Wrath of Storms

by Steven McKinnon

  Gallows would be pissed, too—but Serena saved his life when Finn could’ve killed him. Didn’t that prove that doing this was okay?

  ‘You folded with a straight flush?’ Nyrsson asked of one of the other players. ‘Not your night, eh? Looks like Feria smiles upon me and me alone this night. I rather think you’re my good luck charm, Alisabeth.’

  Time to reel him in.

  ‘One more hand?’ Serena suggested. ‘End with a bang, your Excellency. That chimera medal pinned to your coat must be worth a lot.’

  Nyrsson squirmed. ‘I’ll stick with chips and aerons.’

  ‘Prove it. Play the medal.’ Play the medal.

  The croupier dealt a new hand—and Vabrizio’s prop player returned.

  ‘Had a change of fortune?’ Nyrsson asked the Phadrosi.

  Gravelly laughter spilled from the Phadrosi’s mouth. ‘Ah, so many amateurs here, hard to get a good game going. I think you’re the only talent present tonight.’

  ‘I’ll say I am at that.’

  The dealer gave them their cards.

  Nyrsson shoved his chips to the middle of the table with all the smugness of a chubby cat, but his mouth dropped when the Phadrosi raised the stakes by a hundred thousand aerons.

  Sweat dripped from Nyrsson. ‘I… I have only fifty thousand left…’

  Play the chimera medal. See his bet. Beat it. Who cares how bad your hand is? A bold move will show him you’re no amateur. Just be glad you’re here and not with that horrid wife…

  Nyrsson almost fell off his seat. The sweat collecting on his skin made his face shine like a glazed boar on a platter.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Serena asked.

  ‘Hm? Yes, oh yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She motioned to the table. ‘Prove to me I’m your lucky charm. Show this peacock how the game is played.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

  Nyrsson unpinned his medal; it resembled a silver, tri-pointed star, complete with engravings of a lion, a snake and a ram. His brow furrowed, Nyrsson set it down onto the pile of chips. ‘This is worth at least fifty thousand aerons,’ he said. ‘If you require proof—’

  The Phadrosi waved his hand. ‘I trust you.’

  Nyrsson placed his cards down—the knave of harps, the knave of daggers, two fours and an eight.

  Useless.

  Then the Phadrosi turned his cards over, one by one. Ten of wings, jack of wings, queen of wings…

  Nyrsson was as still as a frightened deer.

  …king of wings, ace of wings.

  ‘A royal flush,’ said the dealer.

  Nyrsson’s face turned grey. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Excellent work, Serena.’ Vabrizio twirled the medal in his fingers.

  The gaming rooms were open all day and night, but it was getting closer to midnight, and only the most ardent gamblers remained at the tables.

  ‘We can stay aboard?’ Serena stood in a private dining area, sticking close to the door. ‘You won’t kick us out in the waste jettison?’

  Vabrizio waved a hand and guided Serena to a table with a bottle of wine. ‘Yes, yes, you can stay.’

  Sleep pressed against Serena’s eyes, and her muscles ached from using her powers, like grime setting into the gears of a motorcarriage. Something pulled at her stomach whenever she pictured Nyrsson’s face the moment he lost his medal.

  Vabrizio poured her a small measure of wine. ‘This siren-song of yours is quite something.’

  ‘Siren-song?’ Serena ignored the wine.

  ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘Never really given it a name.’

  Vabrizio rubbed his hands together. ‘The things we can accomplish, girl…’

  Serena squared her shoulders. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘I make my own luck.’ Vabrizio beamed, and his lips curled. ‘But now I can steal it from other people. Tell me—should we continue this arrangement, how am I to know that you won’t exert your will over me, hmm? How do I trust you?’

  ‘The effects don’t last long,’ Serena answered. ‘If I get inside your head, eventually it’ll wear off. Plus I need to be close, and I can only suggest things. If you keep your distance, you’ll be fine.’

  That wasn’t entirely truthful, but Serena decided downplaying her abilities would be safer. Don’t play a trump card if you can win with a joker. Gallows had taught her that.

  ‘No, I don’t believe I have anything to fear from you. But what’s to stop you from having, say… Genevieve gut me as I sleep?’

  They’re sleeping together?

  Serena cleared her throat. ‘We need you alive, Captain. We need you to verify our papers saying we booked passage aboard the Queen. Sure, I could make you sign, but what happens after we leave? What happens when the “siren-song” wears off?’

  Vabrizio bared his teeth. ‘I’d come for you.’

  ‘Exactly—and we can’t kill or hide from someone as connected as you—the Watch’ll pick up our trail. You being alive benefits us more.’ Serena rubbed her clammy hands on her skirt and avoided the captain’s eye. ‘Anyway, I can only get inside one person at a time. You can order your mercenaries to shoot me if they think I’m inside your head.’ Another lie. ‘Hells, keep security guards around you at all times if you like. With the money I’ll be making you, you can afford it.’

  ‘I can afford it already,’ Vabrizio said.

  Now Serena met his eye. ‘How did you become what you are?’ The question slipped from Serena’s lips before she thought about it.

  Vabrizio drained his wine glass. ‘You know, you’d think people would ask me that more often.’ He pointed chin up and puffed his chest out. ‘I intimidate them.’

  ‘Sorry for asking.’

  ‘Not at all, girl. We must be bold every once in a while. And—since I’ve no doubt you can waltz into my head and make me tell you—I’ll give you the short version: I grew up in poverty. That much, I believe you’ve gathered. My mother perished when I was a babe, and my father… My father did what he could for us. He worked his fingers to the bone in a Sterling & Galaphos steel mill. To the bone. He worked every day of his life. We lived in a boxy, one-room bedsit as cramped as a fat man’s coffin.

  ‘One day, my father returned home, coughing blood. Bloodlung—rampant in those days. It’s a miracle he didn’t contract it sooner, truth be told.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Serena.

  ‘He needed a transplant. With today’s technology, that’s a relatively easy thing, with a thirty percent survival rate. But back then, a few years after the Ryndara-Dalthea conflict, everything was scarce. My father was dying.’

  ‘You’re from Ryndara?’

  ‘Please, don’t interrupt.’ Vabrizio cleared his throat. ‘By this stage, I was old enough to work. I held down an apprenticeship in the very same steel mill. I saw men sever their fingers in front of me. Saw them burn their own skin in the furnaces. Saw them beg their foremen to keep them in a job—for who else would hire them? Even now, I can still smell the bleach and the spent ignium clinging to my skin… But no matter how hard we worked, it was never enough.

  ‘And then I met a young man named Farro Zoven. He told me I could get my father new lungs—on the black market. All I had to do was plant falsified evidence in the foreman’s office to prove he was taking bribes.’ Vabrizio poured more wine. ‘I saw how he treated his workers, what did I care? So I did as I was asked, and sure enough, my father got his procedure.’

  He knew Farro Zoven. Small world. ‘Your dad survived?’ Somehow, Serena didn’t expect the story would have a happy ending.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Vabrizio answered. ‘But then the plant closed, we lost our jobs, were cast onto the streets, and he died anyway. And from that day, I vowed to take everything I could and more. To never be anyone’s subordinate again.’

  Vabrizio wiped his mouth with a silk napkin and let it flutter to the floor. ‘When you’re finished on this… mad trip of yours, let’s you and I have a sit-down and work o
ut something a touch more permanent, yes?’

  Serena folded her arms. ‘Like Genevieve Couressa?’

  ‘If you like. There is always room for new blood, Serena.’ Vabrizio stood. ‘Time for you to retire—you’re working tomorrow.’

  Serena had spent her childhood being passed from family to family, boat to boat. Jozef, the orphanage—they were all the same: Enclosures meant to keep her away from people. Vabrizio isn’t offering freedom—only something that looks like it.

  The Queen of the North glided through the air like a yacht on a still lake. Myriel marvelled at the ease with which the colossal airship travelled; she was slower than most craft—but then, most craft weren’t huge pleasure liners catering to every whim of the rich and restless. It could afford to be slow.

  Myriel placed her steaming cup onto her cabinet, sat on the edge of her bed and untied her long, grey hair. Lightning uncoiled across the sky beyond her window, and rain whirled in the wind. Strange, to see such storms in winter—but Myriel was accustomed to seeing strange things.

  She rested her chin on her knuckles. It seems the world has more secrets to reveal to these old eyes.

  Myriel hadn’t realised it at the time, but she’d cradled a phantom fear close to her heart ever since the Night of Amberfire. Looking back, her adventures had come to an abrupt halt since that tragedy.

  Myriel sipped at her tea and continued staring out the window. Funny, how clouds took on different shapes the longer you looked at them. Fire did that, too—a dozen people could sit around a fire in complete silence, and all of them would see different things. Some would see warmth and beauty, others would see power dancing in the flames. Still more would see warnings.

  Like Gallows. She’d seen how he looked at Serena of late. He tried to hide it, but his fear of the girl was as plain as a fly in a teacup.

  Worse, Myriel shared his discomfort. Serena had a good head on her shoulders for someone of her age—but the more people who knew about her abilities, the more danger she was in. And once someone had a grasp of power—real power—it could be impossible to let go.

  Myriel drained her teacup and settled into her bed. The queen-sized mattress and beechwood frame didn’t hold a candle to the bed back in the Mages’ Guild house. She reached out to turn the ignium lamp off, listening as thunder boomed across the black fabric of the sky.

  Then another volley of thunder tolled, this one much closer. It vibrated in her chest.

  Then something struck the skyglass and shattered it.

  It wasn’t thunder—it was an explosion.

  Serena clasped the handle to her cabin door.

  ‘Alisabeth.’

  She froze. Ludovic tal Nyrsson marched towards her.

  Oh, shit.

  But rather than berate her, he swept his arms wide and embraced her. ‘Please accept my apologies for storming off, dearest Alisabeth. I got rather carried away, I fear.’

  ‘Oh, y-your excellency. I’m sorry you lost your medal.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t care one jot about the medal—in truth, it’s a worthless piece of tin. Serves me right to lose it. No, I left the game as I felt guilty thinking about my wife… I don’t care about the money I lost, I’m just sorry that I’ve yet to bank enough for her medical fees. Terrible thing, poor dear. Igneus, scarred her face. Wretched accident, really affected her mind frame—but she’s still beautiful to me.’

  A gyre opened in Serena’s gut. Shit. I made you think she was horrid.

  ‘Anyway, must dash.’ Nyrsson bowed and took his leave.

  Serena slumped against her door. Vabrizio had lied—he’d manipulated her. Guess I deserve that. She decided against telling the captain that the medal was worthless.

  She stepped into her cabin and sat by the window, gazing at the lashing rain. Acid churned in her stomach like waves crashing on a storm-ravaged sea.

  Helping some rich oaf spend their money was one thing—making them think they hated someone they loved was altogether more…

  Insidious.

  She’d be more careful from now on. She’d keep practicing, get stronger, and make sure nothing like this happened again.

  One of Brunswick’s Stormriders shot past the skyglass. Serena got up and traced the trail of ignium fumes with her finger.

  If she’d wanted to, could she reach into the pilot’s head at this distance? Could she fly the fighter craft from here? If she was to reach out and think hard enough, could her power cover the dist—

  The fighter craft exploded into a thousand shards.

  Serena stumbled back and collapsed onto the edge of her bed. Flicker bobbed across the room, his song quavering in alarm.

  ‘Sweet Musa…’

  Serena’s door crashed open. She clambered to her feet. ‘Myriel, I… Did I…?’

  ‘Hurry, we have to go!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Serena’s stomach twisted as the Queen of the North lurched. ‘Myriel, what is it?’

  ‘Pirates!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Murky clouds loomed like craggy, black mountain ranges.

  Commander Morton Brunswick cradled his X-22 Phantom’s control stick, finger brushing the trigger. Stuttering beeps whispered from a Bride’s Code transmitter, and the pulse of engines throbbed in his core.

  Through the grey haze, he patrolled the Queen’s perimeter, swift and silent. A lance of light from his headlamp sheared through the darkness in a predatory gaze.

  Lightning forked through crashing clouds in the distance, glinting on something arrowing through the murk. There you are. Morton signalled his wing-mate, Qitarah, via Bride’s Code and engaged his thrusters, following the hostile’s amber vapour trails.

  A gale shunted him from side to side. Where’d you disappear to—

  The enemy tore out of the clouds, spewing bullets. Morton swooped to avoid the hail of gunfire, then spun around and shot forward.

  ‘A Phadrosi Avispa? Son of a bitch.’

  Thunder detonated overhead, so fierce it threatened to rip the skyglass from Morton’s cockpit. Heart pounding, he kept up the hunt, but the Avispa was nowhere to be seen.

  He glanced at his RADIOM kit; it sketched out a series of small spikes, but the proximity of the colossal Queen and the raging storm made it difficult to differentiate between friend and foe.

  A second Avispa burst through the cloud at Morton’s port side. He pushed hard and dived, acid leaping into his mouth.

  Of their own accord, his fingers danced on the Bride’s Code transmitter: Multiple hostiles confirmed—engage—engage.

  The second Avispa floated in and out of his target sights, beckoning him like a woman enticing a lover. Morton righted his bearing and closed in, pulse racing.

  Then Qitarah answered the call—she soared past, harassed the Avispa and chased him off. She followed the hostile, bullets blazing from her guns, but she hit only air.

  Knew she was too green for this gig.

  Like the wrath of Aerulus, another enemy screamed past Morton. He opened fire, watching the superior craft twirl and dance, taunting him before disappearing into the black clouds.

  Morton didn’t take the bait; he stayed calm, sticking close to his pilots, knowing a hostile could burst from the darkness and strike at any moment.

  It was a risk, but he killed the headlamp and ordered his squad to do the same. Blades of lightning scored the sky, reflecting against something metallic. An Avispa flitted between the clouds, identical to the others. He gave chase, biting on his heels, and opened fire.

  Whoever piloted the Avispa was good; he ducked and weaved, avoiding Morton’s bullets with the grace of a ballet dancer.

  They exchanged fire, spun in the air and faced each other. Like fencers, the two fighters duelled in a lightning-quick frenzy. Bullets punctured the air, but neither fighter gaining advantage over the other.

  The Avispa turned and jetted past. Morton gave chase, accelerating and opening fire—it was drawing him further and further away from the Queen.

 
; Don’t think so.

  Morton broke off and headed back towards the Queen—he wouldn’t leave the real target exposed.

  But when the airliner resolved from the darkness, his heart stopped.

  Thick plumes of smoke billowed from her golden hull. Flames wreathed one of her port-side rotors—it spun fire like a Catherine wheel.

  Avispas shot past in attack runs, needling the Queen with bullets. Morton gunned down two, his blood boiling like burning igneus.

  Bullets peppered Morton’s starboard wing; he broke off, his fighter rattling from side to side and unable to shake the Avispa on his back.

  Qitarah burst out of nowhere, chasing the Avispa off and biting at its heels. They exchanged fire, jostling in the air like dancing mosquitoes. Morton moved in to intercept their prey, but Qitarah barrelled and sent a hail of bullets into the Avispa. Its tail assembly erupted into a thousand shards, and it hurtled into the black depths below.

  Morton turned back to the Queen, seeking friendlies but coming up short. Two of us alone can’t do this.

  It didn’t make sense—sky pirates employed deception and guerrilla tactics to raid an airship, or they took one of its thrusters out and guided it to the ground—they didn’t start a bloody war; there wasn’t much plunder in a smoking wreckage.

  More Avispas swarmed the Queen. Bullets lit up the sky, punching holes into the airliner’s hull. Morton’s throat closed—what ragtag outfit went toe to toe with an entire elite squadron?

  That was how fast your luck changed—as though everything hinged on the roll of the dice.

  With pearls of ice trailing his back, Morton considered fleeing—no job was worth dying for.

  Then the RADIOM needle screeched into life. Phantoms roared from the Queen’s flight tubes—and in an instant, the night erupted. Fighters ripped through the air, hunting each other down, bullets blazing across the night sky and turning machines into smoking ruins.