‘…damn warship in the sky and it’s useless!’
Gallows shouldered past every person in his way, adrenaline and fury coursing through him, giving him strength.
He hefted the Vindicator into his shoulder and gunned down each and every Wraith near him. Smoking ignicite trails spiralled up from its blazing barrel.
He stepped over mewling bodies, hands reaching out to him, acrid smoke cloying in his nose.
And then he saw it.
A child’s body.
Five or six years old.
Curled on the floor with hands around his knees.
His eyes were closed as if in peaceful sleep.
Blood poured from two bullet holes.
The gun wavered in Gallows’ hand.
How would killing Pyron Thackeray prevent more bodies from falling? How would it bring Sera back?
‘Help! Please, help!’ The voice calling in his ear was young. He ignored it. He couldn’t stop now.
Hands grabbed out at him, nails clawed into his skin. He spun around, rifle butt raised.
‘Help me.’ A black-haired girl in a gown. Her eyes pleaded more than her words.
He twisted away from her, but stopped when he realised he’d seen her before. Wasn’t she-
‘Serena?’ he asked.
‘Please, you have to get me out of here. It’s-it’s me, it’s all because of me.’
‘I can’t help, I-’
Serena took two slow steps back, eyes pointing low.
The kid on the floor.
‘I know him.’ Serena’s voice sounded detached from the rest of her. ‘From the orphanage.’
Shit. ‘Alright,’ said Gallows. ‘Follow me.’
Damien had retrieved two swords from Wraiths he’d neutralised. Strange opponents; he couldn’t read them the same way he could everyone else; they were fearless yet did not display much independence. Are they somehow tethered to a single command?
He was among the upper sections of the building now, well beyond the auditorium. The windows here overlooked the street. He could hear the whir and chug of the clock tower. His feet padded upon the emerald green floor, sticky with caramel-coloured blood.
‘Clear!’ he shouted. He ushered civilians through a set of double doors, into another ruined hallway. He cast his mind to the blueprints. ‘There is an elevator at the far end of this passage, it will take you to the foyer—the Watch have congregated there, drawing fire.’
‘How do you know?’ someone asked.
‘I can hear them.’
And you can hear all that blood, pumping away…
‘And those soldiers?’
Damien concentrated to be certain. ‘The remaining enemy are at our backs. Go! Now!’
...and the pulse of hearts…
The trail of people rushed past him.
No-one would notice if just one died, just one, that’s all…
‘You!’ Damien called to a man of middling years, blood caked across his clothes. ‘You were near the Prime Councillor—did you see which way he went?’ Shell-shocked, the man couldn’t answer him.
‘I saw him go up to the attic with some watchmen,’ a woman spoke. ‘He went through a utility closet.’ Her long hair was as black as pitch, trailing across pale skin.
‘What you lookin’ at?’ asked the giant by her side. ‘C’mon.’ Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she submitted nonetheless. The giant grabbed her arm and pushed past Damien.
The attic. Likely a pre-determined escape route. Perfect.
It didn’t take Damien long to find the closet the woman referred to—had he known of its secret passage, he could have utilised it in his plan.
‘Open it, open it!’ squealed Pyron Thackeray. His watchmen tried in vain to pry the skylight open, using old crates and trunks to reach the ceiling. Damien noted that the Prime Councillor had neglected to untie the guards and usher whom Damien had left.
After all this, he wanders into my domain.
The Prime Councillor paced back and forth, his arms windmilling and his cane lying on the floor. ‘Damned fools!’ he croaked.
‘You there!’ a watchman called to Damien. ‘Help us, eh?’
A look of terror passed over another officer’s face. ‘I don’t think he’s here to help.’
The Prime Councillor’s unconscious body tumbled down the aqua-green slates of the opera house roof. He landed against a rampart, stirring and mumbling nonsense.
Damien followed, sliding down the sloping roof. Just about everyone in the opera house had spilled out onto the streets below.
Listen to the infuriating din of all that life…
Damien grabbed the Prime Councillor, dragged him towards the western wall. He peered down to the curving streets, cold wind on his skin. Dozens of people scurried in all directions. Horse-drawn carriages shuddered from side to side as their drivers urged them onwards, their terror-stricken horses snorting in complaint. Their motorised equivalents scraped across the cobbles as they escaped. Above Damien, the thrum of the RSF Schiehallion beat like the wings of a dragonfly.
Go back inside! Revel in the destruction!
The Wraiths—they must have come in via airship. Had Lockwood set them up?
It’s there, waiting for you, your blood burns for it…
A hundred men and women of the Watch had assembled outside, preparing to raid the opera house—but who gave them the order? When did Thackeray get the chance to send out a communication between the Wraiths’ assault and reaching the attic?
No time to dwell on it. He pushed the sliding button of his flashlight once, twice. The expected reply appeared within a second, and the lights of Valentine’s APC sheared through the darkness. The crowds parted to let her pass.
Damien undid his harness and fixed it over Thackeray. He placed the two swords he’d retrieved by his feet. It had been messy, but the mission would be brought to a successful end.
He uncoiled the rope fitted to the harness and secured it around a bronze depiction of Musa, clipping it in place. Glancing over the edge, Damien instantly calculated the distance between him and the ground. Plenty of room.
‘After you.’ He heaved the Prime Councillor over the wall; he swung in a wide arc, scraping against the façade, but the harness held—as Damien knew it would.
Valentine bolted from the vehicle and untied Thackeray. Damien zipped down the rope and met her on the ground.
‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ she asked.
‘No time.’ He seized the Prime Councillor and bundled him into the back of the personnel carrier, climbing in beside him.
The vehicle screeched and careened through the road. ‘The soldiers you encountered in that laboratory,’ Damien started, ‘they were here.’
‘What, those Wraith things? Belios. Where’s Gallows? With the singer?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Huh? Then we go back and get him!’
‘No; our mission is the Prime Councillor. I’ll look for Tyson later. The skyport may no longer be tenable—the Wraiths came from above. Did you see any other airships?’
‘Yeah,’ Valentine answered, ‘a cargo hauler docked with the Schiehallion. I couldn’t warn y’all without compromising my position.’ The vehicle spun around a corner, a violent howl coming from its belly. ‘Outta the damn way!’
‘The Wraiths must have boarded the Schiehallion from the cargo craft,’ said Damien. ‘I believe they were there to extract Junior Councillor Enfield after he neutralised a young girl.’
‘This day keeps gettin’ weirder.’
‘She’s a survivor from the Liberty Wind incident, an associate of Tiera Martelo—something much bigger is afoot here.’
‘Listen, all I care about is getting Fallon and nailing the bastards responsible for killing Sturrock. My interest begins and ends there.’
‘In any case, we cannot hand the Prime Councillor to Commander Lockwood if our enemies are still aboard her airship.’
‘Well this plan’s gone to shit, huh? So
much for taking a military vehicle to access the skyport. Listen, we got a bricode transmitter—if we can get Lockwood’s frequency, we can contact her.’
‘Possibly…’ Damien’s voice trailed off.
In the relative calm of the APC, he got his first good look at the Prime Councillor. ‘Valentine.’
‘What?’ She turned around, the Bulldog bouncing over a bump. ‘What? What is it?’
Damien met her gaze.
‘This is not Pyron Thackeray.’
‘Damn!’ A trail of bodies littered the corridor. The Wraith at the end of the hallway didn’t hesitate; bullets punched into the wall, and the Hunter was lucky his head still clung to his neck.
‘Get back!’ he yelled as he returned fire. Holes popped into the marble pillar by his side. ‘Back, back!’
‘Gods damn it,’ breathed Serena. She rounded a corner, her senses all over the place. A sour, metallic reek filled her nostrils.
‘They’re sealing the exits,’ the Hunter said. His rifle snapped once, twice. ‘Empty!’ he called, setting it onto the floor. ‘We need weapons if we’re gonna fight our way out.’
The Hunter had a sword and a knife—Serena had nothing, and she wasn’t keen on traipsing through a battlefield to pick up a dead man’s gun.
‘I, I have an idea,’ she started. ‘We can use the sewers to get out in secret. I was down beneath the Theatre District once, saw loads of props—there has to be a way down.’
The man looked at her, eyebrows raised as if he was impressed. ‘Yeah, I was gonna use the sewers myself, but the auditorium was crawling with Wraiths. It won’t be safe.’
‘Do we have a choice?’
More gunfire raged beyond, and the unmistakeable clash of steel on steel. ‘I guess not.’ He brushed past her and peeked around the corner. ‘My name’s Tyson Gallows. You ready?’
No. ‘Yes.’
He motioned for her to follow. ‘Reckon we’ll have to go back the way we came, towards the fighting-’ Furious gunfire cut him off. Voices and commands flew through the air, punctuated by screaming. ‘Damn it, sounds like the Watch.’
Serena swore.
Gallows looked down at her. ‘What have you got against the Watch?’
‘They’re trying to kill me,’ she answered. ‘You?’
‘They’re trying to frame me.’
‘Great, we both hate the Watch. We can compare notes after we escape.’
They retraced their steps, throwing themselves behind cover as bullets stomped holes into the walls. The Wraiths were cutting through the Watch like they were mannequins, rifles snapping and swords dancing.
‘Those guys with the masks are brutal,’ said Serena.
‘Yeah…’ Gallows didn’t seem convinced. Belios, what had he seen that made him immune to being scared by these guys? ‘The more I see ’em,’ he went on, ‘the more I think they’re just brainless puppets.’
‘Seem real enough to me.’
‘I mean they’re not really alive.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
They reached the auditorium, coming through a door by the middle circles, close to where Serena had found Gallows. The whole place was devoid of life. The smoke had ascended through the hole where the glass dome used to be.
‘There!’ a voice called. A Ganaldi woman in a lavender dress marched into the auditorium from the back entrance. A rugged older man stood by her side, as did a bunch of coppers.
‘Thank the Gods,’ breathed Gallows. ‘Sheva Kirivanti. Listen, you can trust her—I gotta run, but she’ll look af-’
‘Seize them both!’ yelled Sheva.
Serena’s heart plummeted like a boulder thrown overboard. ‘You were saying?’
Damien flew up the rope with little effort. He didn’t care if the Watch had spotted him—by now it was too late to matter. He’d insisted that Valentine abandon her vehicle—with Thackeray’s body double—and escape before anyone discovered her involvement. That was when she reminded him—in no uncertain terms—that he wasn’t her commanding officer.
It was unlikely the impersonator would provide good intelligence—Pyron Thackeray would not have risked someone valuable being captured.
Damien chided himself for not noticing straight away. That was how the Watch got here so soon after the Wraiths’ attack—the real Thackeray had alerted them after putting his body double in place. The whole thing had been a ruse—and even after warning Ty, Damien had been foolish enough to fall for it. But the question remains: For whom was this trap set?
He landed hard on the roof. The two swords he’d abandoned lay at his feet.
And listen to how they sing to you, the melody of steel on steel…
His blood burned. Images sprung unbidden into his mind, dark pictures he at once feared and savoured.
Yes…
He collected the swords, retrieved his rope, and made his way to the destroyed stained glass dome.
If you go in there, you know what will happen. This one action will unravel the bonds you’ve spent so long creating. To return here is to give your consent.
No! I am in control. I am in control. If the Wraiths have yet to kill Tyson, then the Watch shall endeavour to do so. This is necessary—and I am in control.
Damien stood at the edge of the hole and closed his eyes. The cacophony of death and destruction submerged him. Try as he did, he could not steady the pounding in his chest.
‘There’s a hatch backstage—go!’
Serena didn’t need telling twice.
Gallows looked up—Kirivanti advanced down the stairwell to his left, and the Watch took the right.
‘Stop!’ Kirivanti yelled.
‘After the girl!’ A watchwoman beckoned her fellows and ran down the far staircase towards Serena.
‘Sheva!’ Gallows called. ‘Call ’em off! Whatever they’re telling you is a lie!’
Kirivanti gave an order to the Hunter with her—Gallows recognised him as Garault Osa, the Guild’s sword master.
Gallows readied his weapon.
‘Drop it, Tyson!’
Gallows stepped backwards down the staircase, nearing the stage.
‘Mister Osa!’ she called. ‘You are authorised to use lethal force against Tyson Gallows.’ The eyes in Osa’s lean and grizzled face lit up.
Shit.
Gallows needed space—sandwiched between the wall and the rows of seats put him at a disadvantage—not to mention Osa coming in from the high ground. Any other opponent and he’d have been comfortable in close quarters—you didn’t grow up in Dustwynd without getting into scraps in narrow alleys. But against Osa, he’d need room.
He raced towards the stage, glimpsing Serena disappearing behind the curtains. The Watch were on her heels—and there was nothing Gallows could do to stop them.
Four coppers, one expert swordsman and Sheva Kirivanti—Gallows longed for the simple times when all he had to fight was a giant snake.
He leapt onto the stage.
Whoosh.
Osa’s blade scythed through the air behind him. The old bugger had closed the ground in seconds.
Gallows turned, raised his weapon and staggered backwards. He didn’t have a hope of winning against Osa and the Watch—but if he bought enough time for Serena to escape, then that was good enough.
Osa got to the stage and advanced. ‘Come on, Ty, you can’t beat me.’ His voice ploughed between them like a gravedigger’s shovel. ‘Put the sword down, let me bring you in. Let’s keep it clean, eh?’ The look in Osa’s eyes contradicted his petition.
Gallows’ fingers tightened around the grip of his sword. ‘Sorry, mate.’
Osa’s shamshir—a souvenir from Idaris, no doubt—was longer and thinner than Gallows’ shortsword, and curved like an eagle’s talon. The sword master whirled it in the air, making figure-eights in one fluid movement. The blade’s acid-etched patterns shimmered as it danced.
They say no two Idari blades are the same. Using that type of sword, Gallows
knew Osa would go for Gallows’ weapon hand, severing it in a flash before cutting his neck or an artery. Gallows adopted a defensive stance.
‘This is futile, mate—you’re bringing the Hunters’ Guild into disrepute.’
They circled one another. ‘Osa, listen to me: The Watch have got it wrong. You’re being used.’
‘So you didn’t plan a coup with your old commander, help the Prime Councillor’s assassin evade capture, and come here to finish the job?’
‘Well, technically she didn’t-’
Osa stepped forward, the razor edge of his blade whistling as it sliced through the air.
Gallows retreated—making a move to deflect the blade and expose his weapon hand was exactly what Osa wanted.
‘Damn it, stop!’ Gallows urged.
‘Traitor!’
‘I ain’t the traitor here, Osa! The Prime Councillor set all this-’
‘The Prime Councillor wasn’t even here!’
That stunned Gallows, and he paid for it: The tip of the shamshir swiped at Gallows. The wooden boards of the stage creaked as Gallows dodged, but he didn’t move fast enough—it sliced through his tuxedo, blood spilling from his collarbone. Jets of pain shot through his chest.
Osa cut more patterns in the air, goading Gallows. ‘All you managed was a failed attempt at a damn body double.’
Before Gallows could respond, Osa brought the shamshir up in a curving arc, almost opening Gallows from belly to chin.
Steel rattled against steel, Gallows on the defensive—just one wrong move and Osa would end him. His mind raced as he strained to deflect each strike, desperation setting in. Pain knotted in his muscles, pulling tighter and tighter.
Osa’s blade didn’t halt; it whirled and spun, the older man not even looking tired. It was impossible to find an opening—but Gallows divined the pattern to it, knew where the next feint would be, the next lunge.
He stepped back, luring Osa’s eye by bringing the shortsword up.
The sword master took the bait and struck.
Even anticipating the move, Gallows didn’t dodge in time—the shamshir caught on his sword, his forearm on fire with the strain of keeping the blade in his hand. But Osa stood close—too close. Gallows’ blade scraped down the length of Osa’s—he rocketed an uppercut into the older man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back.
Symphony of the Wind Page 41
