Wrath of Storms

by Steven McKinnon

‘Dalthea is safe.’

  Arnault’s dry lips crinkled. ‘Dalthea has been living on borrowed time, like a sick babe clinging to its mother’s tit. I sacrificed good men—warrior men—for the Idari whoresons to put it out of its misery. They failed, but a new army will finish what they could not.’

  ‘Father…’ Garald warned.

  Damien winced. ‘You were allied with the Idari?’

  ‘How do you think the savages managed to destroy Horizon Bridge?’

  Damien struggled to believe his father’s words. ‘That’s why the Ryndaran reinforcements never made it to the Sanctecano Islands... You betrayed Dalthea. Tyson Gallows fell into enemy hands as a result of that—tortured to near insanity.’

  Coarse coughing spluttered from Arnault. ‘After your mother’s revelations, I found out everything I could about you. A mercenary allied with a former Dalthean soldier. Did you do that to spite me, boy?’

  ‘You used Tyson to lure me here.’

  ‘I’d tracked that Dalthean whoreson to Dulwin—Rhis seemed the obvious port of call, but he’s slippery—I couldn’t risk him disappearing again.’

  ‘He could have easily died during the Scalpel’s attack—what good would his corpse be to you then?’

  ‘I’d have strung it up from the Colossus of Belios myself, had it meant getting you back,’ Arnault snapped. ‘You are my son, and this is your place. Everything I have accomplished has been for you—and the love I bear you.’

  Damien shook his head. ‘Men like us cannot love.’

  Something that resembled disappointment crossed Arnault’s eyes. ‘But the Queen of the North was always my prize—Helena and her army were poised to take it after Couressa was done with it, but capturing your only friend in the world superseded our plans.’

  ‘Why the Queen of the North?’

  Garald pressed a damp cloth to his father’s forehead. ‘Don’t speak, Father.’

  ‘The wheels for something greater are in motion,’ said Arnault. ‘The Idari are coming and cannot be stopped. Their sorceresses will claim our free will. Their war machine grows even as we speak. But I’ll make damn sure Dalthea crumbles at my hand.’

  ‘You ally yourself with the Idari knowing of their mystical weapons? What happened to “weapons are only as strong as those who forge them”?’

  Arnault tapped his head. ‘They gifted me with an immunity to their sorcery—my price in return for handing them the Sanctecano Islands. They can have the world—so long as Dalthea’s fall lies at the hands of Ryndara. No longer will that tiny pox befoul our kingdom. No longer will they extort us for essential ignicite. No longer will their warriors scurry into their mountain range and hide like cowards. I was destined to claim Dalthea with my seven warrior daughters and ascend to Belios’ seat—now I have an army of warrior-daughters, and a weak-willed son who will bend to my advisors after I die. Dalthea stands at the precipice of destruction, and it is Arnault Warrior-King who will give them that final push.’

  ‘You’ll never see it,’ Damien argued.

  ‘But my legacy is assured.’

  ‘I’ll see to it that Ventris fails.’

  A new heartbeat prickled Damien’s senses.

  ‘Challenge accepted,’ said Ventris.

  The blare of the alarm made Myriel’s teeth rattle. ‘They’re all just… Standing still.’ She brushed past the line of palace guards standing in the middle of a lush hallway. They stood like mannequins and greeted Myriel with half-smiles and glazed eyes.

  ‘Yeah,’ Serena said. ‘I’m doing that.’

  Hearing her admit it so casually turned Myriel’s throat dry.

  She followed Serena into the next passageway, down a spiral staircase and onto the next floor. Each time a guard spotted them, Serena exerted her will over them.

  She’s more powerful than I thought.

  Sweat gleamed on Serena’s forehead. ‘I can’t control all of ’em, but if I keep the message of the song simple, I can… spread it.’

  ‘Don’t exert yourself too much.’ She locked her gaze with that of a glassy-eyed pirate brandishing a set of spiked knuckle dusters.

  If Serena loses the connection even for a moment, we’re finished.

  ‘This way, around the corner.’

  Myriel followed Serena through a set of double doors that led to an outdoor conduit, similar to Dalthea’s skybridges.

  ‘We gotta find Enoch and Gallows—I can sense Gallows, but I don’t even know if Enoch’s alive.’

  ‘We need a plan.’

  ‘We need a bloody miracle. Speaking of which, what the hell happened with Solassis?’

  ‘Oh, she tried to shoot me.’

  ‘Tried?’

  ‘I remembered Tyson telling Vabrizio his gun was a replica.’

  ‘That’s it? How did you know Solassis didn’t find another one?’

  ‘I didn’t, I just hoped she was too stoned on saphpowder to keep a hold of her senses. Not like I had much choice.’

  They crossed the skybridge. Below, Rhis churned and clanged, spewing smoke towards the stars, refracting their light like a candle held against a cracked mirror.

  Shouts rang out and echoed across the palace’s tiered rooftops, and the flash and snap of guns erupted across the roofs—but they weren’t aiming for Myriel or Serena.

  ‘Stay low!’ Serena called. ‘I can’t… reach them.’ Serena clutched her chest, lines creasing her brow.

  ‘I’m not sure you should even try.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Serena, your power isn’t an ignium lamp—you can’t simply turn it off and on at will. It should be exercised, like—’

  ‘Really don’t need a lecture right now.’

  Myriel grabbed Serena’s arm. ‘I think you do.’

  Bullets zipped overhead, and voices grew louder.

  ‘Myriel, let go.’

  ‘Girl, I am older and wiser—’

  Serena snatched her arm away. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid, Myriel—there are some things even you don’t know. Let’s go before we get killed.’ Serena darted to the door at the end of the skybridge.

  Crestfallen, Myriel followed.

  The door swung open, and a guard who looked an awful lot like Tyson Gallows bounded through.

  Ventris struck.

  Her sabre sliced in tight arcs, slashing and thrusting. Sheaves of paper swirled beneath her blade.

  Damien dodged and twisted away. He leapt and prised his old cutlass from Arnault’s wall.

  Garald backed into a corner, whimpering for his father.

  ‘Should’ve stayed lost.’ Ventris lunged again—steel clashed and Damien parried her strike before kicking her, sending her flying back against a bookcase.

  ‘I don’t wish to kill you,’ Damien said. I may not stop.

  Ventris cackled and came on like a storm—furious but precise, her sword whirling and feinting. ‘I wonder if Garald fights as poorly as you?’

  She’ll slaughter him.

  Damien’s blade danced, driving Ventris back, out into the vast hall adjacent to Arnault’s chamber and away from Garald.

  Their swords collided. Damien pressed forward, driving his blade, seeking an opening, but Ventris matched him strike for strike. He sliced at her—she deflected and replied with a slash that nearly cut Damien’s throat.

  But the backswing caught him—her blade bit into his weapon arm, and his cutlass clattered to the floor.

  He spun away behind a pillar, feeling Ventris rend the air behind him, rubies of his blood trailing onto the polished floor.

  ‘I have a gift for you, Lost Prince.’ Ventris conjured a revolver and opened fire.

  And I have one for you.

  Damien pulled a smoke bomb from his inside pocket—he’d intended to keep it for his escape, but that was far from guaranteed now.

  He tossed it and darted behind another pillar—Ventris’ weapon flashed through the thick, tumbling smoke. A bullet ricocheted twice, missing Damien by inches.

  Fo
ur shots left.

  ‘This is like Captain Crimsonwing and the Sky Pirate’s Daughter,’ Ventris called, her Tarevian accent barbing the song in her words. ‘Except instead of the hero romancing the wily young woman, she cuts his throat and pisses into his lungs.’ She opened fire again. Three.

  Damien dived through the smoke, using pillars for cover and listening to Ventris’ heartbeat. She’s near.

  You should have slaughtered Arnault and Garald both, ‘Damien’. The bloodlust makes you strong; denying it makes you weak.

  Rising to the ceiling, the smoke would clear in seconds. Damien flitted to another pillar, allowing himself to be spotted—two bullets chased him.

  One shot left.

  He squeezed blood from his wound onto the floor, before doubling back through the smoke and retrieving his cutlass. He listened to Ventris’ taunts, listened to how her voice changed from a lullaby into a dissonant drone.

  When the smoke thinned, Damien stood at one side of the room, Ventris at the other—she’d found his blood and taken the bait.

  She pointed her gun at him. ‘The Nyr-az-Telun taught you well.’

  Damien took a step closer, cutlass raised. Deflecting a bullet was no easy task.

  Do it. Shoot. Waste your final shot.

  The corner of Ventris’ mouth sharpened.

  Then she swung the gun towards Arnault’s study and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet struck Arnault in the head.

  Damien was already moving—he rushed forward and pressed the point of his blade against her throat.

  ‘Do it,’ the pirate whispered. Her contrasting eyes looked past Damien, fixed on nothing. ‘Do it.’

  Damien’s blood ran hot in his veins. Somewhere far away, he heard the whimper of Prince Garald—and the fast approach of footsteps.

  End her. She robbed you of your kill—robbed you of finding a cure for Zofia.

  Damien’s hand trembled, teasing a pearl of blood from Ventris’ skin. ‘You wish to die?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Ventris’ blade fell to the floor. ‘It’s better than what’s coming for us.’

  Three of Ventris’ men burst through the door behind Damien. They unsheathed cleavers and swords, but Ventris held up a hand, stalling them.

  ‘Why?’ The word rasped from Damien. ‘Why stop me from killing Arnault only to do so yourself? Why?’

  Ventris cocked her head to the side. ‘Why not?’

  ‘F…Father!’ Garald whimpered.

  ‘Cap’n?’ one of Ventris’ men called. ‘We got a problem.’

  Ventris stood still, not caring that she had four feet of steel pressing against her throat.

  I could take her as a hostage, but–

  She’s begging to die, ‘Damien’. Begging you to kill her.

  Garald’s mewling grew louder.

  If I kill, I may not stop…

  The beat of Ventris’ heart didn’t change. No sweat glistened on her brow, no tremors plagued her limbs.

  She wants it. End her. See the life fade from her eyes.

  Damien withdrew the blade and hurled Ventris to the floor. Her comrades stormed after him, cursing and foaming at the mouth like rabid hounds.

  Ventris howled with laughter. ‘Kill them. Kill them all. I’ve a fire to start.’

  Damien darted into his father’s study and slammed the door shut. ‘Back!’ he called to Garald. The pirates hacked and slashed at the door, but it didn’t budge.

  ‘Father…’

  ‘We need to get you to safety—is there someone you trust?’

  Garald sprang to his feet and rounded on Damien. ‘He’s dead because of you.’

  The pounding at the door grew more frenzied. ‘Garald, is there someone you can trust?’

  The boy looked like he’d vomit. ‘Captain Thorir.’

  Damien pulled a copy of The Analectus and the Great Gospels of the Indecim from Arnault’s bookcase, and then a copy of Shan Yu’s The Poetry of War. The mechanism’s clunk and rumble was as familiar as a favourite childhood song—the bookcase withdrew, leaving an opening.

  ‘What… What is this?’

  ‘Our escape route.’ Damien grabbed Garald and pushed him through.

  Before disappearing, Damien considered one last look at his father.

  But like his first-born son, King Arnault tal Ryn-Ståljern is dead.

  ‘I am Warden of the Royal Palace—’

  Liquid igneus from a canister drowned the old man’s words. Solassis tied a rope around his waist, dousing it in the last of the igneus and tossing the canister to the floor.

  ‘Ain’t gonna lie—burning ain’t a pretty way to go.’

  The old man steadied himself against a stone altar standing in front of a colourful stained-glass window. He spat, coughed and wheezed, bloodshot eyes widening in terror.

  Tiera’s heart pounded like she was on the blue shit Solassis loved so much. The ignium clawed at her throat and filled her nostrils with an acrid stench.

  ‘This… This is the king’s private worship room. It is sacred!’

  Solassis punched the old man and, for good measure, punched him again. Two of his teeth rattled over the stone floor like a pair of dice.

  Though the igneus burned Tiera’s mouth, the room still carried the stale stench of incense and rose oil and sandalwood. It brought back unwelcome memories.

  The chapel’s two heavy, lacquered blackwood doors slammed against the wall. ‘Apologies for the delay,’ said Ventris.

  ‘Why are we here?’ Tiera asked. ‘This wasn’t the plan.’

  ‘Neither was letting the green-haired girl escape.’

  That shut Tiera up.

  ‘A sacrifice,’ muttered the warden. ‘I’m a sacrifice to some heathen god.’

  ‘You reckon your ancient arse is worthy enough to be sacrificed?’ Solassis tied one end of the rope around the stone altar. ‘You’re a signal.’

  This wasn’t part of the plan—killing Arnault wasn’t part of the plan. The only reason the sky pirates had survived and grown was because of the royal power at their back. Helena’s mind was coming undone. Tiera knew it. Helena knew it—and she relished it.

  ‘Fire purifies,’ he spluttered. ‘My sins will be w-washed away, and I will sit with my ancestors in Belios’ hall.’

  ‘Save me a seat.’ Ventris shoved the old man’s head into the stained glass window once, twice. On the third strike, it shattered. Crimson, emerald and golden glass fluttered away like a mad king pouring his fortune to the ground just so he could watch the peasants scramble for it.

  The old man whimpered through the thousand cuts on his face.

  ‘Still awake?’ said Ventris. ‘I’m impressed. Though I suspect you’d rather be unconscious.’

  She kicked the old man through the window. He screamed, and part of Tiera hoped his heart would give out before the next part came.

  It didn’t.

  He cried out, hoarse and terrible.

  Die. Die, you old fool, before—

  Ventris struck a match and lit the igneus-doused rope.

  It flared in an instant, its heat strangling the air from the room.

  In seconds, the fire raced along the rope and engulfed the old man. A frantic, high-pitched scream tore from his lungs.

  And across from the worship room, the rooftops of the Royal Palace ignited.

  Simultaneous fire. She planned this all along.

  The uppermost floors glowed like a flaming halo. Men leapt from windows, their screams filling the air, dying long before they hit the streets of Rhis.

  ‘This palace is a monument to the corruption that festers in this and every other kingdom,’ Ventris declared. ‘We’ll tear it down and build a new republic from the ashes—a place where people will live free and where no-one is enslaved to the whims of the rich. Women will not serve their masters and be discarded like used whores. Workers will not suffocate in mines while their masters thrive in towers above. There will be a culling of the old. We’ll remove the festerin
g tumour that’s wrought nothing but death and suffering.’ The flames filled Helena’s eyes. ‘We’ll burn the world—and together, teach it how to scream.’

  ‘It’s fine, got ’em under control.’ Gallows waved a placating hand to a guard on a staircase landing. Judging by the way he held his sword, Gallows didn’t reckon the guard was convinced by his ill-fitting uniform.

  ‘Halt!’ the guard barked.

  ‘It’s fine, escorting ’em—’

  ‘Halt!’

  ‘Damn, Gallows,’ Serena panted. ‘You could at least try sounding Ryndaran.’ She held out a hand, and the guard’s frown unfurled. The Crimsoncloak stepped back, eyes dulled.

  ‘That explains why half the guard in the palace are kicking around like scuzzers knee-deep in a fix,’ said Gallows.

  ‘But not you,’ Serena said with a smile.

  No—not me.

  Serena possessing this level of power was exactly what Gallows was afraid of, but right now, he didn’t have time to argue. He heaved a door open, revealing a gigantic ballroom. Anchor-grey chandeliers drooped from the ceiling like fish hooks, crowned by lifeless candles. Frosty, silver moonlight filtered through tall windows, painting cold outlines across the floor like a row of tombstones. Heavy dust sheets covered the furniture, and motes of dust danced.

  ‘Queen Runa’s ballroom,’ Myriel whispered. ‘They say no-one’s been inside since she died.’

  Outside, a bell tolled, booming over the distant cries of the alarms.

  ‘Damn, they ring a bell to tell the time here?’ Serena asked.

  A snake slithered up Gallows’ spine. ‘No. It means the king’s dead.’ Damien.

  ‘You got a plan?’ Serena asked.

  ‘Uh, half a plan.’

  ‘Better’n usual.’

  Gallows started off to the west side of the ballroom. ‘We find Enoch, then get the hell outta here. Any idea where he is?’

  ‘Garald mentioned a laboratory,’ Myriel said.

  ‘Great, ’cause there’s never enough creepy labs,’ Gallows muttered. ‘Does anyone know what happened to Genevieve and her friends?’

  Serena shook her head.

  Myriel squeezed Gallows’ shoulder. ‘I’m confident she’ll be all right.’