Wrath of Storms

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘Keep flying.’

  ‘Some master tactician you are.’

  The Wind rolled to the side, over an inner city wall and into Musa’s Harp. Flames licked up from the military garrison and swarms of people clashed on the streets below; Morton sought a landing strip but found none.

  The Wraith came in for another attack run, spinning towards the Wind, bullets chewing through her hull in a horizontal spiral.

  Morton took evasive action and the Wraith pulled away, swinging around a tight corner and weaving around tenements and between skybridges like a needle through silk.

  ‘How in Aerulus’ golden arsehole does it disappear from RADIOM?’ Morton punched the dashboard. ‘We can’t survive another attack, mate—no-one’s that lucky.’

  ‘I need to get on the ground.’

  ‘Aye, well, in thirty seconds, that won’t be a problem.’

  One of the Wind’s thrusters choked and died. Morton felt it in his guts, felt the Wind cry out in pain. She cut through a deserted street, between two blocks of tenements.

  From the hole in the glass, Morton heard an ominous, low buzz. It froze his blood.

  ‘It’s back.’

  Like a single drop of blood from a cut, the Wraith bled out of the black sky and closed in on the Wind.

  Morton’s forearms burned; the steering column rattled in his hands. ‘Shit!’

  The tenement blocks closed around him in a dead end; he had no choice but to punish the Wind and pull up.

  The airship shrieked as the horizon tilted. Morton heard her remaining thrusters splutter and her rotors whine.

  Then the RADIOM kit burst into life again. Something bigger was on the way.

  The Wraith pulled back, arrowed downwards, and sent rioters scrambling. Windows erupted as it shot past.

  ‘The hell?’

  ‘It’s Tugarin’s Talon,’ said Damien. ‘And the Desert Rose. Raincatchers.’

  With gyroguns lashed to their decks, each airship opened fire on the Wraith.

  Morton felt the tension evaporate from his muscles. ‘They’ve chased the bugger off! Didn’t know your Raincatchers had guns.’

  ‘Don’t get complacent—it’s merely neutralising the greater threat.’ A blade unfurled from Damien’s sleeve; he examined it and set it back.

  ‘Who cares?’ said Morton. ‘Wrenwing Gap ain’t far, we’re runnin’ free now.’

  ‘I need to be on the ground. Land on Terros’ Crown after I leave and warn Commander Lockwood of Ventris’ attack. Take Garald’s writ.’

  Morton wiped sweat from his eyes. ‘Right you are. Soon as I can find a decent landing zone, I’ll set you down—’

  ‘Now.’

  The Wind sailed low over rooftops, slow and steady. Morton checked the RADIOM display again and again, sure that he’d see the Wraith a split-second before it blew him out of the sky. This wasn’t his home and it wasn’t his fight; soon as Damien scarpered, Morton would sail back through Wrenwing Gap—to hells with all this.

  Damien’s voice crackled through the intercom. ‘Now!’

  A warning light blinked into life: Hatch opening. Morton pushed the override switch next to it.

  Rooftops rolling beneath him, Morton counted to five and pulled up.

  When he turned, he saw Damien darting across the roofs, leaping from one to the other before disappearing. How he’d leapt from a moving airship without a safety harness or any other equipment without breaking both his legs was beyond Morton.

  Boy’s even luckier than me.

  Damien plunged towards the earth. He landed hard, tucked into a roll, sprang to his feet and spirited across a tenement rooftop. Per his calculations, he skinned a knee but was otherwise uninjured.

  Damien’s feet clattered upon the aluminium roof. Chaos reigned throughout Musa’s Harp and bullets sang in symphonies for miles around—his pulse quickened to the rhythm of anarchy and what it promised.

  This is better than the Solacewood, ‘Damien’. You were born for this, born a monster—just as your father said.

  On the streets, with two Wraiths standing as spectators, men in red robes passed a man wearing a bloodied RSF uniform between them, punching and kicking him. The collapsible sword in Damien’s forearm brace itched his skin.

  Damien crept across a skybridge and towards the tenement at the other side, positioning himself above the Wraiths. He slinked onto a fire escape, sticking close to the shadows. The Red Robes cheered, baying for the airman’s blood. The Wraiths said nothing, did nothing.

  Damien’s heart swelled.

  They practically beg for salvation, ‘Damien’.

  He sprang forward, slid down a drainpipe and landed on the street, then cut a Wraith’s throat, retrieved its sword and engaged the other. He disembowelled it with a single swipe.

  Surprise always bought an attacker one or two seconds before the target reacted—plenty of time for Damien Fieri. He dived towards the nearest Red Robe, slashed an arm with each blade, and launched into flying kick, sending another sprawling to the ground.

  The remaining Red Robes ran. The first howled in pain, wide eyes staring at the injuries in his arms.

  Damien’s sword collapsed in on itself. He held the Wraith’s blade out to the bleeding Red Robe. ‘I severed no veins—if you seek medical attention this instant, you’ll be fine. If not, the poison coating my blade will turn your arms into gangrenous stumps.’

  A lie, but it sent the Red Robe running.

  Damien turned to the RSF soldier, an auburn-haired cadet barely out of his teens.

  Look at him, ‘Damien’. He’s more than half-dead—put him out of his misery.

  Damien extended a hand. ‘Are you all right?’

  The soldier stood, wincing with every movement. ‘Bastards slaughtered my unit.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t have the time to ask—a greater threat may be on its way. Hide.’

  The soldier pulled a repeater rifle from a dead Wraith’s fingers. ‘You want the other?’

  Damien started towards Kingsway. ‘Slows me down too much.’

  Wired with adrenaline, stomach churning but elated, Buzz marched towards the Kingsway from its western side. Its townhouses and their artificial vines and plants remained untouched—a city unto itself. And, for the first time, Buzz felt like he belonged there.

  Lightbearers and normal folk spilled out of lanes and alleyways—the weak, the humble, the frightened. Not one of them eyed Buzz with suspicion or cast a judging glare.

  Of course, the Wraith at his back might have helped with that.

  The Remembrance Tower rose up behind the Kingsway gatehouse. The northern district was open to all—no coppers with polished helmets looking down on normal folk, no pricks with top hats and tailored coats tossing him a penny and swaggering off like it made a damn bit of difference.

  Pyron Thackeray’s words sailed out from Info Towers, promising an end to austerity and General Fallon’s corruption. He promised togetherness and brotherhood. Lightbearers handed out water without demanding tokens in return.

  And in spite of everything Buzz had been through, seeing people join together in the one district they didn’t belong—witnessing the camaraderie between folk who’d have gladly stabbed one another for half a water token just a month ago—he could almost let himself be tricked into thinking it was all true.

  That was the thing with wanting to believe in something your head told you couldn’t be real—it was just another drug, a way to numb yourself to the truth—and Buzz was done accepting lies.

  He led Valentine through a line of Wraiths and skirted the edges of the crowd. Thackeray’s strident voice sent the people of Dalthea into a frenzy. Damn, but he knew how to tell a tale.

  Restaurants, cafés and souvenir shops lined the way to the Remembrance Tower. They were hollowed out and looted, but Wraiths stood guard on their roofs, sweeping their gaze over the crowd with bulky machine guns.

  Funny to think that the last time the Prime Co
uncillor stood at that podium, he got shot. Buzz wondered if that was what had given Valentine the idea.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is where we part ways.’ The Wraith mask muffled her voice, and Buzz didn’t like not knowing if she was looking at him.

  ‘You kidding, or did Tristan knock you on the head?’

  ‘Listen to me—this is a one-way trip. When I pull the trigger, there’s no turning back.’

  ‘You can shut that shit up right now. You know who you are? You’re Nyrita Valentine! You leaked the news o’ the Gravehold to the paper, the freaky experiments goin’ on in the desert. Don’t throw that away on some death wish.’

  ‘Doing that cost me everything.’

  Buzz scratched the back of his head. ‘Well, all’s I know is, you were the first person in a long time who told Dalthea the truth. That might not mean much to you, but it does to the rest of us.’

  She raised her chin. ‘All right. But if we both die, then no-one can tell the story, and no-one knows how much you helped. If we die—’

  ‘Bollocks! You reckon I did this for a medal?’

  Valentine shook her head. ‘If I fail, Thackeray won’t stop—he’ll turn half the kingdom into these Wraith things and go to war. He learns how we found ’em, he’ll—’

  ‘He’ll start with his enemies.’ Buzz nodded. ‘Had the same thought meself—our questions put that Angelo lad in danger.’

  ‘Exactly. Warn Stanley Drimmon—he was involved in the Raincatchers’ Rebellion—he’ll do the right thing. Can you get to The Sands in this chaos?’

  Buzz wiped grime from his hands. ‘O’ course.’

  ‘Good.’

  Thackeray stood tall at his podium, making wide, sweeping gestures with his hands, his voice hissing through his loudspeakers.

  ‘With the Lightning Harness, the Idari won’t dare approach our shores again. Our army will march forth imminently and do what General Fallon was too craven to do.’

  Valentine put a hand on Buzz’s shoulder. ‘I’m trusting you with this.’

  ‘Won’t let you down.’ Buzz walked away. ‘Just make sure you don’t bloody miss.’

  The Liberty Wind bounced across the sky like a boat on a choppy sea, but it’d make it through Wrenwing Gap.

  Morton glanced at the RADIOM display—no sign of the damn Wraith.

  Bricode rang in his ears—warnings, requests for help—but this wasn’t Morton Brunswick’s fight. He pulled back on the thruster control—not much fuel left, but he’d abandon the bucket of bolts anyway.

  ‘Not my fight,’ he muttered, ignoring the pull in his gut that told him otherwise. ‘I’m a merc who ain’t even getting paid.’

  His throat clenched, the opening of Wrenwing Gap growing bigger beyond the broken skyglass. Damien was probably dead already. No point turning back. Anyway, the Wraith thing could be floating just beyond RADIOM, itching to shoot him down.

  Better to live a coward than die a hero.

  And Damien must be dead by now, crazy bastard.

  Morton Brunswick was no-one’s fool. He’d survive.

  He’d survive, and maybe go about looking for his son, wherever he was.

  He’d survive the fight.

  Himself.

  Alone.

  Like always.

  Morton’s head bowed forward.

  ‘Gods damn it.’

  He pulled the steering column and turned the Wind around.

  Brown blood erupted from the first Wraith’s throat. A throwing knife spun from Damien’s hand and struck the second through the eye.

  Swarms of people descended on the boulevard leading to the Remembrance Tower, where Wraiths and Red Robes handed out food and water. The best way to control a subjugated nation is to be their friend—control the supply of food and water—and when they come to rely on it, take it away. Above, Damien detected activity within the peak of the tower’s haphazard scaffolding.

  Enemies garrisoned inside the War Memorial Museum and within the looming Remembrance Tower above it—their matte black armour and featureless masks reflected no light. They scuttled within like stoneroaches.

  Below, half the people of Dalthea were intoxicated on Thackeray’s words, stoking their hatred against General Fallon. The Wraiths there skirted the crowd and stood sentinel atop souvenir shops, book stores and cafés.

  A contraption loomed behind Thackeray, concealed with a black sheet. The former Prime Councillor’s voice boomed through loudspeakers: ‘With the Lightning Harness, the Idari won’t dare approach our shores again. Our army will march forth imminently and do what General Fallon was too craven to do.’

  Thackeray pulled an injured Fallon to the front of his podium and put him on his knees. His hands were tied behind his back and he didn’t protest.

  ‘This man conspired with corrupt forces within our own kingdom! And the punishment for a soldier’s treason is firing squad—but I’d rather save the bullets.’

  Thackeray pulled the black sheet and revealed a mechanical gallows frame and noose.

  The people of Dalthea erupted in applause.

  See how hard you fight to save these bacteria, ‘Damien’?

  He analysed the crowd, tuned his senses, noted the Wraith guard positions and chose the best route. He disappeared within the crowd.

  Then he saw another Wraith charge through.

  It had a heartbeat.

  Valentine surged forward.

  Blood leaked from her wounds and her body begged for rest, but she pushed herself. Rage fuelled her, numbed the pain, helped her focus.

  Thackeray revealed an executioner’s machine. Behind it, the marble triumphal arch shone like an iceberg lit up in a black sea.

  The crowd chanted, mesmerised. ‘Traitor! Traitor!’

  It made Valentine sick.

  The chanting grew more frenzied as Thackeray placed the noose around Fallon’s neck with all the purpose of a man laying flowers by a grave.

  ‘Move!’ Valentine shoved people from her path.

  Thackeray’s voice spilled over the Kingsway. ‘Today we mark the beginning of a new era.’

  She didn’t have a clear shot. Too much chaos, too many civvies—including children, dragged by their parents to witness the execution of a traitor.

  Not on my watch.

  Thackeray’s arms spread open. ‘This is the moment Dalthea reclaims its pride.’ He grasped a lever.

  No…

  Valentine pushed through the crowd.

  Time slowed.

  No. Please, Gods, no.

  She raised her weapon and steadied the barrel on her forearm. Poor angle, high risk of collateral damage.

  Didn’t matter.

  She got Thackeray in her sights and—

  A force shifted the weapon down.

  ‘No!’

  Thackeray pulled the lever and Fallon dropped. The rope straightened and tautened and broke his neck.

  Valentine screamed.

  Fallon’s legs swung from side to side, his one eye stuck looking out at the crowd. Valentine froze.

  Someone spoke to her in meaningless words, pulled her further back into the baying crowd. She kicked, screamed, words scraping the back of her throat.

  Fallon’s body rotated at the end of the rope in a slow waltz, head skewed at an awful angle.

  And the mob kept cheering.

  She fell to her knees and retched, breath hot in the Wraith mask. The Vindicator clattered to the cobbles and she pulled the Wraith mask off, dragging breath into her lungs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nyrita.’

  She looked up.

  Damien Fieri.

  He was the one who pulled her back.

  He was the one who stopped her from taking the shot.

  Valentine lunged and hammered punches into his chest. ‘You killed him,’ she snarled. ‘You killed him.’

  He took all the punishment Valentine gave out before pulling her close. ‘I am so sorry, Nyrita. He was already gone. Thackeray concealed his wounds, but th
ey were fatal.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘His guard dogs would’ve killed you before you even took the shot.’

  ‘You’re wrong!’

  Her eyes burned and her throat closed. Like wearing a straitjacket, rage and sorrow squeezed every ounce of strength from her. She dropped to a knee, taking Damien with her. No-one paid them any notice. No-one cared.

  ‘He’s not dead. He’s not dead...’

  ‘Cut the head off the snake, and the rest of it will wither!’

  The sound of Thackeray’s voice sapped what energy Valentine had left.

  He’d won.

  Thackeray had won.

  ‘Come on.’ Damien pulled Valentine to her feet. ‘We should leave before we attract attention.’

  ‘The fight is coming, brothers and sisters, and I ask each and every one of you to take up arms. Enlist. Together, we will head east and eradicate the Idari threat once and…’

  Thackeray’s voice trailed off. He wrapped his hand around the microphone to muffle his voice. His lips moved, but the Wraiths next to him ignored whatever commands he uttered.

  Then he looked up.

  A thread of blue light shot up from within the Remembrance Tower, piercing the sky.

  ‘We should leave,’ Fieri repeated.

  Valentine pushed him away. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  Damien looked to the sky, too. ‘Nyrita—we should leave.’

  ‘Say that one more time and I’ll kill you.’

  A cannonade of thunder roared above the Remembrance Tower, drowning out the noise of the crowd. Black clouds steamrolled across the heavens, boiling and murky. A sheet of lightning ripped through the sky.

  Valentine charged towards Thackeray, weapon raised.

  But then her adrenaline changed into fear.

  Korvan emerged from behind Thackeray, striding forward, teeth gleaming and arms swept out wide.

  Two Wraiths hauled Thackeray to the podium and pinned him there. The crowd stood dumbstruck, Thackeray’s spell broken.

  The Prime Councillor struggled. Valentine couldn’t enjoy the panic on his face, the fear.