The cannon sat close now; its operator yelled at his compatriots—the words choked and his head snapped back as a bullet found his skull.
A man, reeking of shit and urine, dropped his weapons and ran. Others followed.
Damien’s fingers felt for the ignium charge in his belt.
But before he activated it, his eyes fell on something huge, disappearing into the night like a living statue.
Korvan?
‘Outta the way!’ yelled a giant of a man as he took up the cannon’s apparatus.
The artillery roared, turning a score of men into bloody smears on the ground. An almighty crash followed as the vast doors of the Musicians’ Guildhouse blew open.
‘All this time tryin’ to hit the sniper, just blow the bloody doors off, bunch o’ morons!’
Damien sprinted towards the cannon, activated the ignium charged and hurled it towards the giant, toothless man grinning at him.
The explosion unhinged the cannon from its wheels and turned it into a smouldering ruin, but it didn’t matter—the enemy had completed their first objective.
A horde converged on Damien, blotting out the Musicians’ Guild.
The door exploded, sending showers of wood and metal inward.
‘Incoming!’ Valentine yelled.
Gallows’ Vindicator kicked as he pulled the trigger, bullets firing with slow thumps. Some of Zoven’s men cowered behind rubble. Others tried to rush him, drunk on adrenaline. Gallows didn’t hesitate to shoot the Hunters. They’d made their choice.
It was a good spot for a killing ground. The enemy were concentrated into one tight space. Gallows’ rifle stemmed the tide, and Valentine’s revolver snapped and flashed overhead.
More came and more died.
Gallows ejected the depleted magazine and slammed in his remaining one. This will be enough. It has to be.
He snapped from one target to the next, faces appearing behind the smouldering debris of the doorway and then disappearing in blood. Not every shot was clean, but it didn’t matter. All he had to do was stop them, and a bullet in the shoulder was usually a good enough deterrent.
Fewer and fewer enemies approached. It’s working.
Silence.
‘Val?’
‘They’re regrouping! They’re gonna try again!’
‘I got half a magazine left!’
A young man flailed in front of the doorway.
Shit. He looked about seventeen. Gallows could see the big eyes and freckles on his face as he stood there, frozen.
Just a kid.
But hesitation meant death. Fallon had drummed that into Gallows.
Weighing heavy in his hands, Gallows brought the unwieldly rifle up and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Click.
Blood drained from Gallows’ face.
The rifle jammed.
‘Shit.’ This is why I prefer swords.
‘They’re outta ammo!’ the kid yelled. His face beamed.
Gallows fumbled with it, but the Vindicator was useless now. He threw it onto the floor and snatched his shortsword.
The kid ran at him, brandishing a meat cleaver like a gallant knight on a glorious charge.
The flash bomb went off in his face when his feet connected with the tripwire.
Gallows rolled over the barricade. More men flooded in, some of them armed with Watch blades. They took cautious steps when they saw the kid writhing on the floor, clutching his eyes.
Until Pierro came in.
‘Alright, mate?’ the giant said, lip swollen and bloodied. He smelled of blood and gun powder.
‘Valentine, fall back!’ Gallows yelled. He planted his feet.
‘Reckon I’ll have a go at you meself… After the boys soften you up!’
Two men took tentative steps towards Gallows. One feigned a punch—and Gallows fell for it. He flinched, the other man taking the opportunity to charge Gallows with his shoulder, landing on top of him with a heavy thud.
He drove his fist into Gallows’ face once, twice, before Valentine darted over and fought him off.
‘On your feet!’ She helped Gallows up, and together their blades swung at the men surrounding them.
‘After ’em, lads!’
The man who had tackled Gallows came in for another charge—Gallows kicked him straight in the groin and slashed his throat. Valentine had two straight knives—she hacked at anyone in her way. Guts leaked, blood spilled and bad language the likes Gallows had never heard gushed like a broken water dispenser.
Valentine held her own; she took on a much bigger man. She leapt back when he came at her. He punched her but Val’s smaller size meant it was harder to knock her off balance. She twisted from his grasp and cut the tendons in his heel before taking on the next target.
The first wave was easy, but a never-ending stream of enemies powered through. Every time Gallows dodged a strike, he had to parry another. He took a cut in his leg and then his arm. Adrenaline blunted the pain but his sword fell to the floor.
One man grabbed him from behind, hooking his arms under Gallows’. His mate adopted a boxer’s stance. He jabbed Gallows’ face twice with his left before unleashing a vicious right uppercut under his chin. Blood filled Gallows’ mouth as he bit into his tongue.
The boxer bobbed up and down, shaking his fists, before coming in again. The man behind gripped him like a vice. Gallows snapped his head back into his captor’s nose and, with both legs, kicked out at the boxer, sending him stumbling.
He fell back to the floor, landing on top of his captor—but Gallows got to his feet first. He stamped his boot into the man’s face and broke his nose.
Head swimming, he dodged the boxer’s incoming swing, conjured his B-knife, and drove it into his stomach half a dozen times before retrieving his sword.
Gunshots rang out nearby, sending men to their knees or clutching their chests. Aulton.
Blood spurted over Gallows as he cut veins and fingers. He shoved and kicked, growled and punched—he sent his head into his opponents’, dug nails into flesh, severed, sliced and slashed.
But his body was raw and aching from the battle at the opera house, and fatigue set into his bones like rust in machinery.
A wayward knee thundered into his stomach, winding him.
His bank of adrenaline ran dry.
He fell to his knee.
‘Grab the little runt!’ yelled Pierro—and someone did, pressing Gallows’ knees into the marble floor.
Valentine… Where’s Valentine…?
She’d been winded too, two men holding her down on her knees. She looked at him, her grimacing face smeared with blood. It was awful, seeing her tamed.
Pierro stood there, hands clasped behind his back, as more men rushed into the foyer. ‘You lot!’ he called, motioning to some of his men. ‘Upstairs. Get the girl.’
A group of four approached the eastern stairwell. One of them triggered a flash bomb as he lumbered up the steps, the other tripping on spiked caltrops.
‘Heh heh, you lot are full o’ surprises, ain’t ya? Keep going up!’ Pierro called. The remaining two were a lot more cautious.
‘You did well against our pawns, mate,’ Pierro told Gallows, ‘but now the real psychos are here, hah hah!’
Gallows’ muscles tightened. He raised his head. ‘You’re right about that.’
Standing in the doorway, batons spinning, was Damien.
‘Sweet Aerulus, Belios, Terros and Nyr!’ Fabian flapped around the room like a distressed chicken. ‘I mean, can you hear it? Gods above, I’ve never been so worried in my entire life!’
Serena sat by the door, arms folded, head bowed. Chaos rumbled close by. Her heartrate spiked the louder it got.
Genevieve and Catryn had made their own barricade of suitcases—Aulton’s gun had been in one of them, along with a collection of prop swords and other stage stuff. For all the good that’ll do. Serena needed to fight—needed to do something.
Voices yelled.
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Zoven’s men.
They got closer.
Genevieve rose to her feet, fists clenched.
Fabian stopped pacing—his eyes widened.
The crack of a door being kicked down…
Then another.
‘Serena,’ Catryn said. ‘Get behind me.’
Serena stood-
But the door snapped inwards, pressing against Serena.
A bloke built like a Bulldog barged in. ‘The girl,’ he growled. ‘Where?
The silence seemed to last forever. I can’t let them die for me.
Just as Serena was about to reveal herself, Fabian picked up one of the prop swords. They were metal, but blunt.
‘How dare you encroach on the abode of the voice of Musa herself, Genevieve Couressa!’
The intruder stepped further into the room. Serena could only see the back of him, but he was a brute.
‘No closer, sir!’ Fabian commanded. ‘One more step and you shall taste steel!’
Brute laughed. ‘Oh yeah, you peacock? And who in shitting hell are you?’
The blade hung in the air, Fabian painting slow figure-eights. ‘I am Danté tal Vitesse, feared and famous swordsman!’
‘Ain’t ever heard of ya. Move.’
‘One step and I shall pierce your heart, my man! I won last year’s Imanis Fencing Cup! I defeated Sentinel tal Luca in a joust three summers past! I carved a bloody swathe across the Sanctecano Islands when the Idari scum threatened the liberty of the West! And you dare question me? You, who is little more than a stoneroach?’
Everyone else in the room had frozen, all eyes on Fabian’s performance.
Brute raised his knife.
‘Do you think it even remotely possible that Prime Councillor Thackeray would engage the Genevieve Couressa for the Remembrance concert and not employ the greatest swordsman the world has ever known to protect her?’ He took a step closer to Brute, eyes manic, sword an inch from his throat. ‘Hmm?’
Don’t look at me, Serena recited, don’t look at me.
Fabian kept his eyes on Brute. ‘I asked you a question, sir!’
The knife wavered. ‘Aye, well… Reckon that does make sense.’
‘I’d say so! I am recipient of the Order of King Arnault! Of the King’s Cross! Of the Protector of the People! I am an anointed knight and I’d wager your employer has no desire to ignite a war with Ryndara, hmm? Hmm? Come at me if you believe yourself the superior warrior, friend. En garde!’
‘Ah, no, no!’ Brute held his palms out. ‘Sorry to have bothered ya.’ He pedaled backwards out beyond the door. Serena could hear his breathing. ‘Eh, any ideas where the witch girl is?’
‘Try the second floor,’ said Fabian. He slammed the door and the room breathed again.
Fabian leaned against a dresser. ‘Sweet Songstress,’ he exhaled, ‘I’ve never wielded a sword in my life.’
Knees caved inward and elbows cracked as Damien danced between opponents. He was holding his own, but he’d taken a few cuts.
He’s holding back.
The wrist-blade concealed in his sleeve punctured arms, leaving men and women unable to grasp their weapons.
‘Well bugger me and call me Sandra,’ said Pierro. ‘Someone kill that man!’
Several tried. None succeeded.
Gallows struggled against the man pinning him down—he found it much easier when Damien’s throwing knives spun through the air and embedded in his shoulder. Valentine broke free as well.
Enemies spilled in every direction, some racing up the stairwells.
‘C’mon!’ Gallows shouted. Valentine waded in, a bloodcurdling growl bursting from her as she tore chunks out of Zoven’s men and women. Damien was encircled by Pierro’s lieutenants, but they all fell at his feet.
Gallows raced towards Pierro. He caught him barrelling across the room towards the western stairwell. Good. The tripwires were still intact there, connected to low-yield ignium charges. Let Pierro blow his legs off.
‘Oi!’ called Pierro. He grabbed one of his men and hurled him into the stairwell. The resulting explosion turned him into bloody pulp. ‘Cheers, mate!’
Gallows gripped his sword and ran after him.
Aulton took potshots when Zoven’s men strayed into his field of vision. Not kill shots, but clipping the wings was good enough. He wouldn’t jump into the fray—Tyson Gallows had been particular about that; ‘We appreciate the help but no heroics.’
Fat chance of that happening. More chance I’ll die of a heart attack than a bullet.
Holding the gun made his joints ache, but he would not sit by while innocent people were in danger, not he. The name Aulton Carney used to mean something, damn it, and he would not sully the pride in his heart. If he was to die, let it be on his feet while staring his killer in the eye.
He’d killed Dalthean men during the war, but that was a long time ago, and for a young King Arnault. After being awarded the gallantry medal, he swore he’d never fight another man’s battle again. Peace would be his campaign.
But this was his choice—and as Aurien tal Varaldo said, ‘Some things are worth dying for; fewer are worth killing for.’
Well, this was one of them—and Aulton recognised much of the young Arnault in Pyron Thackeray.
Aulton crouched low, pistol raised over a barricade of ornate chairs and musical instruments. A suit of polished armour stood guard next him. No-one had attempted to gain entry to the door he guarded—yet.
He pulled the trigger, grazing a man’s leg but not felling him. Damn. He used to be a much better shot.
Aulton reloaded, the brass casings clattering onto the floor, acrid metal in his nose.
Something banged on the door.
Aulton didn’t say anything. The din beyond him died down, Damien no doubt mopping up the last of the invaders.
Another knock.
Aulton inched towards the door and put his eye against the peephole.
One man stood outside on uncertain legs. He wore intricate scars on one side of his face.
A kuramanusa.
He banged the door again.
‘Leave this place!’ Aulton commanded. Whether he was one of Farro Zoven’s men or not, the place wasn’t safe. Aulton was not about to take chances.
‘My name is Culran Hajjar.’
‘Without meaning to insult your intelligence, Mister Hajjar, can’t you see this place is not safe? Turn back!’
‘I need to see Serena. I’m a crew member aboard the Liberty Wind.’
‘And why should I trust you?’
‘Why should I trust you?’ The voice was weak but the threat was clear.
‘I assure you, the girl has come to no harm.’ Aulton snuck a glance down the corridor. The fighting had stopped, at least on the ground floor.
‘Her life is at risk! I urge you, let me in.’
‘I’m afraid I must ask you to prove you are who you say you are.’
Culran’s fist pounded the door. ‘I am Culran Hajjar, a casual Raincatcher. I was aboard the Liberty Wind when the sector seven Spire was activated, killing crew… Including my lover.’
From the peephole, Aulton watched as Culran tried to regain his composure. But Aulton was an actor and a performer; he saw through the charade, saw the man’s grief as clear as day. This was no act.
‘Please. I need to warn Serena. Something else is after her.’
Aulton unlocked the door and let Culran inside, keeping his gun trained on him. He was thin but he had muscle. Black crescents creased his eyes. Gods only knew how the last few days had treated him.
‘Thank you,’ said Culran. ‘Where is Serena?’
‘Why don’t you give me your message, eh?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Now listen, I believe you, but-’
Culran’s elbow scythed into Aulton’s temple, flooring him.
Serena paced back and forth. ‘We’re dead if we stay in here.’
‘You’re dead if you go out there!’ said C
atryn. ‘Never took you for stupid, Serena.’
‘Can everyone calm down for just a moment?’ Genevieve’s voice didn’t have a calming effect. Fabian was sitting in a chair with a glass of brandy, pale and exhausted.
‘They’re getting closer,’ said Serena, listening for the creak of the floorboards. ‘We’ve still got some traps in the corridors.’
‘So what?’
‘So they’re here for me.’ Serena inched towards the door. ‘They’ll come after me and leave you guys alone.’
‘You are under our charge,’ said Genevieve.
Serena ignored the singer. ‘Angelo, what would Captain Crimsonwing do? Wouldn’t he lure the enemy away and save the innocent bystanders?’
‘Depends. In the Sky Pirate’s Daughter, yes, but in Armada of the Damned, he-’
Catryn threw a vase to the floor. ‘This isn’t a gods damn book, Serena!’
She swept her arms out. ‘Listen!’ The sound of fighting had grown louder. ‘We’re losing, okay? I’m glad I’ve got you all here with me, seriously. But it’s not working. I won’t let anyone else die. Not because of me.’
Serena slammed the door behind her. The stables, Gallows had said.
She made her way down to the second floor, where there were still traps.
But on the stairwell, she came face to face with one of Pierro’s men.
‘Come and get me.’
Damen batted a sword away and shoved its owner over the edge of the balcony—his companion followed close behind with one of Damien’s throwing knives in his thigh. They landed with a scream and the snap of broken legs.
‘Sugar,’ said Valentine with a raised eyebrow, ‘you’re less brutal when you’re killin’.’
More men spilled through the hole the cannon had made of the door, and a number of enemies had made it to the second floor.
‘Sheva, fall back!’ he called. Below, Kirivanti’s staff swung in crescent arcs, jutting into chins and sweeping legs.
‘Sheva!’ Damien called again.
Without speaking, she made her way up to the first floor, all the traps now exhausted. ‘Serena! Is she safe?’
Symphony of the Wind Page 54
