacons had been spaced at regular intervals, in case an invasion fleet should bank and alight