Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘Lestra, clear the COC of non-RSF personnel!’

  ‘With all due respect, miss, reckon I can help!’ He had to shout as thunder sheared the sky. Coils of blazing blue and white lightning struck with Aerulus’ fury.

  The Schiehallion’s ballistae launched harpoons, her cannons hurled shells, her AA guns spat rails of red-hot bullets, but none of it brought the Spire down.

  ‘Ma’am!’ called Lestra. ‘We have to abandon ship!’

  ‘The ground team will perish without us, they’ll have nowhere to go,’ said Lockwood. ‘Target the anti-air cannons on the ground.’

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  ‘Oi!’ roared Drimmon. ‘I can help!’

  Lockwood turned to him. ‘Explain.’

  Drimmon shook his head. ‘You’re thinking about this the wrong way! You gotta treat machines more gentle like, like a girl. I got nimble fingers. Give’s the Wind and an ignium charge an’ I’ll be set!’

  ‘There’s no way to get close!’

  ‘I can get close.’

  The room lurched, and the ground rose that much closer to the airship.

  ‘If we die,’ Lockwood began, ‘make it mean something. Go!’

  Drimmon raced to the elevator.

  ‘Maintain ordnance!’ ordered Lockwood. ‘Keep us alive long enough to cover the Liberty Wind!’

  Korvan didn’t acknowledge their presence, even as the bullets sank into his skin.

  Enoch’s bulk convulsed as the electrodes throbbed inside him.

  Korvan waved a flaming lighter beneath Enoch’s chin. ‘What’s worse—electricity or fire?’

  Gallows kept firing, for all the good it did. Damien set throwing knives between his fingers.

  And Valentine stood on the spot, frozen, eyes wide.

  ‘A moment, brother.’ Korvan’s voice sang. He snapped the lighter closed, turned, and with inhuman speed, closed the ground, swept the rifle from Gallows’ hands and threw him to the ground.

  Damien struck next, fists jack-hammering, blade points shredding cloth and skin. Korvan grabbed him by the throat and shoved him away.

  Korvan turned to Valentine, arms swept wide. ‘By all means, join in.’ The words fell from his mouth like a coffin lid sliding in a tomb. ‘But you cannot conquer death!’

  Valentine snapped from her reverie and tried to prove him wrong. She spat red metal from her weapon. Korvan closed his eyes, savouring it, until the magazine ran dry. ‘Fun! Now, if you’re done, I have a soul that needs purging—like the tumour it is.’

  Gallows’ blade flashed, the edge biting into skin, but Korvan shrugged it off. ‘Enoch, brother! Which of your pets would you like to see die first?’ His arms shot out, grabbing Valentine and Gallows by the throat.

  ‘No!’ Damien dived and thrust the throwing knives into Korvan’s chest. A point glinted at Korvan’s eye when he dropped Valentine and wrested it from Damien’s hand.

  ‘Much obliged.’

  He plunged it into Valentine’s thigh.

  Korvan hurled Gallows behind him and focus on Damien, Valentine’s screaming grating the air. ‘You are stronger than the other two.’ Damien unleashed a tornado of punches and roundhouse kicks. Korvan took it all, whimsical amusement playing on his face. ‘Are you even trying, disciple of Nyr? Yes! Pyron Thackeray told me what you are.’ He hooked a marble-hard fist into Damien’s jaw, sending him flailing. ‘You have grown weak. You have no claim to the altar of Nyr!’

  Gallows got to his feet, pain searing his chest. ‘Val! You okay?’

  Valentine yanked the small knife from her leg. ‘Will be when this bastard’s in the ground.’

  Even with his injured shoulder—the injury Gallows caused—Damien attacked Korvan’s pressure points with perfect precision. He flipped in the air and choked Korvan with his legs; he struck, chopped and sent his head rocketing into Korvan’s face with such force that it would break another man’s skull; he leapt and danced and scythed with fist and foot—but Korvan took it all.

  ‘Tedium is the curse of immortals, little man, and you are boring me. I know! Some music!’ Korvan clasped a remote control from his coat. He activated it, and Enoch’s anguished screams echoed through the vast, round chamber. ‘Much better!’

  Damien rested on one knee, sweat sheening his face. ‘Go,’ he called. ‘Both of you. Get Serena!’

  ‘He’ll kill you,’ warned Gallows.

  ‘He’ll try.’

  ‘I ain’t leaving,’ said Valentine.

  Gallows pulled her away. ‘We can’t kill Thackeray if we’re dead. C’mon.’

  ‘Alone at last,’ Gallows heard Korvan say at his back.

  Beneath blackened skies, the Liberty Wind arrowed towards the earth. Lightning stretched out, rain trounced her hull and thunder beat like a sledgehammer.

  Lockwood’s warship cleared the ground defences, but the Wind took some damage. Her machines screeched in alarm.

  The Schiehallion’s guns detonated through the air. Her hull was ablaze, the rain doing little against the inferno surrounding her. Drimmon wouldn’t have much time before she fell.

  With only three rotors still active, the Wind lumbered like a bird with a broken wing. The towering Spire filled the skyglass, its guts showing. He circled around and made the landing, dancing between forks of lightning all the way.

  He ran to the hold, stomach cramping in complaint from the abuse Cronin had put him through. The cargo ramp creaked open; hot wind pulled at him, whipping sand into his eyes and mouth.

  He darted to the Spire’s massive entrance, screwdriver in hand, knowing a bolt of lightning could end him at any second.

  With fumbling fingers, he took the panel off. He yanked the web of wiring and reconnected them, bypassing the door’s lock with a shower of sparks. It opened with a smooth swish.

  When this was over, he’d tell Clara and Tiera and Roarke what he’d done. They all took the piss out of him for loving Ena. This’d show ’em. It was an act of defiance—a middle finger to the Confessor for battering him and saying those nasty things about Ena. It was for the Guild. The Ballad. The Liberty Wind.

  For Captain Fitzwilliam.

  He took refuge inside, running to the control room, not stopping to catch his breath.

  Explosives weren’t his forte, but Drimmon knew the basics: Set the timer and run. Blowing the core would cut the power.

  The inside was different from the other Spires. Newer. Drimmon liked tech; lived for it. But some of the instruments and gear here put even his knowledge to shame. ‘Yeah, but you’ll still blow up the same, won’t ya?’

  He placed the ignium charge on the panel. The chamber amplified the noise from outside, like snare drums battering in his head. He set the explosive in the Spire’s core. His eyes clenched tight as he ran to the safety of his airship, wind and rain lashing him.

  Shrapnel sliced through the air. When he opened his eyes, he was inside the cargo hold, a sharp piece of metal digging into the wall not an inch from his head.

  Keeping his eyes on the metal, he prodded the button to raise the cargo ramp.

  And damn the Gods, today would be the day he asked Ena to marry him.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Thackeray had disappeared. Serena sat on the spot by the window, unable to keep her eyes from Roarke’s body. Hunger, thirst and exhaustion gnawed at her, made her limbs weary.

  You are the Herald of Death.

  No wonder Jozef resented being saddled with her.

  Lamps buzzed in and out in the chamber beyond.

  When the light returned, Thackeray’s face appeared behind his console again, brow knitted. She didn’t know how to take him. He wasn’t the smiling, passionate extrovert the Viator painted him as. He wasn’t the frenzied fanatic whose voice throbbed out from the Info Towers. For sure, he was driven—his eyes were hard and focused—but Serena didn’t reckon he was angry. In fact, he didn’t look evil. He didn’t wear the same malice on his face as Enfield did down in the tunnels. He looked tired, more than
anything.

  ‘You gonna speak?’ she asked, not even sure if the intercom was on.

  He didn’t say anything.

  And that pissed her off. More dire concerns sat just six feet from her, bleeding on the floor, but the way he sat there in silence infuriated her, regarding her like she was an animal in a pen. She raised her hand, felt the beginning of an electric spark. She reached out and pointed to Thackeray, willed him to explain.

  ‘With a single button I will flood your cell with radiation,’ he stated, without emotion. ‘Do you think you’re quick enough?’

  The anger dissipated, replaced with numb dread. ‘If you’re going to kill me,’ she said, ‘just kill me.’

  ‘I have no desire to kill you.’

  She sprung from the bed and pounded on the window with her fist. ‘Then what? What am I doing here?’

  Thackeray sat and leaned back in his chair. He tapped a pen on the console. ‘Do you know how Dalthea was formed?’

  ‘Really not in the mood for a history lesson, asshole.’

  She expected him to say something at that. He didn’t. ‘A blessing from the stars.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Ancient scrolls depict a meteor or asteroid striking our planet. It devastated the continent and struck deep into the earth, sending landforms spiralling away, changing the landscape.’

  That rang a bell. Aerulus’ fist. ‘The Steelpeak mountains.’

  Thackeray leaned forward. ‘Other meteors fell around the world, but ours—ours was made completely of ignicite. For millennia, the tribes worshiped it. Some say it was a gift from the Orinul, others say it came long before them.’

  ‘The Orinul were evil.’ Serena folded her arms. ‘Oh yeah, and fictional.’

  ‘Evil,’ Thackeray began, ‘is a matter of perspective. A disease isn’t “evil” because its malignance robs the body of life. Bloodlung sent thousands to the grave, but it wasn’t evil.’

  ‘If you’re gonna say everything you’ve done was in your nature, I don’t wanna hear it.’

  ‘Of course not—I owe you no justifications, Serena.’

  ‘Then why are you boring me with this?’

  ‘To explain your lineage.’

  It took a moment for the word to strike home. ‘What? Are you saying I’m an Orinul?’ She laughed at that, sharp and humourless.

  ‘Not quite. The Orinul once ruled over mankind. For eons, this world was their dominion. Some believe they dwelled here before us. Others believe they came from the same place as the ignicite, while others say it drew them here across the stars—not a gift, but a beacon.’

  ‘And some people believe shadow dragons live on the moon.’

  A smile played beneath his tidy moustache. ‘Folklore often possesses grains of truth. The Orinul ruled over us, Serena. Enslaved mankind. Stole our free will. But we rebelled.’

  ‘What, some “Chosen One” broke their spell and rose up against them with a magic sword?’

  Thackeray stayed silent. Then: ‘Tell me, who is the God King?’

  ‘Aerulus.’ Where’s he going with this?

  The Prime Councillor got up and paced in the chamber, one hand behind his straight back, the other clasping his cane. His uniform was in perfect condition, highlighted with crimson, gold and purple. ‘Musa was the true king of the Gods.’

  Serena laughed again. ‘Everyone knows-’

  ‘No.’ Thackeray shook his head. ‘It’s that wilful ignorance that brought this kingdom to its knees.

  ‘The Orinul reigned over this world. They enslaved our species. Then, somewhere, a girl was born. A girl with a fragment of their power—Musa. The first Siren. She broke the will of the Orinul and unshackled their bonds. She freed others and the green shoots of rebellion flourished into something greater. Hope spread.

  ‘But the demons still held power. A bloody war erupted. Brother killed brother. A red slaughter spanned the earth. Blood watered the soil. Hope seemed lost. Then, with ten warriors, Musa vanquished her enemies. She brought down their empire. It sparked the Fayth of the Indecim. Aerulus wasn’t their leader—Musa was. She led humanity to salvation.’

  ‘That’s a nice story. When I get out of here, I’m gonna make you jump into Irros’ Bounty.’

  Thackeray smiled as though she offered him a sweet. ‘We have conquered the Poison Veil, Serena. The radiation doesn’t burn the flesh of the dead, only the living.’

  ‘Great. I’ll kill you first and you can die pretty.’

  ‘Our knowledge of ignicite barely scratches the surface. Palthonheim was a tragedy, but my Wraiths can pass its borders undisturbed. Doctor Mathieson posited that the radiation burns the souls of the living—he was one for drama.’

  ‘Palthonheim,’ Serena said, a memory bubbling to the surface. ‘Those Wraith things… Is Enoch a Wraith?’

  ‘Enoch and Korvan. They were to lead my forces. But Korvan is… difficult to control, and Enoch has too much humanity in him. Removing free will helped, but not enough—not in the time we have left. The Wraiths are drones—killers, yes, but this kingdom needs soldiers. Without proper command, they would perish. I need men of will. Men ready to die.

  ‘Enfield’s treachery has given me the greatest weapon I could have hoped for. You, Serena—you will control my army. I will help you refine your abilities. In time, your powers will stretch over continents. You will command my armies and march them across the Idari homelands. You will be the weapon that ends this war.’

  The hair on Serena’s neck stood. ‘Even if any of this shit is true, how can I save the world? I’m not a God!’

  The instruments around Thackeray’s console flashed and hummed. Worry knitted his face. Serena only became aware of it with its absence, but the far-off boom of wind and thunder ceased. Something was happening outside.

  ‘Musa freed humanity.’ Thackeray stepped closer to the cell, eyes narrowed. ‘She could have accomplished so much more.’

  The Herald of Death will be governed by a human hand. ‘I won’t help you,’ she sneered. ‘I’d rather die.’

  Thackeray stood still for a moment, his white cane gleaming.

  He produced a vial from his coat. ‘Fortunately, you won’t have a say in the matter.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Spire’s external lighting clung on to life before stuttering and dying. Lightning still snarled overhead, battering the Schiehallion.

  ‘Ma’am!’ Lestra shook her head, mouth hanging open. ‘He did it! The Spire—it’s depowering!’

  Lockwood said nothing. She’d celebrate when the sky cleared and when the monsters behind this had their necks in a noose.

  The Schiehallion was alone in the sky. Tugarin was gone, as was the Callan. The Moonwaltzer and the Overseer were smouldering, black husks on the desert floor. Fires raged on the Schiehallion’s hull, the rain doing nothing to quell them. The damage was done. Inside, bulkheads were sealed to contain the inferno. Men and women were sacrificed. She would not stay in the air much longer. She would never see battle again.

  ‘Set her down!’ ordered Lockwood. ‘We’ve done all we can.’

  ‘Gallows and Valentine will take care of Thackeray,’ rasped Fallon.

  ‘They could be dead already. We’ve risked everything here, Aramon. I hope it’s worth it.’

  Fallon didn’t respond.

  ‘“To win at all costs is as bad as losing.”’

  Fallon’s eyebrow arched. ‘You quoting tal Varaldo?’

  Lockwood shook her head. ‘It’s a Ryndaran proverb.’

  Fallon grunted. ‘Knew it’d be something stupid.’

  ‘Your man Gallows. He said the Mages’ Guildmaster was taken by Thackeray because she aided the girl. Did you see her in the Gravehold?’

  Fallon shook his head. ‘If she helped the orphan, Cronin likely has her.’ His words carried all the weight that deserved.

  Lockwood’s gaze turned down. ‘Gods only know the hell he’s putting her through.’

  ‘Tea?’ Cronin offered
.

  Myriel shook her head. ‘Confessor, never would I even have considered refusing tea before. But when the hand that offers it is as stained as yours, I find my stomach turning.’

  The Confessor’s lips curled as he poured himself a cup. ‘No need for hostility, Myriel.’

  ‘Guildmaster.’

  ‘Hardly. You have nothing to fear from me. Has your stay not been comfortable?’

  Her cramped cell had been furnished with fresh linen and a stack of old books. Even a small mirror. The armed guard outside was less homely. ‘I’d sooner take the Gravehold than a gilded cage, Confessor. I find filth to be more honest.’

  Cronin stood, fists placed on the steel table which separated them. ‘We all live in a gilded cage, Myriel. Only the Fayth can liberate us.’

  Myriel sneered. ‘The Indecim hold us in heavy shackles, Confessor. The Orinul may have enslaved our minds, but the Gods enslave our souls.’

  Cronin laughed at that, a hideous, curling, high-pitched peal.

  ‘You love your job, don’t you, Confessor?’

  ‘I am fortunate to have found my calling. Now, I ask again: Why did you approach the girl at the funeral? How did you know she was in the city?’

  ‘I went to pay my respects to the Raincatchers. That’s the first time I saw Serena. That’s all there is to it.’

  Cronin rubbed the bridge of his nose before fixing his round-lensed glasses. ‘At this point, I should inform you that I do not wish to resort to my usual methods of interrogation. I am lenient only as a professional courtesy—do not make the mistake of trying my patience.’

  Myriel leaned back. ‘Tell me, were you the bully or the bullied?’

  Cronin’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not sure I get your meaning.’

  ‘Oh, men like you aren’t born as twisted little parasites. What was it? Did a bigger boy push you into a pond? Or perhaps the girls refused to dance with little Lenis?’

  Cronin cackled again. ‘This is the game you wish to play? Very well.’ Cronin stalked around the table, hands behind his back. ‘I was a sickly child, Myriel. Bloodlung ravaged my mother throughout her pregnancy. It deforms babies’ bones, you see. The doctors didn’t believe I would last a night—but I proved them wrong.’