Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller

by Darren Stapleton

  I did not know the time but knew the sun had not long come up. I stood and walked over to the window, pushed the curtain to one side and looked out at the morning. I had not slept well.

  I was used to stress, to making the most of the time for rest, but not last night. Maybe it was because I had rested amply over the last few weeks, and despite the pain and stiffness, my body and limbs were in good shape, all things considered. Or maybe it was because I could not stop going through Jackdaw’s challenge or decide on the correct course of action.

  I knew I had to go but was not sure of how this all tied together.

  Doc’s assessment may have been right, maybe I was not ready for this physically, but mentally, I had no choice. I had to act now, today, this morning. Fly headlong into the maelstrom. I had two days, tops, before the ‘Launch’; whatever that was and this was my only lead.

  I went over to my bag, took two painkillers and washed them down with bottled water, thought about it some, then took two more. I shrugged into my combat sleeve. The vest was black, tight and had small tessellated shapes that overlapped and moved with the contours of my frame and musculature. It looked like it was covered in scales that shone a dull silver if ruffled or displaced. It hugged the scar on my chest and served to act as a bracing support for my lower and upper back, the dull ache there lying quietly in wait to pounce, develop and skewer.

  I dropped to the floor and started my morning exercises: chest presses using the bed as a cantilevered weight, sit-ups and the crippling shrugs. I tried to enjoy the distraction.

  I suppose there comes a time in everyone’s life when they need to face up to a big truth, that they will never be the king shit of what they thought they would be. That life and time and choices have a way of limiting our paths and altering our futures. And worse is that the messenger for this crushing realisation is that secret voice in our heads that only we hear.

  And worse still, it never lies.

  Though we lie to ourselves that it does.

  I pulled on my boots and checked my small knife was still sheathed there, grabbed my bow, bolts and club and fastened them to my belt. I stashed a small amount of credits in a pouch at my back along with a small torch, then discarded my worn clothes and bag into the sticky bin in the corner of the room.

  I stopped with my hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath, closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the creaking wood. This would be my last moment of peace for a while. I savoured it: the quiet, the tension, the energy. I had to go the Angelbrawl Arena, where this all had started, I would get the answers I needed from there and by the end of the day, I would find peace again.

  At least then the internal voice in my head would be silenced, one way or the other.

  There is never complete separation; the journey is always part of the destination. In this way the entire world is linked.

  Connections

  H. Rowe

  CHAPTER 86

  ‘It’s time,’ Cowlin said through Governor Rose’s door.

  Leonora joined him.

  Rose swung the door open a minute later, surprising Cowlin who was in the middle of knocking loudly and impatiently, she emerged without greeting or apology.

  ‘I am glad we are travelling officially this time,’ said Leonora.

  Rose nodded for Cowlin to go and fetch her luggage. ‘As am I, Leonora, it is far more comfortable and will spare us a flight with that ghastly crew again.’

  ‘They have already been booked out; I checked.’

  ‘Why on earth did you check, Leonora? You know how much I despised that last journey.’

  ‘I thought you said it was good to keep in touch with the electorate.’

  ‘Not that “in touch”.’

  Cowlin emerged with two bags and a suit, pressed and hung in plastic.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ Rose asked.

  He nodded. ‘The credits have been dropped for Vedett, the State Airship is set and everything is on schedule down in the Deadlands.’

  ‘Good,’ Rose said.

  They walked the length of the first floor landing in silence, the plush carpet deadening the sounds of their footfalls as pictures of bygone Governors disinterestedly looked on.

  ‘Has security been stepped up down there?’ asked Leonora, as they neared the top of the stairs.

  ‘As requested,’ Cowlin said, ‘though it has not been without its problems.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning the guard is nervous, they are anxious about the unveiling.’

  ‘Unveiling? Now, let us call it what it really is.’

  ‘Governor?’

  Rose’s shoes click clacked noisily as she descended the stairs. ‘I would rather think of it as a means to an end. A set-up. The beginning of my next campaign.’

  At the bottom of the stairs Rose walked off to her study, waving a hand that meant she would follow them outside.

  Leonora spoke to Cowlin. ‘You do not look happy, soldier.’

  Cowlin said nothing, just carried the bags towards the airship, moored out towards the back of Primary House.

  Above Primary House the sky was building levels of grey on black and the wind was starting to stir grass and smaller shrubs in the grounds. There was tension in the flag as it snapped and cracked. The string tethering it to the pole pinged every now and then as it fought to come free of its cleat.

  ‘Wait,’ said Leonora.

  Cowlin stopped and closed his eyes before slowly turning to address his superior, who had followed him outside.

  ‘I know things have been … messy lately, but it will all be over in the next forty-eight hours at most, so the direct jeopardy to you and your men will soon be negated.’

  Cowlin said nothing.

  Leonora stared at him, the whoosh of the gas entering the Zeppelins’ cells paused as if to make way for his answer.

  ‘Well?’ said Leonora.

  Cowlin said nothing.

  ‘My things are by the front door,’ Leonora said, then spun on her heels and quickly stomped back to Primary House.

  Cowlin was not worried about his men’s safety. He was a professional soldier and a good one who had served his state from the earliest possible age. It was Drake that was giving him concern. Not the reputation or ferocity of the Vanguard, that was legend to any serving man. It was not an affinity or sympathy that he and some of his men were feeling. No, it was just one uncomfortable, fidgeting, nagging truth about what they were doing to Drake that he could not escape:

  That could be me.

  Cowlin unceremoniously threw the Governor’s bags and garments into the hold and returned to get Leonora’s luggage. Pulling his military issue, dark grey coat collar up about his ears, he looked at the unsettled sky then went to tell the First and Second Ladies that they should be leaving soon.

  Maybe they could beat the storm.

  The best time for retaliation is before they have landed the first blow.

  Battle One, Battle All

  Kallon Blockywcz

  CHAPTER 87

  ‘What about Beaugent?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you think he will take us without quarrel or issue?’

  ‘Does not matter, my one-eyed friend, I am in the mood for both. Unless you want another tangle with the windshark who nearly had your rump on a plate.’

  ‘Medium rare.’

  Croel laughed and went to collect his bow.

  Mckeever collapsed his bow, clasped it to his belt then balled his long black trench coat up neatly and placed it on the library reception desk.

  ‘And what exactly do you think we will find?’

  ‘Something worth getting our teeth into.’ There was a flash of mischief back in Croel’s speech and mannerisms and Mckeever was not sure if he was glad to see it or not.

  ‘We have been used, Mac, and paid handsomely for the privilege, but now it is time to see who has been pulling the strings and why. I do not like where we have ended up in this one, not one
bit.’

  ‘Vedett.’

  ‘Yes, Vedett. No doubt he has not shared as much information as he could with us - but his last move, dropping clumps off of that idiot.’

  ‘Coyle.’

  ‘That Mudhead idiot - must have been self-preservation on his part.’

  ‘And if he is offing people he works with, in such a demonstrative and visceral way …’

  ‘… then he is either trying to pull us into his mess or worse, finger us for it and sell us out to whoever it is we have been working for.’

  ‘You mean Rose?’

  ‘Yes, and her whole stinking government. It is election year, my friend, time for propaganda and mayhem, triple speak and duplicity.’

  ‘Preening and parading.’

  ‘And I love a parade, let’s go and crash one.’ Croel cracked his fingers, collapsed his bow and walked across the library floor. Dust motes shifted in the sun, drifted around like mesmerising snow to come to rest atop drifts of old. He stopped at the fiction shelf and looked down at Coyle’s head; it was perched directly over the letter ‘H’. He bent down to address Coyle.

  ‘I heard from one of your scummy friends that there is something big going down in the Deadlands today.’

  Mckeever walked over, spoke to Croel through a gap in the shelving, ‘I would wager a windshark’s tooth that it is something to do with our Vanguard nemesis and that cellblock he had absconded from a few weeks back. I bet that’s why we had to clean it up.’

  ‘As you know, Mac, I am a betting man, but not a gambling one.’

  Mckeever nodded then made his way to the stairs.

  ‘It is rare I lose.’ Croel followed Mckeever up the stairs, ready for his flight to the collection point. He entered the loft to see Mckeever climbing onto the sill, ready for take-off.

  ‘Medium rare,’ said Mckeever, who with one beat of his wings disappeared from the hole in the attic wall, leaving an unoccupied wedge of sky.

  ‘And just like that, with one beat … gone,’ said Croel who watched as Mckeever climbed. He stepped up onto the sill and paused before he left, looking back into the gloom, the positivity slowly slipping from his face. Then, without a word, turned and fell onto the morning air.

  They made their way to their embarkation point and waiting Zeppelin crew.

  Affairs of the heart and head can be all consuming, but they are relative.

  And relative to survival,

  They are nothing.

  In Her Name

  J.B.A Falconer

  CHAPTER 88

  After helping load the van, Jackdaw watched Drake’s approach and landing; he pointed at the screen showing Drake on the Angelbrawl roof in the Arena’s Security room.

  Vedett nodded to him silently.

  ‘Just like you said.’ Jackdaw tapped the monitor, a soft clink of his long fingernail on the glass.

  Vedett sneered, ‘Drake could not have missed it, Lacroix pasted it everywhere.’

  ‘Think he will owe the television companies a few favours after yesterday.’ Jackdaw said.

  ‘Fuck them,’ said Vedett, ‘you owe me.’

  ‘Trust me, I will settle this score.’

  Jackdaw finished his drink. ‘And wings too I see? He has been busy. It will be a more interesting match than I could have hoped for. I love an even contest.’

  Vedett grunted, unimpressed by the showboating. ‘Just ensure he makes it to the Deadlands as discussed, and I do not care about his condition; alive or dead, makes no difference to me.’

  They both watched Drake on-screen as he made his way across the vents and ducts to the rooftop exit.

  ‘Wish there was an audience,’ Jackdaw said.

  ‘I would love nothing more than to stay and watch the show, JD, but unfortunately I have one last drop off and then I am away. I will send you your credits tomorrow.’

  ‘Oldest lie in the book,’ Jackdaw cracked his knuckles, ‘along with, of course I will still respect you in the morning and it was like that when I got here.’

  Vedett laughed, removed a stack of credits from his inside pocket and threw them onto the worktop. ‘There. Take them now.’

  Jackdaw counted them then stowed them behind the monitor as a monochrome Drake was pictured prising an Arena door slowly open.

  ‘You can watch from here if you like.’ Jackdaw turned the other monitors on revealing multiple angles seemingly from every arch over the ring, including a few close up ones of the fighting cage, he tapped another monitor then left in a hurry.

  Vedett waited a few seconds to watch Drake enter the stairwell, when satisfied their paths would not cross, he gathered Jackdaw’s money from behind the monitor, tucked it into his coat and left.

  As he walked to the loading bay he heard a loud announcement over the Arena’s public address system.

  ‘Celebrities,’ he said to empty room, climbed into the van and drove away.

  When feeling cornered, move the walls.

  Stormy

  Jo Kitchen

  CHAPTER 89

  The painkillers were not sitting easily in my stomach and just seemed to add a feeling of nausea and deepen my unease. Taking so many had been a mistake, but not one I could afford to dwell on.

  After coming out of the stairwell I found myself in one of the vast, circuitous corridors of the stadium that I had run before. I was struck by how quiet it was. The menagerie of ancillary staff usually evident in a large establishment before opening were conspicuous by their absence. No cleaners, no inept security, no one answering phones or neatly pressed managers jangling keys. I was heading for the ring, where I hoped Jackdaw would be, when a loud speaker interjected.

  ‘Attention! Could all dinosaurs please make their way to the Arena.’

  Jackdaw.

  ‘Are you listening, Drake? I’m waiting.’

  I thought about just leaving then, regrouping, not doing what I was supposed to do, what they wanted me to do. Waiting until the nausea and painkillers had worn off to come back later. Wait. Wait. Later.

  But he had seen me coming, must have, so he needed dealing with now.

  I needed to start the end.

  I heard the sound of the microphone being dropped, feedback bounced around the curvature of the long concrete run. It was a loud shrill noise that focused my attention. I pushed open the nearest Arena doors and stepped inside.

  My senses slowly drank in the surroundings. The large space. The silence. I focused on the Arena at the centre, the rest of the world happening in my sensory periphery.

  I felt removed, distant, divorced of myself and quieted my thoughts.

  This had to be done.

  I watched as Jackdaw reached down to pick up the microphone, depressed the ‘talk’ button and spoke.

  ‘What kept you?’

  His voice echoed in the vast empty space.

  I did not respond, just bowed my head as I made my way down the stone steps and towards the Arena.

  He shouted other puerile insults but I ignored them. I entered the ring through the cage door and sat on a stool in the corner, looking down at the old brown blood stains on the cream coloured, canvas floor. Collecting calm.

  My hands hung loosely at my side.

  I said nothing.

  I flexed the wings at my back, they brushed the floor and steel meshed walls.

  My seat was hard and low.

  The lights went up, like a score of suns above my head and the space became a pattern of crisscrossed shadows and unbearable bright whiteness.

  I blinked a few times and as my eyes became more accustomed, the crisscross shadow patterns on the floor pulled into focus. The glare of the lights still seemed stultifying but beyond the mesh, in places, I saw their brightness was illuminating a large, dimpled, curved roof and empty Arena. I had still not looked at Jackdaw since sitting down.

  We had both been here before.

  Only this time I was inside the cage.

  The mesh surrounded me, latticed me in and did nothing to dif
fuse the piercing glare of the lights around the ring as I tried to survey the cages confines.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the relic.’

  I looked up at Jackdaw who was seated at the opposite corner on a low stool. He was grinning. His wings were extended as a Groundbounder would spread his arms in an overstated gesture of greeting or magnanimous self-promotion. He shoved his familiar black mouth guard in.

  He looked bigger in the confines of the cage, like overweight people look more expansive when they stuff themselves into tight fitting clothes. I was diagonally opposite him, probably as far away as I could be in this wire frame, but his presence was still impressive.

  Oppressive.

  He loomed, backlit by some of the stage lights, a hulking mass like a silhouette of a storm cloud, blocking the sun. He flexed his muscles, pumped his biceps and chest out. A thin sheen of sweat on his skin reflected the glare in fibrous curves and obtuse angles. He was the same height as me but at least thirty pounds heavier, maybe more.

  My back ached and I was not sure how much physical abuse my wings could take at the moment, it felt like with one hard pull or wrong twist they could pop clean out, like a Marsh Birds’ wing stuck in the hungry fist of some burly man at a barbecue.

  This was going to be tough.

  I looked up at Jackdaw as he checked the side and ceiling gates by which the fighters entered and exited; he engaged both the deadbolts. It was one of the features of an Angelbrawl, no easy way out.

  I looked down again. The arc sodium brightness was severe, though it was succeeding in illuminating the shadows and casting the last remnants of introspection out of the dark corners of my mind.

  ‘WELCOME TO ANGELBRAWLING!’ Jackdaw shouted. He no longer used the tannoy - he did not need to. Clearly he loved theatrics and the sound of his own voice, and here was the evidence echoing off the curvature of the subterranean roof.