Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  Royce’s stomach flipped as he pulled up. His wing clipped the side of a wall. The air raid sirens blared and civilians scattered beneath his path.

  His Eagle spewed black smoke—but still it clung to the air, arcing upwards, hunting for targets. Fire had broken out around the castle, the cannons reduced to smouldering wrecks. The last one’s barrels blazed red hot before it exploded.

  Royce heard his own heart beat in the silence.

  The Schiehallion floated upwards.

  The Wraiths needled her underside with bullets, ignoring Royce for bigger prey. Smoke curled from where two of its rotors used to be. It lurched from side to side, threatening to fall out of the sky.

  Lockwood had abandoned the fight.

  She had abandoned him.

  Then the Wraiths dived from their pursuit, a smattering of pins in the sky.

  The Schiehallion had ascended too high. The Wraiths couldn’t reach it.

  They spilled over one another in the air, clustering, sticking together.

  Six.

  This was it.

  His last stand.

  He would lure the enemy away in time for Lockwood to regroup, call reinforcements, something.

  Bullets drifted down to him, growing more precise as the enemy closed in.

  He took evasive action. The Eagle complained. Lights blinked, the throttle locked, metal groaned. He rolled in the air, turning this way and that, as much as his damaged craft would let him. His pursuers appeared on his six, closing in.

  Royce spun away towards The Sands. He’d go beyond the Outer Wall, take the Wraiths into the desert.

  If he lasted that long.

  Bullets punched his wings. Smoke filled the air around him—but it didn’t come from him.

  The RADIOM needle scraped in its chamber.

  Something big was coming…

  The Talon!

  It rose, pumping thick black smoke. Royce’s heart raced. Then another airship sailed up—the Callan.

  Together, they wove a blanket of smog.

  Royce surged into the smoke—it concealed him from the Wraiths. All it would do was buy time, but that was enough.

  His throat clenched as he sailed through. It was an old sky pirate tactic—combine ignium with another chemical to create the smog, light a visible fire, fly low and send out a distress pulse via Bride’s Code. To any aircraft nearby, it would look like a mechanical malfunction. Those offering a helping hand would fall victim to nets or small arms and be brought down and looted. Illegal and terrible for the environment, but it had just saved his life.

  The two raincatchers flew in opposite directions, stretching the blanket of smoke. Bullets rattled from their decks, criss-crossing the sky.

  Royce soared higher into the smog. The hand-operated gyroguns Fieri had provided had been affixed to the decks of the airships.

  Royce had never seen the guns in use before; six copper barrels whirred with the pull of a crank, shooting a bullet each time a barrel lined up with the gun’s cartridge chamber. The gyroguns were anti-infantry weapons, but Royce would take that.

  He saluted the Talon as he flew overhead. The guns’ operators were tied to the taffrails and wore windblocker coats and goggles, but one frayed rope would send them over the rail. The Raincatchers were risking their lives for their kingdom—for Royce.

  Tugarin couldn’t see shit—but that was the point, no?

  He stood with feet planted wide on the Talon’s deck, strapped to the taffrail. Ejecting brass casings swirled at his feet as the gleaming, copper gyrogun sputtered bullets into the air. With great speed and strength, Tugarin’s hands rotated the metal crank—he could already feel the callouses forming, but still the bullets came much too slow.

  The black, winged aircraft resembled shadow dragons from boyhood stories—beasts without tangible form, smoke monsters that couldn’t be touched. For all the damage the bullets inflicted, that may as well have been the case. Anton Tugarin wonders if he picked the right side!

  The gyrogun shuddered as he chased a Dragon’s tail. Tugarin was the hunter in the night smog, the nocturnal predator. See how they scurry in fear! Teeth and nails! Fists and fury! Belios, but it’s been a long time since Tugarin had a good scrap!

  The underside of a Shadow Dragon floated up with a blood-curdling cry.

  The gyrogun’s barrels glowed as red as coal as bullets streaked against the Dragon’s black hull. ‘Yes, run! Run!’ Tugarin screamed to the wind.

  He peered through the blanket of smog at Zuri. Her silhouette flashed into view with every rattle of her gyrogun.

  This is living! Hot blood surged through Tugarin’s veins. Tonight, he would visit the Courtesans and spend his aerons on as many men as he could afford! Today he was a warrior of the kingdom! A liberator such as Tarevia would be proud of!

  A shadow loomed heavy in the smoke.

  I am Anton Tugarin, Slayer of Dragons! Feel my talons rend the life from you!

  But its hail of gunfire drowned Tugarin’s paltry, hand-cranked assault. Wood splintered as the Dragon’s bullets punched through the deck—the airship rolled and lurched. Tugarin saw Zuri’s shadow dance like a puppet before lurching over the rail, swallowed by the black cloud.

  ‘Zuri!’

  He couldn’t hear his own voice in the din.

  Bullets streaked high above Royce. The Wraiths probably had RADIOM kits but the smoke would cloud their visibility. He burst through the black cloud, opened fire on a Wraith and climbed back inside.

  It turned and followed him.

  Bullets ploughed through the smoke, Royce and the Wraiths firing blind.

  He had to kill them before they turned on the Raincatchers.

  His Eagle wove in and out, luring the Wraiths away and back inside, taking potshots where he could. He got two of them before hiding in the smoke again.

  For all their speed and manoeuvrability, the Wraiths were growing predictable. They don’t have instinct—only training. Teaching a dog a neat trick is one thing; expecting it to learn more on the fly was quite another.

  One of the Wraiths targeted the Callan’s aft, bullets grating its hull. Royce closed in on it and fired. He hit its wing but it clung to life as it aborted its pursuit—and exploded.

  Tugarin’s airship still spat smoke but the Callan had suffered enough—she yawed and descended, leaving the fight. She’d done her job.

  Fortune find you, friend.

  But if Royce was to survive, he’d need more than concealment. He was still up against three enemies in a damaged craft. The Talon’s guns were anti-infantry weapons. Good for deterring the Wraiths, but not much else. He had to go on the offense.

  Something plummeted from the Schiehallion—a tiny dot accosted by the wind.

  Then its engines powered up.

  Another Eagle. Even with the distance, Royce saw its distinctive red and gold paint job—it was the Commander’s Eagle.

  Lockwood! She’d deployed her personal fighter and turned its ignition on in mid-air—if it was anyone else in the cockpit, the manoeuvre would be suicide.

  Lockwood powered towards him, guns thumping, bullets shredding one of the Wraiths.

  One of the remaining enemy craft burst from the smog and barrelled towards her. Royce chased it, pressing down on his guns. It spun away from the bullets—but he kept on it, pushing the Eagle with everything it had left.

  The Wraith soared high and disappeared out of view. Royce followed it into the murky air. The warnings blared in his ears but adrenaline propelled him. His instincts were better. His training was better. He was alive again, renewed, like the rebirth of a phoenix.

  Lockwood tore through the cloud in front of him. Bullets streaked past and his target exploded into shrapnel.

  One more.

  It appeared on Lockwood’s tail.

  She dived, the Wraith followed, and Lockwood shot up again. She lured it away.

  Royce went in for the kill.

  The smog dissipated, Tugarin seeking refuge now
the advantage had shifted back in their favour.

  The city spun beneath Royce. Terros’ Crown, the Arc, the glass of the train station, gleaming like a diamond-

  He felt the bullets before he spotted the Wraith.

  His port-side wing snapped away.

  His instruments sparked and caught fire.

  The Wraith had got him.

  Yanking the throttle, Royce scythed through the air towards the bridge. The horizon tilted. Metal peeled away. His harness bit into him.

  If he could land on the bridge, lure his pursuer into a clear line of fire, maybe Lockwood could-

  A bullet burst through his chest.

  The skyglass shattered. Cold wind whipped at him.

  Royce’s engine fell silent. Blood flowered on his uniform and he couldn’t move his legs. More gunfire punctured the air around him.

  Royce’s heart weakened with every beat. His fingers fumbled with the lever at the side of the chair. The bridge below filled his view.

  An explosion, and the guns chasing him silenced.

  Lockwood—she got the last Wraith.

  Royce tugged harder, with every ounce of strength he had left. If only he could eject, get a field dressing on his wounds…

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Royce closed his eyes before his craft hit the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘No!’

  The word broke into a stretching moan, then a rasping scream.

  Tiera’s knives flashed in her hands as she sliced into the rope fastened in the dark corner. Fitz’s body shuddered as it detached, one side of him still suspended.

  ‘Tiera!’

  She clawed and thrashed at Valentine for pulling her back. ‘Get him down! Fitz! Fitz!’ All senses left her, leaving only instinct. Every ounce of her was focused on one thing.

  She severed the second rope, and Fitz landed on the ground like a ragdoll.

  ‘Fitz! Wake up!’ She kept calling his name, reciting it until the words scraped in her throat. She fell by his side, cradled his head on her knees like a mother. She clasped his hand. His fingers were too cold.

  ‘Wake up, Fitz, wake up…’ She breathed his name over and over and closed her eyes. If she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t real.

  She heard him roar orders to the crew, saw the sinews of his arms when he hefted cargo. She felt him brush her hair behind her ear, heard him call her ‘lass’, felt his warmth, smelled the liquor on his breath.

  It didn’t have to be real.

  She kept her head close to his, wrapped her arms around them both, sealing them away from the world.

  Why did you go off? Stupid man! Why? Why didn’t I stop you?

  ‘Martelo…’ Valentine’s voice.

  ‘Leave!’

  Fitz was the only thing that kept her sane. The only one who understood her. The only one who could tame her.

  Who cared about Drimmon? About Clara? Who cared for any of this?

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Valentine. ‘He’s gone.’

  Tiera glared up at her. ‘What do you know of it?’

  Valentine’s eyes turned as cold as frost. ‘Everything.’

  So she’d seen death. So? Screw her. She was still functioning. Tiera’s grief was real. Hers was fire—not ice.

  And she’d use it to make the world burn.

  No locked doors, no sentries, no guards, nothin’. The absence of anything put the fear in her.

  Valentine had left Tiera behind. The two Raincatchers could look after her. She still had a mission.

  She peered into every cell she passed. She asked the prisoners where the guards were. Gave Fallon’s description.

  Nothin’.

  Copper coated the air. The stench seeped from the walls. She checked her corners, raised her rifle. The whole thing could be a damn ambush.

  Fearful eyes stared back at her. Some of ’em looked like they’d been here for decades. Like them in the psych ward. But there, the walls were white. Drugs fogged minds but people talked, played cards. Doctors and nurses. Artificial plants. The illusion of life. In here, it was empty and black. A grave.

  Valentine descended deeper. The hair on her arms stood up. A rope bridge led to a detached cell on a plateau in the centre of the pit. Valentine hoped to Nyr that Fallon wasn’t inside.

  Whines like mourning widows cried from distant corners.

  ‘About damn time.’

  Valentine spun. Her finger whitened on the gun’s trigger.

  The croak of Fallon’s voice startled her. ‘Damn near blew your head off!’

  ‘Corporal.’ His weak voice nonetheless carried a note of defiance.

  ‘Permission to rescue your ass.’

  ‘Granted.’ Fallon looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Belios and came last. ‘Let’s get outta this cock-wart prison.’

  She helped him move. ‘What happened here, boss? A Raincatcher said they took the young.’

  Fallon growled. ‘Confessor Cronin led ’em out. Slave soldiers. Thackeray’s tooling up for something.’

  ‘Slave-soldiers?’ Valentine asked. ‘Like the Idari kuramanusa?’

  Fallon grunted in affirmation.

  ‘We gotta get the prisoners out, boss. We can’t leave ’em here. Come on!’ she called to the prisoners huddled nearby. ‘We’re getting you out!’

  The prisoners stared at her, hungry mouths hanging loose.

  ‘Why ain’t they moving?’ Not a day had passed in that sterile hospital room where she didn’t think about escape.

  ‘They ain’t got reason to,’ answered Fallon. ‘You gotta understand, some of these people have spent their whole lives in here. They’re used to taking orders. They’re used to doing what their masters tell ’em. Their souls have been ground into dust.’

  ‘And the more recent ones?’

  ‘They came in docile and stupid,’ explained Fallon. ‘Reckon whatever happened to Tiera Martelo happened to them.’

  ‘But we have a way out!’ Valentine gave Fallon a boost to the next level. ‘They ain’t listening, boss. We can get ’em out.’

  ‘They need reason. They don’t know what freedom is, Valentine. They’ve been beaten. Enslaved. Degraded. They’ve been torn apart and remade again and again, losing pieces of themselves every time. You reckon Thackeray and Trevelyan and all the others looked at the kuramanusa and hated the Idari? They created soldiers who didn’t protest! And they admired ’em for it! Why d’you reckon I was blacklisted? I want the men and women at my side to think for themselves.’

  ‘You knew about this place?’

  Fallon’s stern face glared at her. He didn’t deny it.

  Valentine felt like she’d leapt from an airship without a parachute. For years she’d served her country and her king. Years. And all that time, a rotten core had been festering in the heart of the kingdom. ‘This is wrong. All of it.’

  ‘So make it right. Give ’em their dignity back. Give ’em their pride. They need a reason, Corporal.’

  Tiera descended further into the pit. Valentine had found her target. Good. Tiera would rather be alone.

  A bridge had been raised, connecting the lowest circle of the Gravehold to the stone plateau that sat amid the deep black crevasse. A dim light ebbed within. It called out to her.

  She’d heard a story once, of the circles of Hell. Formless faces stared out as your spirit was forced to descend into the black. They would whisper your sins as you passed. Time meant nothing. Hope was a meaningless word.

  And in the centre of Hell, your worst fear manifested itself before your eyes. What horrors could a devil inflict upon you that came close to those made by your own hand?

  Deeper, she marched into the pit, the circles closing around her. Dead eyes looked out at her. The howling void reached out to Tiera. She would clasp it willingly. She was the apex predator here. She would show the world a glimpse of her own pain. She would teach the world to scream.

  Datthias had forged her. Fitz had tamed her.

 
But it wasn’t a man who had made her.

  Tiera sank deeper into the darkness.

  She stepped through the cell door.

  The figure sat in a wooden chair, its outline still familiar after all these years.

  She closed the book she was reading and brightened the ignium lamp.

  ‘Hello, Tiera.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Floorboards creaked and swayed. Sea air wafted through the cramped cabin. An ignium lamp fell from its table, its glass casing shattering on the floor. The gas dissipated.

  Needed charged anyway.

  The Discordant Sea threw the ship from side to side. Serena threw an arm out to steady herself. She should have been in bed, but the thunder kept her awake. Not through fear—what fourteen-year-old was scared of a little thunder?—but because she liked to listen to it.

  She peered through the open window. The black sea churned under the silvery moon, water spraying up over the quarterdeck. Lightning burst in the sky like fireworks.

  Jozef had panicked when the first wave hit. Said it was a stupid idea to keep moving in storm season. What did he know. A calm sea was a boring sea.

  She heard the strain of his voice from the cabin next door. He was talking to…

  Whoever. So many names and faces came and went, Serena had no idea who was who.

  But always there was Jozef.

  Her cabin door squealed open. Electricity ran through her veins. Even in a ship as small as this, sneaking through the night, exploring its dark corners was always an undiminished pleasure. Especially if she found Jozef’s bottle of Phadrosi rum.

  A crack of thunder. The ship lurched. Serena skidded across the floor of the berth deck, hand grasping up at a rolled hammock. It tore from the ceiling and unfurled around her.

  When she fought the fabric off, Jozef stood in front of her.

  Flecks of ginger peppered his white hair, like rust on a new machine. The sleeves of his overalls were rolled up, revealing the faded tattoos on his arms. Through the spectacles perched on his nose, he looked at her with disapproving eyes.