Serena fell into the navigator’s chair and brought her knees to her chest. She cradled the wrench and watched the sun rise, turning the featureless expanse of the world outside from deep blue to stark white.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lieutenant Andros Valentine had always spoiled his daughter.
Nyrita followed him across the world and slept in the most luxurious airship cabins while her father lay in cramped staff quarters or with horses. Andros’ skills were needed everywhere—and Nyrita was only too happy to follow.
He furnished her with gifts each time they travelled: Tarevian truffles, necklaces of Mercurian rubies—and, once, a star chart used by Val Candrian nomads to navigate their deserts.
The gifts grew in frequency and extravagance after her mother died.
The other officers scowled at Nyrita when Andros let her run rampant in his quarters, but none questioned it in the open—except for Captain tal Vinzer, a broad-shouldered man with a sculpted physique, golden-blond hair and perfect skin. Nyrita reckoned he’d never seen a day’s fighting in his life.
‘A soldier’s life is no life for a little girl,’ he told Andros at a dinner party once.
‘Like you would know,’ Nyrita said—and everyone but her father and Vinzer laughed.
Andros spent a fortune enrolling his daughter in military academies, but she struggled—words and physical exercise came easily, but basic arithmetic proved a challenge. At eleven years old, Nyrita still counted on her fingers. Seeing numbers on paper or in her head meant nothing—she needed something real.
Her father hired a specialist tutor who taught her to reconcile the symbols by ascribing physical values to them. ‘Clap five times when you see this symbol… Good, now imagine you’re clapping five times when you see it.’
It didn’t come without complaint.
‘But Dad, I don’t wanna learn this, I hate numbers.’
‘If you’re gonna enrol in Dalthea’s Royal Sky Fleet, you gotta know numbers.’
‘I ain’t a pilot, I’m a fighter.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s much safer in the sky than on the ground.’
But that didn’t appeal to Nyrita—she didn’t want to be an anonymous tool in the sky or an officer who stood at the back and shouted orders—she wanted to be on the frontlines, in the thick of it—to be seen as a warrior, like her father.
But nor did she want to let him down, so she followed his instructions and pushed herself to learn.
It wasn’t until she’d grown up, long after Andros died, that she realised how lonely he was.
She’d been twelve the first time she noticed the other officers turn their noses up at her father. It was the first time she’d heard the word ‘lowborn’.
‘What does that word mean?’
‘People like me, Nyrita, we work to get what we want—and that grates on them who feel entitled to it ’cause of their family name. They think we’re taking it from them.’
‘But we ain’t.’
‘That don’t always matter. And when you’re around ’em, say “aren’t”.’
The conversation burned in Nyrita for days. It wasn’t right that they should treat her father any different than anyone else. It wasn’t right that she should act or talk any differently when she was around them.
No matter what country she accompanied her father to, or which officer training programme he’d secured for her, the other students and officers made it known exactly what they thought of the lowborn girl. They knew how much Lieutenant Valentine doted on his daughter. People thought that made him weak—and that came with distrust.
One day, when she was sixteen, her father left her behind.
‘Why can’t I come with you this time?’
Andros stuffed clothes into a suitcase. ‘Phadrosi raiders on the border of Mercuria.’
‘Last I checked, you were Dalthean.’
‘Last I checked, we were in Phadros.’
The papers were full of stories about Mercurians and Phadrosi fighting. People were dying every day.
Nyrita stood her ground. ‘Why does it gotta be you?’
‘I got experience negotiating peace with ’em both. Their ministers respect me—much more’n you do, smart-ass.’
The look in Andros’ eyes told Nyrita he wanted to go—wanted to leave her behind.
‘But I can fight.’
Andros laughed and held her face in his palms. ‘I know that. But it’s too dangerous.’
Nyrita raised her chin. ‘I’m not scared.’
‘Dangerous for them.’
And that was the end of it.
A week later, Nyrita received a letter telling her of his death.
Grief swallowed her. The simple act of living was like running against a current.
The team dispatched to the Mercurian border returned a month later, the conflict resolved. Vinzer had been proclaimed a hero for his valour on the battlefield, silencing his many critics. He sported a broken nose, a badge of honour awarded during the fighting.
But one of her father’s friends revealed the truth to Nyrita: Lieutenant Andros hadn’t died in the line of duty—he hadn’t even left the mess hall on the first night. Captain tal Vinzer got drunk and told Andros his daughter made him soft—he mocked him for having an idiot for a daughter. Vinzer swore that Nyrita wouldn’t graduate from the cadets—that before she was given her certificate, he’d have her stand in the middle of the vast hall and count to a hundred with her fingers so everyone knew exactly how stupid the lowborn girl was.
Andros knocked Vinzer’s teeth in and broke his nose, and the captain responded with a sabre through his heart.
Nyrita’s grief gave way to rage. But rather than march into the officer’s quarters as her instincts demanded, Nyrita remained calm.
Her friends all knew what happened but said nothing—no-one wanted to speak up against the new hero Alessandro tal Vinzer. None of the officers wanted to isolate themselves by speaking up for a lowborn.
The weeks flew by in a haze. She spent her downtime in the boxing ring, challenging men twice her size. It didn’t matter when she got knocked down—rage fuelled her. She kept getting up, fighting back, never letting herself surrender.
She studied harder than she fought, memorising her tutor’s old exercises, and took on extra tasks—like volunteering for cleaning duty.
It was the only way cadets got access to the officers’ mess, and she wanted to be a constant reminder of Vinzer’s treachery.
On the night before her graduation ceremony, Vinzer sat alone in the mess, drinking and reciting his speech.
Nyrita set the mop against the wall.
It happened fast.
She lunged at him, driving her fist into his face, mashing it into bloody pulp. He fought back, but he never gained the upper hand.
Nyrita came close to killing him, but she relented and left him with a swollen face, burst lip and three fewer teeth.
‘You’ll hang for this,’ he spluttered.
‘Sure.’ Nyrita couldn’t control her trembling fingers. ‘Y’all go ahead and tell the world that the Hero of the Border War got beaten by a sixteen-year-old idiot, lowborn cadet. See how long your friends last.’
Another officer delivered the speech the next day. Nyrita took her scroll and enlisted in the Dalthean infantry the very next day—not as an officer, but as a private. If she wasn’t allowed to forget that she was lowborn, then why bother trying to convince the officers otherwise?
Her father was the real hero—her hero. If no-one else knew, then at least she did.
Only Nyr knew what her father would think of Sergeant Valentine now. Almost a hundred men and women dead in Irros’ Beckon, their blood on her hands.
Commander Lockwood towered over her. The leader of the Royal Sky Fleet looked like she hadn’t slept for a month; her wide shoulders bent forward and the venomous yellow in her eyes had dulled to the colour of trampled flaxseed. Her once immaculate, pristine white RSF uniform had picked up sta
ins and tears.
Going by the smell of ignium, frying meat and the roar of thrusters, Valentine reckoned she was in the skyport’s sickbay.
‘How long was I out?’ The words croaked from Valentine’s mouth.
‘Better part of a day.’
Valentine sat up. ‘I gotta get out there.’
Lockwood’s brow furrowed beneath her cropped, spiky grey hair. ‘A soldier should never waste an opportunity to eat or sleep.’
Valentine swung her legs out of the bed—or tried, before the pain in her head stopped her. She clenched her eyes shut. ‘Gods damn it.’ Worse was the gnawing in her gut. ‘How many died?’
‘Almost everyone.’
Valentine expected the answer, but hearing it knifed her in the gut all the same. ‘You risked a lot saving my ass.’
‘I did—and there are so few of us now, I’ll be unable to sanction a rescue action again.’
‘Fallon?’
Lockwood’s eyes fell. She sat straight in her seat and crossed her arms. ‘The Watch are on strike in protest of the sacking of Arch Vigil Waltham. At the Lightbearers’ behest, the people are rioting, using the closure of Dustwynd and the outbreak of bloodlung as pretext. The general has silenced the Viator, and the Council has issued a warrant for his arrest. In the meantime, a motion of no confidence is being passed—Guildmaster Tugarin of the Raincatchers has just signed it. And it needs one more signature.’
Valentine’s sluggish heart kicked up a gear. ‘And whose might that be, Commander?’
‘This can’t go on much longer, Sergeant. We’re losing the war. The general has Dalthea gripped in a dictatorship, and we’ve afforded him the power to do so. You’re the only one he listens to—I need you to—’
‘There are godsdamn monsters running rampant and you wanna arrest the only man who can fight ’em?’
Lockwood crossed the room. ‘I have patrol craft stationed over Irros’ Beckon. Wrenwing Gap is clogged with craft fleeing the kingdom. I have Sky Fleet officers patrolling the streets arresting looters—half of whom wore a Watch cloak a week ago. The rest of my troops are accompanying the Raincatchers on thirteen-hour shifts to provide clean water. I’ve slept here with a skeleton guard for two nights. We’re so busy chasing our tails that we can’t find the bastards responsible for poisoning the new pipeline. We’re stretched too thin, Sergeant. We’re fighting a war on too many fronts. We need a change of leadership.’
‘And you reckon that’s you?’
Lockwood placed her hands on her hips. ‘No—I’m supporting Councillor tal Nazari—she’s insisting on convening the Council here tonight—she believes the Council must be seen doing their jobs, even amidst the riots.’
‘Sounds desperate.’
‘We are desperate.’
‘You should be concerned about the Wraith unit, Lockwood—Korvan survived the destruction of Thackeray’s Spire and he’s co-ordinating an army of Wraiths. Gods know what he’s got planned.’
‘We can’t get to the Wraiths, Sergeant—the tunnels beneath Irros’ Beckon are filled with pockets of radiation. The only way we counter this threat is by unifying—Aramon Fallon is a warrior, but he is not fit to lead the country.’
‘And Nazari is?’
Lockwood’s lips pursed. ‘She has to be.’
Valentine couldn’t look at the commander. Beyond the window, the skyport’s blackened ramparts jutted up like the husks of necrobeetles. The structure was once a fortress, Valentine’s dad had told her, built by an occupying force when a nameless king took refuge in what became Castle Rochefort. Neither side gave quarter, ignicite mining turned profitable, and Dalthea was born.
Lockwood pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s clear now the Lightbearers were recruited as meat for the Wraith army. Adaryn Kayn may have had noble—if misguided—aspirations, but they died along with him. From the files recovered in One Three Seven, I can’t see why Korvan is forming an army—something else is afoot here.’
Valentine reached out for the quarter-full glass of water by her cabinet and downed its contents. ‘Adaryn Kayn promised ’em salvation. Korvan took his followers and turned ’em into monsters.’ She set the glass down and pierced Lockwood with her gaze. ‘It’s the Gravehold all over again.’
Every day for a month, Valentine had questioned her decision to leak the details of Outpost One Three Seven and the Gravehold to the Viator. Now more than ever she knew it was the right thing to do.
‘You need rest, Sergeant. Think on what I’ve told you.’ Lockwood drew a crimson cloak over her shoulders. ‘When the unrest has been quelled, we’ll get to the truth.’
‘I already have.’ Fallon stumbled through the door, clutching an injury in his side.
Lockwood didn’t salute. ‘General.’
‘Save it, Rowena—I know I ain’t in this job for long.’
‘Where have you been? I’ve had troops scouring the city for you since last night.’
‘Let me know how that works out for you.’
Seeing Fallon made Valentine want to vomit. ‘Gods, boss—I’m so sorry. I—’
‘Stow it, Sergeant—you were acting on false intel; I’m just glad you’re alive—’cause you’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’ Valentine swung her legs from the bed, this time ignoring the pain. ‘And what the hell happened to you?’
‘Councillor tal Jagoda—he’s dead. But I know who’s been givin’ the Lightbearers their orders, and we’re gonna take the fight to him—before you arrest me, Rowena, I’ve got an order for you.’
Like a feather on the wind, the Vigilant glided down to the black depths surrounding Castle Rochefort. The pillars supporting the Queen Iona Bridge loomed within the shadows like old bones in mud.
This would be General Fallon’s last act as the leader of Dalthea. He aimed to make it count.
‘You sure about this?’ Valentine asked.
‘In my experience, dying men don’t lie.’
‘Making the approach,’ the pilot called over her shoulder.
Second Lieutenant Agatha Nandini. Born in Petrel’s Tail, studied one semester in Rhis University. Piloted the Sword of Aerulus during the Sanctecano Island incursion; stationed in Mercuria during the Raincatchers’ Rebellion, where she got her lieutenant bars. Corruption risk: Low.
‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ The Vigilant turned and, jostled by the wind, approached the mouth of the cavern that led to the Gravehold.
Fallon stood and hauled the hatch open.
‘You got thirty minutes before I turn back,’ Nandini said. ‘After that, Commander Lockwood’s in charge.’
Fallon saluted, and Nandini reciprocated.
‘Give ’em hell, General.’
Fallon leapt onto the rocky ground and marched into the yawning cavern entrance, Valentine by his side. Its shadows closed around him; he lit a flare, and a great pit opened up before him. It dwindled in concentric circles, deeper and deeper, cells lining the walls of each circle. They were empty, but the whisper of the wind breathed phantom life into them.
Fallon leapt down to the next level. ‘C’mon.’
It was Valentine who’d got him out of the Gravehold, and it was the Gravehold that pushed her to the Viator with the government’s secrets. He should have trusted her instead of freezing her out.
Fallon climbed down onto the next circle, and the next. The lower levels reeked of piss and shit, and the weak breeze carried the metallic tang of blood. The light from the flare washed over the ground, painting across rusted cages but doing little to ward off the deepening darkness.
He landed hard on the innermost circle. A giant cage glowered atop a plateau dead centre in the depths of the Gravehold, surrounded by a chasm. A connecting bridge stood upright—Fallon wheeled a crank and lowered it across the cavern.
The bridge slammed onto the ground, and Fallon marched across. When he yanked it, the cell door opened with a screech.
‘Hello, General,’ said Pyron Thackeray.
Trista
n had told Buzz that he didn’t think himself an evil man, and the smarmy bastard believed it. Buzz saw it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. He handed Buzz as much scuzz as his veins would take and damn the Gods I’ll take it all, I will, Songstress as my witness, Songstress sing to me, sing, you sadistic whore.
‘Sorry,’ he moaned. ‘Sorry… Valentine…’
Scuzz let you live apart from everyone else—let you keep your distance. In the end, the drug was the only thing that mattered—it didn’t make a difference what damage you caused, or who you hurt. It made it easy not to care, and not caring was an easy way to live.
But that was before. Now…
‘Sorry…’
His heart stuttered, and more than once Buzz wished it would stop altogether. But it kept beating, and the gnawing in his guts kept going, and sweat kept running down his back.
At least the bastards had untied him. It was a trick, of course—and through the door, Buzz listened as Pol and Tanner laughed and took bets on how much scuzz it would take before he overdosed.
Buzz turned a syringe in his fingers. Why not just take it, and let myself sleep? Painless…
Good or evil, it didn’t matter—Tristan was the same as every other cove Buzz had dealt with in his life—like Waltham, he reckoned he was better just because he wasn’t beholden to the needle.
Every man’s a slave to something, and that something always reminds you who’s boss sooner or later.
When it came down to it, Buzz reckoned he was better off being a slave to scuzz—at least it gave a man some measure of relief. Could Pol and Tanner say that? Nah—they’d always be under someone’s heel, be it a greasy ponce like Tristan or a self-righteous prick like Arch Vigil Waltham. A watchman’s badge might be a heavier burden than being an addict—but that made it all the easier to put it down.
Buzz watched the honey-coloured scuzz ebb in its chamber. He’d drawn a poor hand the day he was born—all he’d ever wanted was to escape the poverty and the shit at home. His dreams of becoming a train driver and maybe settling down with a wife one day could never be anything more than that, not with the start he was given. That was Buzz Fitangus’ fate.
Wrath of Storms Page 35
