The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1)

by Wilkes, S. D.

  Keeping parallel to the frozen shore Kite held his current course. He crouched and gripped the edge of the stormwing's deck with one hand stretching out the other out for balance.

  One chance. That's all he'd get.

  Closer and closer the thundermoth came, until the scratched nose-cone almost close enough to touch. The Cloudtrooper was bent over his controls, face hidden by goggles and a breathing mask. Kite could almost sense the Weatheren's thirst for revenge.

  Kite held his nerve, waiting for the right moment. Not yet. Not yet...

  Now.

  The airbrake shrieked. The stormwing slammed backward. Her underbelly scraped the thundermoth's cockpit, scoring lines on the glass and snapping the radio antenna. For a breath-held moment Kite had outwitted the Cloudtrooper...

  Then the Helicoil stalled.

  The stormwing lurched into a spin, caught in the thundermoth's turbulence. Tunk tunk. The airbrake pedals slapped uselessly against the deck. The Lethe see-sawed around him. He was flying on vapours.

  Ice rushed up to meet him. Kite leaned back with all his strength, angling the underbelly to reduce the impact. The stormwing crunched down, tearing off panels of precious skymetal. For a moment he believed he could glide to safety. Then his boots were wrenched off the pedals. Helpless he spun in the air before he slapped onto the ice, the wind crushed from his lungs. Over and over he tumbled, the world spinning, until he came to a shuddering, gasping halt.

  For a long time Kite didn't move. His ears throbbed with a high-pitched ringing. Every inch of his body burned. He was vaguely aware of engine noise overhead.

  With great effort he pushed himself up. His body was weak, but as far he could tell nothing was broken. Snow and ice whipped around him. The huge fuselage of the thundermoth crunched down on the ice a short distance away. In the cockpit the Cloudtrooper had already begun to unbuckle his harness.

  Kite swore. He twisted his head. The stormwing had come to a halt some twenty yards away. Smoke coiled from its vents, plates of skymetal lay scattered on the ice like moulted nailbird feathers.

  “V-Valkyrie?” he croaked. “I'm down, over.”

  Nothing. Not even the hiss of static.

  Kite’s hollow legs gave way as tried to stand. Instead he began to desperately crawl toward the stormwing, clawing at the ice. Boots slapped behind him, rushing closer and closer. Kite panicked. He’d been arrogant and careless thinking he could match Fleer's skill. Now he was going to pay for his mistake.

  Pain exploded in to his ribs. He cried out. Another boot thudded into his belly, crunching his guts. A leather fist punched the mask from his face, snapping the strap and spattering his blood on the ice. The Cloudtrooper hit him again and again. Soon Kite's ears rang and his vision began to fog. He thought he was going to die.

  “There's no point in struggling, skyless,” the Cloudtrooper said, his hot breath near Kite's ear, his weight pressing his cheek to the burning ice. “No point in it at all.”

  The Cloudtrooper searched his pockets. Kite had no energy to defend himself, even when Welkin's compass watch was taken from him.

  “Target secured,” the Cloudtrooper said into his radio. “One of the Murkers and a stolen low altitude elevator, over. Affirmative. A damn Grey, a boy, over. Roger that, out.”

  Kite scrunched his eyes shut, squeezing out the tears. He hoped Fleer had escaped. At least one of them would have made it back from Skyzarke alive...

  Another airmachine approached. Kite twisted his head, grimacing at the pain in his nose. A white-hulled liftship descended from the low cloud, a golden Foundation eye on its bow. The liftship circled the thundermoth and came in to land a short distance away.

  The Cloudtrooper grabbed Kite’s harness. “On your feet, Grey.”

  A squad of Weatheren soldiers in white heavy-weather gear filed down the gangplank and took up sentry positions around the liftship. Following them came a thin, white figure - the Corrector. Turning up the fur collar of her winter coat she treaded carefully on the ice. And with her, like a silent shadow, came the Umbrella Man.

  47

  A Long Way From Home

  “You are a long way from home, Kite Nayward,” the Corrector said.

  The Umbrella Man had halted unsteadily on the ice a short distance behind the Corrector. His new face was set a shade between grim and unsympathetic. Kite shuddered at the memory of being chased across Dusthaven's containers, every inch between them a breath away from death.

  Kite found his voice. “I could say the same thing of you, Corrector,” he croaked, more politely than he'd intended.

  The Corrector lifted her chin, taking a moment to watch the snow tumbling around her. “The Hiemal is quite breathtaking,” she said. “We never see such extraordinary weather in Fairweather. The sun shines for nine hours each day, every day. Scheduled rain falls at 4am, gone by dawn. A light breeze on alternate days.”

  “Must be tragic for you,” Kite said, shivering.

  The Corrector laughed. “Indeed, sometimes I almost prefer the unpredictable nature of the Undercloud,” she said. “It's oddly thrilling being at the mercy of nature, instead of being its master. Even so, I had rather hoped to be home by now, rather than chasing you and your new friends the length of the land.”

  The Cloudtrooper handed her the compass watch. “This was all the Grey had on him, sir,” he said.

  The Corrector took it with quiet disdain, failing to hide her disappointment. Kite knew what she'd been hoping to find. If he'd had the energy he might have smiled.

  “My grandfather was in the Cloudguard,” the Corrector said, opening the case. “A compass watch is a badge of honour, awarded to long-serving pilots. The golden eye always points the way home to Fairweather. Did you steal it from one the pilots you killed?”

  Anger bubbled up in Kite’s belly, bursting through the pain and shock. “It belonged to a friend!”

  The Corrector read the inscription inside. “Presented to Alexander Welkin, Commander, Northern Air Wing, Zero Squadron. For exceptional valour in the Hiemal.”

  “Welkin?” the Cloudtrooper said, with barely concealed disgust. “One of Shelvocke's traitors from the Cold Bastion mutiny.”

  “Welkin, yes, I remember,” the Corrector said, nodding. “Do you know what Exceptional Valour means, Kite Nayward? It means Commander Welkin was very efficient at killing Greys. I hope he wasn't a close friend.”

  Kite said nothing.

  With a tight snap the Corrector closed the case. “So, if you don't have the item then it must still be on the Phosphene,” she said. “The question is - what were you and your friends looking for in Skyzarke?”

  Kite straightened his back, trying to look defiant rather than defeated. “I'll never tell you,” he said.

  “They always say that at first,” the Corrector said, nodding to the Weatheren soldiers. “But I'm nothing if not patient. There will be plenty of time to tell me about your adventures when we rendezvous with the Vorticity. Take him on board.”

  Two soldiers seized his arms and ushered him to the Corrector’s liftship, another followed with a shockgun aimed at his back. Kite had barely the strength to walk, let alone struggle. They marched on board the liftship and on to the deck.

  Don't let them catch you, Kite Nayward.

  Watching the Weatherens board the liftship Kite bitterly remembered Ersa's last words. But he had no force against shockguns and armour. He only hoped Fleer had escaped. At least one of them would have made it back from Skyzarke alive.

  Somehow the air had grown colder and heavier. The ice-mist seemed to have thickened. The lowlands of the Wildemark and even the shoreline had vanished in the gathering mist.

  Then something caught his eye.

  A pale ball came skittering silently out of the mist and rolled unnoticed passed the Weatherens and under the liftship's bow. Kite blinked. For a confused moment he thought his bruised head had conjured it up. Then he heard a sharp crack from under the keel, followed by a chemical hiss. All at o
nce plumes of steam began rising around hull.

  “Thermite!” one of the Weatherens shouted.

  The ice under the liftship seethed and spat like a boiling pot. The ferocious reaction spread, forcing the Weatherens away from the gangplank.

  Hidden in the ice-mist something large and fast hissed by. Kite’s muddled senses sharpened into focus. He knew that sound.

  The Corrector recognised it too. “The Watchers!” she said, stepping closer to the Umbrella Man. “To arms! We’re under attack!”

  Another thermite ball came hissing from the mist. Then a second from the other side. One by one the balls cracked, spilling a hungry mustard-coloured powder that burst with a sudden hot light and began gnawing relentlessly at the ice under the liftship. One of the Weatherens slipped, sinking knee-high into the froth. He began screaming and clawing at his shin where the boot leather had dissolved away to reveal bubbling, blistering flesh. The pilot and his crew panicked and scrambled for safety. The Weatheren soldiers dragged Kite with them but before they could reach the gangplank there came a splintering crack and ice buckled under the liftship's haunches. The airmachine pitched, flinging them all against the bow rail.

  Then a great silver bow cut the ice-mist. Kite gasped. It was the Jadis! The snow-yacht ploughed into the bewildered Weatherens, the runners breaking them apart like toy soldiers. Bolts from hastily aimed shockguns spat and fizzled in all directions, but the Jadis was too fast for them.

  Kite watched in awe as Helka and her Askian crewmen hurled more thermite charges. A chemical white mist belched from the Jadis’ stern, blinding the enemy. The bad egg stink of sulphur soured Kite's nostrils. The mist blinded him. He could hear screams all around. Screams and moans and the hungry hiss of thermite still gobbling up the ice.

  Blindly Kite grappled for the bow rail and seized it. He clambered over, kicking at a Weatheren who tried to grab him. He leapt from the bow, hoping to avoid the toxic thermite pools. The ice slammed into his boots, sending a raging jolt up his legs and into his ribs. Kite cried out, clutching his side.

  Something darkened the mist ahead. Cloak torn to shreds and smouldering the Umbrella Man knelt in a scatter of shattered armour and broken bodies. Helka’s thermite had eaten half his mask revealing the naked skull beneath. In his bare metal arms the automechanical cradled the injured Corrector. She lay motionless, her face slick with blood. Dead or alive, Kite couldn’t say.

  Slowly Kite began to back away. Something glinted near his boots. Welkin's compass watch. Kite snatched it up and when he was certain the Umbrella Man wouldn't follow, he stumbled blindly into the chemical mist.

  Soon his eyes stung and his lungs grew heavy. Each breath like a poison. He coughed and coughed again. Through watery eyes he picked out a pale figure ahead of him - a Watcher. Dressed white as snow in skins and fur, face hidden by a hood, the Watcher stood over the Cloudtrooper corpse. Blood dripped from the ceramic sword in his hand.

  One by one other Watchers stalked out of the mist. Brave men and women. The warriors from the High Hollows. Blades and clubs ready for battle. It was a scene Kite would never forget. A ghostly Askian army marching to meet the enemy - an echo of ages passed.

  One of the women stopped and slowly approached him. Bone goggles and a furs hid her face, but she seemed familiar.

  “H-Helka?” Kite said. “Helka Amberdawn is that you?”

  The woman didn't reply, but Kite knew it was her. Helka seized Kite's arm and dragged him away from the battle. He'd never imagined the Askians as warriors. Now he would imagine them as nothing else.

  Helka brought him to the damaged stormwing. There she let him go. “Go, Kite Nayward,” she said, and stalked back to join her brothers and sisters in battle.

  “Thank you,” Kite called after her. Whether Helka had heard him or not he couldn't tell. She had already vanished.

  Biting on the pain in his ribs Kite set his goggles in place and locked his boots on the pedals. With a reluctant snarl the Helicoil responded, dragging her wounded wings aloft. The Lethe's deadly mist and echoes of battle fell away.

  Kite soared in a swirl of relief and adrenaline. He was airborne once more. Consulting Welkin's compass watch he fixed his course based on Fleer’s instruction - northwest by west three hundred degrees - and accelerated toward the thunder over the Wildemark.

  48

  The Return

  What Kite had first thought was thunder wasn't thunder at all, but something much more deadly. Delayed booms crashed together in waves. The Undercloud flashed again and again with screams of blue fire. Shockcannons. Discharging back and forth in ferocious barrage.

  The Phosphene had been found.

  Old instincts told Kite to land. Find a hiding place. Hold out until the danger had passed. But adrenaline and fear had renewed his courage. He was done with hiding.

  Sinking his weight on the pedals Kite pushed the stormwing into a descent. This time she responded without protest. Snow-frosted rocks whipped by. Gathering speed he begged her not to stall and heeled the booster, gaining the air he needed to ascend rapidly into the brittle clouds.

  A killing cold slapped against his chest. Soot swirled by. Each breath was tainted with hot metal and burnt air. The overlapping drone of turbines came closer and closer. Kite readied himself, trying to still his thundering heart.

  The clouds whipped away and the fury of mosfire and smoke washed over him. Horizontal lightning cut his vision, chased by the pneumatic thump of mechanical recoil. The two fulgurtines circled each other, shockcannons blazing. The Corrector’s gunship the Occluder, with flanks emblazoned with Foundation’s eye, and, less than a league away, the Phosphene, manoeuvring in a slow deliberate arc.

  At first Kite's heart leapt at seeing the beaten-up old airmachine, but she'd already taken a ton of shockfire damage. Scarred black from impacts the stern had been breached, the unclad armour warped and swinging by rivets. Fires flickered within. He could imagine the crew battling the flames in the damaged sections.

  Regardless the Phosphene seemed to be on the offence now. Her portside armaments recoiled with each discharge. Kite flinched at the blinding flashes that turned the snow to steam. Each volley seemed to punch deep into his guts. Bolts smacked like fireworks against Occluder's skymetal hull. The Cloudguard fulgurtine shuddered and klaxons broke out from her decks. Return fire came swiftly, chopping the Phosphene's Main Deck and tearing off railings and armoured panels. Both vessels seemed equally matched. But blow by blow, bolt by bolt, the Phosphene was taking more and more damage.

  Knowing a single bolt would reduce him to ash Kite kept to the cover of the snow-heavy clouds, using the wreaths of smoke to mask his approach. By the league-wide smoke trails Kite reckoned Shelvocke had been circling, maintaining his course. That could only mean the Captain was holding out for the stormwings' return. Kite knew had to get on-board, and quick.

  Under the smoke Kite spied the Hangar Deck's ramp door had been extended. Twin blue lights swished back and forth - Clinker's signal batons. Rolling into a zigzagging dive Kite made for the signal. Wind and wash battered him as he swung into the cold shadow of the Phosphene's keel. The trapeze had been cranked out ready for him. Soberly Kite remembered he hadn't attempted an aerial landing before. He tried not the dwell on that.

  Secured on a safety-line Clinker shuffled out the ramp's edge, holding the batons wide. Kite struggled to line up with the blue halos, fighting the drag caused by his damaged wings.

  In the corner of his vision the Occluder's batteries flashed. Bolts hammered into the Phosphene's upper deck. Kite lost his concentration, veering wildly out into the debris. Sparks rained hot and hissing against his patchcoat. He rolled back under the keel while the Phosphene returned fire. It terrified him to think how tiny and insignificant the stormwing was in the midst of battle. Just one stray bolt, one piece of shrapnel, would send him to his death.

  There wasn't time to use the trapeze...

  Kite accelerated at the baton lights. Clinker reeled out of h
is way, cursing loudly. Kite hurtled into the Hangar Deck, slamming on the airbrake to avoid the Windspear's stern. The Helicoil screamed into reverse. The grinding noise swilled in the hollow metal cave. With all his remaining strength Kite swung the stormwing down to the deck with a thunderous clang.

  Kite crouched there for a heart-hammering moment. Smoke and vapour swirled around him. A short distance away Birdy was standing by the ramp controls, staring at him, mouth agape as if he'd just seen a ghost.

  Using his safety-line Clinker hauled himself in from the wind and the smoke. “Raise the damn doors!” he shouted.

  Birdy slapped the button. The crimson warning light swirled and the ramp pistons began to contract.

  “I-I smashed up the wing, Chief,” Kite said, while Clinker helped him out of the cloud-soaked harness. “Sorry.”

  “You let me worry about that, lad,” Clinker chuckled, but there was a hint of sadness in his tone. “Least you're back in one piece, aye? You and Valkyrie, born survivors!”

  Frantically Kite scanned the bulkhead. Fleer's stormwing was hung up, dripping with meltwater. He nearly blurted out a tearful cry. Until then he hadn't understood what losing Fleer would have done to him.

  “W-Welkin didn't make it, Chief,” he mumbled.

  “But you did, lad,” Clinker said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That's all that matters, right?”

  Kite swallowed sorely. His ears buzzed from trying to keep all that bottled-up emotion from blubbering out of him. “Roger that,” he said.

  “Incoming!” Birdy suddenly yelled. He dropped to his knees, plugging his ears with his fingers.

  The impacts sent Kite scrambling for a handhold. Sparks rained passed the portholes, followed by a twisted section of gantry. Tools slid off Clinker's worktop and clattered, loud and terrifying on the metal deck.

  “They'll be nothing left of her at this rate!” Clinker said, grabbing the emergency telephone from the wall. He cranked the lever and began yelling over the barrage. “Chief here! Lad's aboard now, Captain. Feel free to get us the hell out of here. Aye, he's a mess but he's safe...”