‘Straight to Rochefort Castle, sir.’
The castle. That’ll be why Sheva wanted me in this get-up. Should’ve shaved.
‘Commander Lockwood requested you herself,’ said the young officer.
‘What, the Lockwood? The pirate hunter who captured Helena tal Ventris?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Huh. Can’t wait to ask her how she caught the Scalpel. Maybe this won’t be a waste of time after all.’ Gallows had heard all the stories surrounding Helena tal Ventris, usually gruesome tales in The Viator. Apparently she had led a mutiny on some ship and tortured the physician with his own tools, hence ‘The Scalpel’.
Royce cleared his throat. ‘The commander doesn’t speak of Helena tal Ventris. Ah! We’re here.’
‘That was quick.’
Royce exited first and held the door open for Gallows.
A breeze soothed Gallows’ aching head. He stretched his arms and followed Royce along the paved road.
The broad deck of Queen Iona Bridge wended its way along the mountainside in shallow curves, like the body of a snake, ending at the foot of Castle Rochefort. Straddling the entrance of the bridge was the Arc of Iona, a huge, limestone triumphal arch. Crowds had already formed.
Two statues flanked the Arc, knights standing fifty feet tall. Its gate was raised up into the arch’s flat ceiling, its jutting spikes resembling wolf’s teeth. Stone gargoyles crested the top, while marble murals depicting one of Dalthea’s victories over Ryndara were set into the front and sides. Gallows couldn’t tell which battle it was; he found all the artwork on this particular subject to be much the same.
Royce didn’t share his apathy. He gazed at the friezes with naked wonder in his eyes. ‘This is the “Battle of the Steelpeaks”. Twelve days and nights it took us to secure victory.’
Gallows knew the story well: Dalthean forces retreated into the labyrinthine Steelpeak mountain passages, harrying the enemy from the natural defences. More Ryndarans died from losing their balance than from bullets.
‘Yeah, we were so lucky that those mountains happened to be there all that time.’
‘Many historians say this was the battle that won the war for us.’
‘Reckon it was more King Arnault’s stubbornness that won the war for us.’
The awe didn’t waver from Royce’s face. ‘Perhaps it’s fortunate he failed; they say Prince Arros was even fiercer and more bloodthirsty than him, and-’
‘And King Arnault sacrificed him to the Gods to make himself immortal—yeah, I’ve heard the Lost Prince fairy tale too. Can we get a move on?’
Hewn from a vast mountain almost as tall as the Steelpeaks’ Mount Tonnir, Castle Rochefort’s dark stone cast a shadow over the city. Thick, black concentric walls rose like a frozen tide around a central tower. On the top of each wall stood scores of Royal Guards, distinguished veterans hand-picked for this duty.
Some days Gallows felt it was an eyesore, other days he couldn’t deny its majesty.
Hundreds of windows speckled its walls. Sunlight caught on its gold-adorned crenellations and towers, themselves crowned with equally ornate spires and steeples. The Keep stood in the centre of it all, matched in height only by a domed basilica.
‘So,’ Gallows started, ‘where’s the doorbell?’
Rainbows, a kaleidoscopic fog of every imaginable hue, clouded her vision.
A blade of sunlight sliced through the haze. Harsh air made it difficult to breathe, and the uneven, tilting ground made keeping her footing near-impossible.
How… did I get here?
‘Watch it!’ She didn’t even feel herself tumble into the burly man. He hefted her aside, her legs bending at an awkward angle. ‘Push off, Purple Eyes, or I’ll-’
He stopped, staring at the knife in Tiera’s hand. He backed away without another word.
…Still armed… That… That damn witch! What did she do to me?
She leaned against an empty cart. The buildings surrounding her stretched up towards the sky, and the walls pushed in on her.
She vomited.
Where am I…?
The sun raged at her.
It took a minute for her stomach to settle. Bit by bit, her surroundings became familiar. Five Hawks Road. Widow’s Trail. How… how did I get here?
She took a step, staggered, and fell back into the cart. She hissed with frustration, willing the fog in her head to clear. Her brain was tangled, a patchwork of memories she couldn’t reconcile. A girl stared out at her from amidst the crowd, long black hair tied back.
No. It can’t be… Yulia? She was young, dressed in a white linen cassock.
This can’t be real. Tiera followed her, called out to her, but Yulia disappeared.
What is this?
The only thing she knew with any clarity—the only thing that she could rely on—was her anger—if nothing else, that would be her anchor. She’d be damned if she wasn’t-
‘Barra’s Bazaar.’
She recognised it as her own voice.
The music cried out.
She shook her head, but it persisted—the discordant racket from The Hurtling Whimsy.
She hissed again. Damn that witch, and Vaughan too. I’ll gut the bast-
The sweetest, most gentle melody Tiera had ever heard swam into her head.
The colours all around her saturated her vision.
Everything is okay now.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Her legs carried her away. The street tilted around her, but she knew herself to be steady, like standing on a ship’s deck as it crested a wave.
Time flitted away around her like sand in a sieve.
She rounded a corner. The crowded marketplace parted for her. The people were faceless, but she knew them to be smiling.
Barra’s Bazaar.
Deep and vibrant reds and blues, oranges and greens—they all burst from the merchant stalls. The colours mingled and vibrated before her, eliciting a gasp of elation from her. It was like stepping into an oil painting. The sweet aroma from a coffee house filled her nostrils, and the rhythmic stream of water from a nearby water station almost compelled her to dance.
Find the merchant.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Voices sang around her, in accordance to the music in her head.
Find the merchant.
‘Yes.’
Retrieve the weapon.
‘Yes.’
And kill the Prime Councillor.
Dignitaries from almost every nation paraded through the castle courtyard as waiters wheeled between them, carrying wine, canapés and water. Suits from the Campbell, Coutts & Crawford banking house as well. Imported flowers decorated every table, resulting in clashing smells. Artificial grass sprang up around Gallows’ feet. He tried—and failed—to tune out the squeaking noise his boots produced on it.
Strains of string music floated around the courtyard. Varaldo’s 8th Symphony. His last. The lack of Varaldo’s thundering percussion and bass castrated the composition but the cellos and strings lent the music a melancholy quality. Can’t have all the politicians forgetting why they’re here.
The only suit that didn’t have a mouthful of food was Alspeth tal Simara. Gallows had never seen her in person before, but if her reputation was anything to go by, she was the real deal. People loved Pyron Thackeray because he was a war hero, but his policies had become more and more extreme—the Info Towers, the curfew, the militarisation of the Watch… To Gallows, Thackeray was a paranoid obsessive—charismatic, sure—but a man who sees enemies in all corners eventually can’t tell the difference between friend and foe.
Alspeth tal Simara, on the other hand, was young. She’d graduated from the RSF Academy a year earlier than she was supposed to but just missed out on seeing action. Gallows didn’t believe in the image she projected—no-one rose through the ranks as quickly as she did with clean hands—but at least her arguments focused on healthcare and rebuilding, not going to war again. Anyway, the Viator cons
tantly jabbed at her, and nothing could endear a person to Gallows more than that.
‘Where’s your commanding officer?’ Gallows asked Royce, waving an approaching waiter away.
‘You’ll see her in due course, Hunter Gallows.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That means you have the distinct privilege of being one of the few non-military, royal or governmental personnel to be invited aboard the Sky Fleet’s newest airship—the RSF Schiehallion.’
‘Woo,’ said Gallows.
Damn it, he was getting hungry now. Where was that waiter…?
The chatter faded to a silence. Heads craned towards something beyond Gallows’ shoulder, near the musicians.
A woman materialised, wearing a light black coat and matching hat. A single midnight-blue rose nestled in the coat, in front of her heart.
She shook hands with an assortment of strangers.
‘Genevieve Couressa!’ Royce almost squealed her name.
‘Thought I recognised her,’ Gallows said. ‘She’s wearing a real blue rose.’
‘Indeed. Apparently she brought it with her from Rhis.’
‘She’s from Ryndara?’
Royce shook his head. ‘I’m unsure. The story goes that she grew up an orphan on the streets of Rhis and sang for money. Apparently her voice bewitched tourists, passers-by and the Rhis Watch alike. A benefactor discovered her and legally adopted her, paid for her tuition and enrolment in the Conservatoire du Rein. Probably all a story peddled by her representative, however.’
Gallows nodded. ‘Yeah. Probably.’
‘Come.’
Gallows tore his gaze from Genevieve as she mingled with Alspeth tal Simara. ‘Can’t wait to see your new toy.’
Royce marched onwards, and Gallows fought the burning temptation to take another look behind him.
‘I think you’re going to be impressed,’ Royce said a few minutes later.
Gallows raised an eyebrow. They were walking through a cordoned-off area to the rear of the castle now, away from the officials and dignitaries. ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t bet your water tok-’
The sight of the RSF Schiehallion silenced him.
The airship was a metal behemoth, draped in purple, red and gold. The curved skyglass of the craft’s bridge seized the sun. Three fins jutted out of her starboard side, each set with a colossal rotor. Rows of fearsome anti-air cannons, turrets and ballistae glowered out. Her long, thin tail was crowned with a flak cannon set in an upward trajectory to assail any airships foolish enough to try and fly above her. No doubt there were more dotted across her back, but her immense size prevented Gallows from seeing them.
It wasn’t as big as some of the air cruise liners he’d seen in brochures, but neither was it burdened with ballonets trailing high above it. In fact, Gallows couldn’t see any reserves, like most modern airships.
Her name was inscribed along the side in perfect script; Schiehallion was the name of Belios’ war dragon, its fiery breath said to burn the souls of unbelievers.
‘You guys don’t mess around.’
‘Indeed.’
Gallows didn’t consider himself a patriot these days, but the crimson, gold and purple flags draping her hull did stir something inside him. Red, for the blood of the people; gold, for the fortune the Gods bestow upon us; and royal purple for the Crown.
‘She’s designed to exceed the capabilities of seaborne warships but be more manoeuvrable,’ explained Royce, his voice rich with awe. ‘Leaps in ignicite refining technology mean liquid igneus fuels her thrusters for much longer, bolstered by ultralight ignium. She can stay in the air without needing refuelling for great stretches, engaging her targets, all the while maintaining hull integrity no matter how high she climbs. Most importantly—she can even sail above the Steelpeak mountain range.’
Holy shit. A fleet of these things could wage a war all on their own. Gallows felt ashamed to find something so deadly so beautiful. ‘What if it falls into the wrong hands?’ he asked.
‘She of course sports stringent safety measures. Warship-grade armaments and even hangar space for up to twelve Eagle-class fighters.’
The Eagles were small, fast and manoeuvrable. They were single-engine, fixed-wing fighters, useful for harassing bigger airships and strafing runs, but they burned through igneus fuel fast. Gallows had seen them in action before.
‘The days of the lumbering airship are numbered. Aircraft carriers in the sky will soon be commonplace, unhindered by geography or weather conditions.’
‘Sounds like the Council is posturing for a fight.’
Royce shook his head. ‘Ensuring peace. Shall we?’
The Schiehallion’s bridge—or ‘Combat Operations Centre’, as Royce insisted on calling it—buzzed. It was like a sterile, high-tech hospital ward—but the kind that only rich folk could afford to be sick in. Machines hummed and popped around Gallows as if in concert. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was at sea, listening to the gentle ebb and flow of water.
‘Wait… Is that voices from outside?’
‘Oh yes,’ Royce confirmed. ‘The days of Bride’s Code are over. Portable transistor radios are fitted into all of our Eagle fighter craft, allowing for real-time vocal comms. No need to decode a message on the fly.’
Bride’s Code machines picked up coded transmissions wirelessly, but until now, voices were buried beneath static to the point of being useless. No more bricode—weird. And amazing.
The Schiehallion lived up to its moniker as a weapon of the Gods. Lockwood could hunt every pirate in the world with this beast.
The sun shone through curving skyglass, which would have blinded the two dozen people in the room if not for a slight tint. Two pilots sat at ease in front of consoles at the head of the room, nestled next to what must be the Commander’s chair. No—the helm, Gallows corrected.
He sipped a glass of water, savouring it. It tasted better than it had any right to.
‘Hunter Gallows,’ called Royce.
‘Yeah?’ He swirled the glass in front of him, downed the last of the water. ‘Got orders for me yet?’
‘Ah, not quite. Please may I introduce you to the editor of the Dalthea Viator, Mister Auros tal Qur.’
Gallows spun around.
Royce stood by a short, pudgy man with thinning hair and the sallow skin of a smoker. He peered out at Gallows through red-lensed spectacles that sat on a face assembled exclusively of jowls. His crumpled pinstripe suit was probably the pinnacle of fashion twenty years ago.
Gallows decided he hated him.
‘Pleasure to meet you, sah,’ he said, the syllables tumbling.
Gallows was going to have to lie. A lot. ‘You too,’ he said, shaking his hand.
‘Tell me, boy, are there any refreshments on board?’
‘Indeed,’ answered Royce, ‘the Schiehallion has her own water stations.’
‘Not the kind of refreshment I meant, boy. And a smoking room?’
‘Ah. Smoking, I’m afraid, is not permitted. If you’d like to follow me to the mess hall?’
‘No smoking? Damn your eyes! All right, lead the way, lead the way.’
The room moved.
The Schiehallion inched into the air by some silent command.
Lockwood spoke into her intercom: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Commander Lockwood. You all know how much I hate pomp and circumstance, so I’ll keep this brief. Welcome to the maiden voyage of the RSF Schiehallion. Some would say a flyby along the Queen Iona isn’t much of a voyage, but I disagree; this is the culmination of years of hard work and determination. The flight of the Schiehallion marks the beginning of a new era in our kingdom’s illustrious history—one which will be defined by prosperity, purpose and pride.’
And power.
Lockwood continued: ‘Aurien tal Varaldo once said, “As long as one living soul remembers the dead, then they never truly die”. Well today we remember our fallen. Let’s do them proud.’
Applause re
sounded through in the room.
Gallows sauntered over to the edge of the COC, his nose an inch away from the skyglass. The city sprawled out below like an upturned toy box.
Upper Dalthea and the Queen Iona Bridge floated as though Gallows sat atop a lazy cloud. The Kingsway and Old Town Square resolved from the hazy horizon. Not once during his boyhood voyages on haphazard wooden boats—or during his service aboard the stifling confines of the troopships—had Gallows ever felt seasick, and nor had airship travel ever compelled him to stick his head into a bucket. But this was something new entirely.
‘Quite something, our kingdom, isn’t it?’ Royce mused, appearing at Gallows’ side.
‘Gods damn it, man.’
‘Startle you?’
‘Everything about this ship is startling. Hey, why was Genevieve Couressa at the castle?’
‘She’ll be performing “The Soldier’s Prayer”.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Aboard the ship, Hunter Gallows,’ said Royce, as if telling Gallows the sky was blue.
‘She’s here now?’
Royce nodded, then craned his neck and addressed a young woman sitting by a console near the pilots. ‘Specialist Lestra?’
‘Sir?’
‘Care to explain to the Hunter here how Miss Couressa will be addressing the citizens of Dalthea?’
‘Yes, sir. We will broadcast our signal to the Information Towers throughout the city. Even from half a mile above the ground, every citizen will hear us.’
Gods. We’ll never escape those damn messages. ‘Wireless radio, huh. Not just for orders.’
‘Indeed. Soon even the raincatchers will be fitted with this technology.’ Royce beamed with pride. ‘Radio Detection and Measurement data will be more accurate and have a wider range. Wireless Bride’s Code will be phased out for vocal transmissions. The government will share this technology with Ryndara and everywhere in between.’
Gallows raised an eyebrow. ‘Good of the Council to share its toys—especially with a country that used to want to bleed us all to death.’
Symphony of the Wind Page 19
