Jartan shot the hinges and kicked the door in.
‘Clear!’ Reynold shouted.
Valentine took point, swivelling her weapon from corner to corner. Stretchers and medical supplies lay scattered on the ground. Tin canteens and mugs sat on thin wooden tables, smothered in dust.
‘Move up!’
They found the next relief outpost in a similar condition, and the next.
‘Reckon there’s as much chance of finding Mother Snowfrost out here as the Lightbearers,’ muttered Jartan.
‘Cut the chatter.’ Valentine motioned for the Bulldog to stay still. ‘Move up, sweep the piers. Hargreave, Jartan, check the fuel quay. Simmons, with me.’
Valentine passed ice cream stalls, fish counters and dilapidated fairground rides. The broken shells of small boats bobbed up and down on the abandoned quayside—fishing vessels, skiffs. Largest among them was a tugboat that looked older than Mount Tonnir.
Valentine stepped onto the pier, its wooden floor creaking beneath her. The Rankin counter on her belt clicked into life, its circuits tripping the closer she got to the sea. Radiation spiking.
She climbed the rungs of the tugboat, Simmons at her back. They checked the deck for signs of life; its aft-side had been ripped apart, the iron support beams beneath curled and scorched.
Valentine eased a hatch open, hefting the Vindicator one-handed. The vessel’s interior was steeped in shadow. She checked the corners and examined the wheelhouse. Empty.
‘If those cult bastards are in Irros’ Beckon, they’re not on the surface,’ said Simmons.
Valentine’s fingers tightened around the grip of her weapon. ‘Then we RV with Team One and hit the tunnels.’ The prospect pulled Valentine’s guts into her boots. That meant burrowing in through the half-submerged passageways in the dark.
‘Didn’t reckon dark corners were enough to spook you,’ Simmons joked.
Valentine remembered her escape from Outpost One Three Seven. ‘They’ll put the shits in you, too, when you see what’s hiding in ’em.’
She and Simmons withdrew to the rendezvous point with Jartan and Hargreave, and waited for Conti’s squad.
And waited.
‘The hell are they?’ Jartan muttered. ‘Reynold, ask Najafi if there’s anything on bricode.’
The gunner called down into the Bulldog’s cab. ‘Negative.’
‘What do we do?’ Jartan asked.
The whip of the wind cracked across the beach and the Bulldog growled. Valentine weighed her options. Fifty troops plus an armoured motorcarriage—no comms, no messengers. Maybe Lockwood was right.
Valentine made her decision. ‘Everyone back to the gate.’
Jartan swore. ‘You wanna leave ’em out here?’
‘We regroup, get back-up. When the storm clears—’
‘Piss on that, Valentine. Is Fallon nailing you? How else does a lance corporal get her sergeant stripes?’
‘Tell you what, sugar—soon as we’re back in the garrison, we’ll go ten rounds in the ring and I’ll show you. Until then, shut your damn mouth and enjoy having teeth.’
‘Jartan’s an ass, but he’s got a point, boss,’ Reynold called. ‘There’s no back-up—everyone else is doing the Watch’s job.’
Shit. The dipping sun threatened to steal the light, and the storm wasn’t letting up. ‘All right, we give ’em ten more minutes—any longer, an’ this storm will gum our Vindicators and Bull—’
‘Boss!’ Simmons pointed ahead. Emerging from the northern end of the beachhead, silhouetted within the sandstorm, a platoon of soldiers marched.
‘About damn time,’ said Jartan.
A thousand pins pierced Valentine’s skin.
The second team grew closer, revealing black uniforms and featureless faces. The lenses in their smooth masks glinted.
Valentine raised her weapon, the hair on her arms standing up. ‘F-fall back,’ she stammered.
‘The hell do you mean?’
‘Fall back!’
But it was too late.
The shadow troopers opened fire—Reynold didn’t have time to scream before the bullets struck her.
Valentine’s men returned fire. Muzzle flare lit up the beach and screams underpinned the howling wind. Bullets peppered the Bulldog and shattered its windshield. Its wheels spun in the sand and it lurched to provide cover for the infantry.
Voices screamed and blood showered Valentine’s mask. She scrambled to think of what to say, of what orders to give.
‘They’re not going down—’
‘Intel’s a piece of shit—’
‘—why didn’t we wait for air support?’
‘To the gate!’ Valentine croaked.
‘Rearguard!’
‘Tango down… Shit, he’s getting back up!’
‘Rearguard!’
Valentine spun—more enemies loomed behind the veil of sand.
‘Withdraw!’ she roared.
‘They’re everywhere.’ Jartan’s rifle roared in short, controlled bursts. ‘They’re coming from the pier… From the water.’
‘Boss!’ Simmon’s eyes widened like a scared kid’s. ‘Who the hell are these guys?’
‘Wraiths.’ Valentine got a silhouette in her sights and opened fire. ‘Simmons, man the gyrogun, cover our retreat! Everyone else, headshots!’
‘Yes, sarge—’ Bullets cut through Simmons’ leg. He juddered like a marionette and fell screaming to the sand.
‘—surrounded on all sides!’
‘Fall back to the gate!’
Fighting through the fear tightening around her chest, Valentine slung her weapon over her shoulder and darted into the Bulldog, bullets zinging overhead. She hauled Reynold’s body down from the turret and set her onto the floor. Her eyes stared up at Valentine.
‘Najafi, drive!’
Valentine climbed back up the rungs and took control of the gyrogun. The barrels spun and spat bullets.
Her men retreated to the gate, using the Bulldog for cover.
Valentine swivelled the gyrogun and rattled the crank, turning half a dozen Wraiths into bags of gore.
Some of them got back up.
Valentine kept shooting. Heads exploded before her onslaught, but she was losing more men than they were.
One of the Wraiths marched forward, hefting a glowing red lamp. Igneus.
Valentine wheeled the crank—the barrels of the gyrogun spun in silence. Shit.
The Wraith opened its lamp, stuck a soaking rag into it and lit it—even in the dust and wind, the flame caught. It hurled the igneus lamp straight at the Bulldog. It smashed against the vehicle’s hood.
Flames licked up at Valentine’s face. She dropped into the cab, feeling her goggles melt, and landed hard.
‘Incoming!’ Najafi roared. Metal screamed and the Bulldog lurched. More igneus weapons rained down, and smoke filled the cab.
‘Bail out!’ yelled Najafi.
Valentine kicked the hatch open and ran through, Najafi at her back.
The Wraiths butchered Valentine’s men in front of her eyes. The enemy soaked up bullets, took swords to their bellies and didn’t react. Fire reflected in the metallic lenses in their smooth, black masks.
Hargreave took one of them out, but another plunged a shortsword through his throat.
A scream cut through the chaos—and Valentine could only look as a hulking man in a hooded red robe grabbed Jartan and dragged him across a pier.
The Judge?
Something about the Judge compelled Valentine to follow. Najafi screamed at her but the words floated into nothing.
Jartan kept screaming, fists pounding the Judge’s head.
Then the Judge slammed Jartan into the pier, broke his legs and yelled ‘Swim!’, before hurling him into Irros’ Bounty.
The Judge’s grin split the chalk-white face inside the yawning hood.
Valentine recognised him—it was the thing that killed Sturrock.
Korvan.
Valentine raised he
r weapon, finger curling around the trigger, and—
Najafi tackled Valentine to the ground as a Wraith opened fire behind her. Her head cracked off a rock.
Najafi drew a revolver and put three bullets into the Wraith’s head.
‘No… No!’
Dizzied, Valentine pushed Najafi away. She scanned the pier, pain throbbing in her skull.
But Korvan was gone.
‘Where… Where is he? Where is he?’
‘The tunnels!’ Najafi called. ‘It’s the only escape left.’
‘No… No… He’s out here, he’s out here…’
‘Look! Look!’ Najafi pointed up. Eagle fighters screeched across the sky, opening fire on the Wraiths. RSF troops rappelled from patrol craft—a dangerous manoeuvre in the sandstorm.
Najafi pulled Valentine towards the reinforcements, calling out to her and attaching a harness around her.
As the RSF hauled her up into the airship, Valentine thought she glimpsed Korvan through fading vision.
Fallon ordered Khan to drive off without him. The sandstorm had died down, but a cutting wind still sheared the city streets—soon the protestors would return. My days are numbered.
He slipped his eye patch into a pocket and turned his greatcoat inside out, pulling its collar up and fixing a flat-cap to his head. Too many leaders before him stayed away from the streets and put too much stock in reports and second-hand accounts; Fallon liked to make his own mind up.
Private Najat Khan; RSF drop-out, desperate to prove herself. Corruption risk: Low.
She did well back there.
Weatherby, on the other hand, proved himself to be a liability, but Fallon needed all the men he could get. Anyway, if Fallon fired him, the moron would be a ripe candidate to enlist with the Lightbearers. They say it’s best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer—what about your asshole subordinates?
Something Akara had said stuck Fallon’s mind: I’ve been following the Council’s every instruction. That meant the editor was in someone’s pocket, and Fallon had vetted every member of the Council—except one.
He took the long way back to his headquarters, doubling back and changing route three times.
The courtesans on the corner.
The café owner shutting shop for the night.
The kids playing streetball.
The watchwoman stationed at the gate.
How do can I be sure they are who they say they are?
He sensed their eyes on him every step of the way, and made a mental note to investigate each and every one of them. When the Lightbearer threat was neutralised, he’d reorganise the military and form an inner circle of troops he could trust. Only the best—only the loyalists.
Commander Lockwood’s been distant—a sign of guilt?
‘Sir.’ The captain of the garrison guard offered a hurried salute after a double-take. He was a man of middling years and not enough war experience. ‘Didn’t recognise you, sir.’
Captain Arlo Renata; owes twenty thousand aerons to a Mercurian back-alley doctor who was the only person willing to operate on his wife. Saved her life, at the expense of her legs. Corruption risk: High.
Fallon returned the salute. ‘Captain.’
The tension in the general’s muscles eased the moment he stepped inside the barracks; it was the closest thing he had to a home.
His office still carried the weak smell of tobacco, even years after he’d dropped his habit. The two bookcases behind his scarred and dented desk flanked a life-size painting of Sir Raleigh Trevelyan, and the chair sat in the exact space he’d left it. His name plate needed polishing; like the medals Fallon kept locked away, it had lost its sheen.
The general bent low and spooled the thin razor wire running across the threshold into its cigar box container and set it onto his desk. He left the flashbomb inside the ceiling-mounted ignium lamp, and placed more aeron coins on the windowsill. That was an old early-warning trick, and one of the best.
He approached the bookcase behind his desk and yanked the copy of Captain Crimsonwing and the Armada of the Damned. The painting between the two bookcases swung inward, and Fallon stepped into his boxy private chamber, ducking to avoid the low ceiling.
His narrow bed remained untouched next to a simple, pinewood desk. Scraps of paper with hand-written notes lay across the desk—including the details of Catryn’s Lightning Harness.
Fallon hadn’t put them there.
He sat behind his desk and pulled a bottle of Glenfortoshan whisky from a drawer, pouring a generous measure into a glass. ‘Reckoned I’d be seeing you before long.’
Mylton tal Jagoda, Councillor of Economics, stepped out of the shadows. The evening-blue clothes he wore blended well with the darkness, a complete contrast to the formal suit Fallon had seen the banker wear at the Council meeting.
‘You see well for a man with one eye.’
‘Campbell, Coutts & Crawford breaking into the assassination industry?’ Fallon tipped the glass to his mouth, his free hand searching the underside of the desk for the shotgun he kept there.
It was gone.
The thin man stepped closer into the light, levelling Fallon’s own shotgun at him.
The general motioned to the Lightning Harness schematics on his desk. If Jagoda got Catryn’s location to his Lightbearer masters, then they could level half the city with the thing. ‘I see you been catching up with your reading.’
‘Yes—most illuminating.’
Fallon leaned back. ‘Curious as to how you’re gonna explain my death.’
‘The pressures of office. Poisoned water supplies, your growing paranoia, a bloodlung outbreak—dead people on display in shopfronts. A lot for any man to take.’
‘You’ve thought it through.’
‘I’ve been doing my job a long time.’
Jagoda flicked the safety catch on the shotgun.
When the last of the Glenfortoshan sailed down Fallon’s throat, he slammed his glass down. ‘You’re gonna have to get closer to make it believable—get the barrel under my chin at just the right angle.’
For the first time, Jagoda hinted at smiling. ‘Committed suicide before, have you?’
Fallon shook his head. ‘You notice the difference when you spend a lot of time with Confessors. Best make sure it looks right.’
‘You place too much faith in your City Watch, General—they’re as stupid as your Press.’
‘Yeah, figured you bought the Viator off.’
‘No—I simply bought it—on behalf of Campbell, Coutts & Crawford Holdings. The Dalthea Viator will look good sitting next to the Ryndara Chronicle in our portfolio.’
Jagoda took another step forward, the hardwood creaking beneath his steps. ‘Our company has an exciting future ahead.’ Jagoda brought the shotgun high, aimed it at Fallon’s head, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
‘Oops.’ With both legs, Fallon kicked his table out and slammed it into Jagoda. The banker toppled back.
In an instant, Fallon leapt over, kicked the weapon away, grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed the back of Jagoda’s head into the hardwood floor, again and again.
Jagoda conjured a knife in his hand—he aimed for the neck but instead buried it in Fallon’s shoulder.
It was enough; Jagoda slithered away, got to his feet, and slashed at Fallon again.
The general staggered back, blood seeping from his upper arm. He grabbed a chair and swung it at his opponent. It sent him reeling, its legs splintering and breaking off.
Fallon charged and tackled Jagoda into the back wall, slamming his wrist against the brick and forcing Jagoda to drop the knife.
Jagoda fought Fallon off and rolled across the floor. He found a broken chair leg and swung it into Fallon’s ribs—pain exploded in the general’s chest. He stumbled back and absorbed another punch for his trouble.
They chopped and punched one another. Like the prize fighter he once was, Fallon ducked and weaved between Jagoda’s s
trikes and jabbed his ribs—but Jagoda kept slipping away and attacking from Fallon’s right, where the general’s vision was obscured.
Jagoda whipped a kick at Fallon’s chin—Fallon staggered back, the steel frame of his bed digging into the back of his calves.
The banker pinned him to the floor, fingers wrapped around Fallon’s throat. Jagoda’s eyes widened, his pupils expanding like grave pits.
Frantic, Fallon clawed at Jagoda’s face, burying his thumb in the banker’s eye.
Jagoda screamed—Fallon seized his moment; he wrestled the thin man from the bed and stomped on his chest, breaking his breastbone.
Each breath scouring his throat, Fallon struggled across the floor, towards his shotgun. He hefted the weapon, enabling its safety catch.
Jagoda drew himself up from the floor, adopting a fighting stance—body turned to the side, left hand guarding his chin, right hand low.
Fallon pulled the trigger, blowing the fingers of Jagoda’s left hand away.
Jagoda held his bloody stump in front of him, eyes wide. And then he screamed.
‘Reversed the safety mechanism twenty years ago, in case someone broke in,’ said Fallon. For good measure, he pulled the trigger again, blasting Jagoda’s right foot into a mash of gore and bone.
The banker crumpled to the ground.
‘Still awake? I’m impressed.’ Fallon rested against the wall. The only sound came from Jagoda’s sharp, shallow breathing.
‘This is the part where I interrogate you, but it don’t look like you got much time. Tell me, and the next one goes in your head. Quick. Painless. Lie to me, I’ll cauterise the wounds, tie you up, and keep you breathing—you’ll be surprised how far the rules for treating prisoners of war can bend. First, who else knows about Catryn’s setup?’
Jagoda tried to crawl away, his few remaining fingers slipping in his own blood.
‘Damn, shock’s normally set in before now, boy. You’re hard, I’ll give you that.’ Fallon bent down and rolled Jagoda onto his back. ‘But Nyr as my witness, I promise you—’ The general leaned on Jagoda’s broken breastbone. ‘I’m harder. Who do you take orders from?’
‘I…’ Blood bubbled from Jagoda’s mouth.
‘The name.’
Jagoda’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed.
Wrath of Storms Page 28
