Wrath of Storms

by Steven McKinnon

  The prince looked to Serena. ‘And this is…?’

  ‘Alisabeth,’ said Serena.

  ‘It’s not often I hear such a beautiful name—even rarer is it to see someone my own age within these walls.’

  The prince’s man cleared his throat.

  Garald’s smile wavered. ‘Due to the, um, surprising nature of your presence here, I—that is to say, the king—requests that you are quartered separately from Mathildé.’

  Myriel’s stomach knotted. Divide and conquer.

  ‘Alisabeth, you will attend the Gods’ Challenge with me this evening,’ Garald continued.

  Serena looked from Myriel and back to the prince. ‘Reckon I won’t. Your highness.’

  Myriel plastered on a grin. ‘Alisabeth, please—I’m sure the Gods’ Challenge will be the perfect panacea to an otherwise dull evening.’

  Serena rolled her eyes and placed her arms behind her back. ‘I’d be delighted to attend.’

  ‘It pleases me to hear it,’ said Garald. ‘Captain Thorir?’

  Thorir bowed and escorted Myriel away. As the door closed behind her, she felt Serena’s gaze bore into her back.

  ‘And I swear she flirted with me in the Primrose Lounge.’

  ‘I see,’ the big fella replied.

  Morton placed his hands on his hips, swept them over his head, then placed them back, all the while pacing the length of the cold, narrow cell. Thin, skewed shafts of light filtered through the bars and pin holes in the floor. ‘I should’ve known—should’ve known. I’m a damned fool.’

  Enoch didn’t respond. He sat there, humming a tune. ‘Uhm-mm-mm…’

  Morton had been venting his frustrations for thirty minutes now—and any time he stopped, shrill screams echoed across the stone walls beyond the barred gates, contrasting with the sing-song jingle of moving chains and the grind of turning metal. The sounds burrowed into Morton’s head, worse than any physical torture.

  ‘Damn the Gods.’ Morton took a seat on the edge of the wall-cot—then he stood and started pacing again.

  He didn’t know Qitarah well—bloody didn’t know her at all—so why was he so angry? He grieved for Darron and Schaefer, sure, but risk came with the job.

  That’s why it was best to keep your distance. Sooner or later, people always betray you, but a machine won’t—not if you take proper care of her. Except now I’m here… With nothing and no-one…

  Had he been mistaken all this time? Had he been wrong to accidentally-on-purpose let his commanders in the AFR uncover his gambling racket the night before his promotion? A dishonourable discharge felt like freedom at the time—but now he recognised it for what it was: Running from responsibility.

  And not for the first time.

  Morton squared his shoulders. Just nerves—that’s all. I’ll be right as rain. Right as rain.

  The rattle of chains started up again, and Morton tensed. A scream followed the noise—a woman’s—growing frantic, louder.

  Morton pressed his palms to his ears. ‘Gods, man, how do you stand it?’

  ‘Stand what?’

  ‘This. The noise of damned torture, machines going hell for leather. Captivity.’

  Then the screaming ceased.

  ‘Time is fleeting when one is ageless.’

  Morton rolled his eyes. He’d be spending his last few hours of life in the company of a bloody poet.

  More screaming resounded, this time from a closer cell.

  ‘And another thing!’ Morton yelled to tune the noises out. ‘Qitarah asked for her wages upfront. Stupid me, I bloody paid her.’

  ‘For a man close to the gallows pole, your concerns seem somewhat… Misplaced.’

  Morton waved a hand and took his seat again. ‘It’s just… I need something to focus on. Cards, flying, talking. Should’ve known I’d end up dying because of a woman.’

  ‘And being leader of a group of fighter pilots had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Friend, you get used to combat—you don’t get used to damned bloody betrayal!’ He shouted the last part in the hopes that Qitarah heard him. ‘So, what’s your story?’

  ‘I…’ Enoch’s face, though hard as stone, softened. ‘I fear it would take too long to explain.’

  ‘Time’s an issue now?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’

  Ageless monks, pirates, that old Mage… What in all hells have I got mixed up in?

  ‘You a religious man, friend?’

  ‘I am.’ Enoch’s words sounded as heavy as a tombstone. ‘I preached for a spell, to the impoverished in Dalthea.’

  ‘That a fact?’ If what the pirates said were true and tomorrow Morton was to meet Nyr’s boatman, well, Morton planned to do so with a clear conscience. He scratched his ear and said, ‘You mind if I… Confess?’

  ‘Unburden yourself.’

  ‘I’ve always considered myself lucky, Enoch. Growing up, the nuns were forever telling me I was Aerulus-blessed. Strange notion to fill a lad’s head with, but there it is. I’ve always been the one to get out of scrapes alive—and I’ve always been glad of it. Better them dead than me. Does that make me a bad person?’

  ‘I think it makes you human.’

  ‘Aye… I founded the Stormriders and told myself we were doing good work. But the truth is, I been running.’

  ‘From?’

  Morton slumped. ‘Everything, I guess. The world. It’s changing, and—damned fool that I am—I’ve refused to change with it. I don’t know where I belong. Never known.’

  ‘Then—if Nyr spares you—you should visit Dalthea. If you don’t belong anywhere, you belong there.’

  Morton considered it—considered all the things he’d run from.

  And then—for the first time in years, he said the words he’d spent so much of his life dreading.

  ‘I have a son.’

  The monk said nothing, so Morton continued, a mix of shame and relief swimming through him. ‘Precious, he was. And tiny. I was a commercial freighter pilot back then, just got my licence. Near enough married, too. Irrun, his name was. I held him—this tiny, vulnerable thing, who only had me and his mother in the whole world. Didn’t cry, didn’t scream. His whole fist wrapped around one o’ my fingers. Gods, there was some strength in that lad.’

  ‘What happened?’

  That was the question—the one Morton had asked himself but never admitted to knowing the answer to. ‘I felt nothing. I wanted to. Gods, I wanted to. But I didn’t. His mother and I…’ Morton shook his head. ‘I skipped town without telling her. Left her when she needed me most.’

  Even in the big fella’s hard, patchwork face, Morton saw disappointment.

  ‘I enlisted, used it as an excuse to take me away. Flying, fighting… Always surviving. Always the one who lives. Funny thing is, I know I made the right decision—I ain’t cut out to be a dad—Irrun’s better off without me. But running off without so much as a word to my woman… Aye, that’s harder to square with.’ Morton’s voice quietened to a whisper. ‘What in all hells does that say about me?’

  Enoch’s eyes glinted, red and burning, like the pearls of blood dripping from the knave of daggers in a deck of cards. ‘I don’t know.’

  They sat in silence for a long while. Somewhere beyond, chains rattled and machinery churned. Screams howled and dwindled into nothing.

  Then a key scraped inside the lock. Morton tensed.

  The door opened, and the one called Tiera stood in the doorway, still wrapped in leather armour and combat gear. A couple of mean knives hung from her waist.

  Morton muttered words to the Indecim, then inclined his head. ‘I’m ready.’

  The pirate arched an eyebrow. ‘Good for you. Stone Man, come on.’

  Enoch stood as commanded. He marched towards Tiera with slow, heavy steps, like the rhythm of a funeral hymn. He looked at Morton and said, ‘Forgiveness often lies not with the Gods, but within oneself. It’s a struggle I can attest to—but one well worth undertaki
ng.’

  The door closed behind them, and Morton sat alone.

  Typical—Gallows had been in Ryndara all of five minutes before pissing King Arnault off.

  Thommo’s knuckles loosened his jaw.

  ‘Son of a bitch.’ Gallows hung limp in Madyx’s huge, pale arms, blood trailing from his mouth.

  ‘That one hurt did it?’ Thommo asked the question like he was speaking to a kid with a skinned knee. ‘Sorry, mate—can’t have you too busted up. But any man who leaps out of a cargo hold while airborne has to be tough.’

  Madyx grunted in agreement, and Gallows wished he’d killed them both aboard the Queen.

  ‘Ready for another round?’ Thommo asked.

  ‘Finally,’ Gallows croaked. ‘A question. Kinda important in interrogations. Gotta remember to mix a couple in with the punches.’

  Thommo drove a fist beneath Gallows’ ribs.

  ‘An interrogation, he says.’ Thommo and Madyx laughed, but Gallows didn’t see the joke.

  ‘You’re assuming this is an interrogation.’ Thommo spat in Gallows’ face. ‘Never.’ Again, he spat in Gallows’ face. ‘Assume. You and your pals killed a lot o’ my family on the Queen—brothers, sisters—’

  ‘Lovers?’

  Thommo slapped Gallows hard across the face. When a man chose to slap you instead of punch you, well, that’s when you knew you’d disrespected him.

  Gallows worked his mouth to get some feeling back in his cheeks. ‘Guess there’s some truth in the rumour that Ryndaran men like their own cousins.’

  Thommo rolled his sleeves up. ‘Just wait ’til we get to Dalthea.’

  That wiped the smirk from Gallows’ face. ‘Huh? You’re going to—’

  An uppercut killed the words in Gallows’ mouth. Blood coated his tongue, metallic and warm.

  Madyx grunted something.

  ‘Aye,’ said Thommo. ‘That’s probably enough. The Challenge needs some spectacle.’

  Gallows’ muscles tautened. ‘The Challenge?’

  Thommo beamed. ‘Oh, aye. Arnault requested you specifically.’

  Soft string music lilted from a gramophone, silvery and reminiscent of long walks on summer evenings. Enoch remembered the gentle slosh of the sea and the white gold of the beach. He remembered the promenade and the sliding sun lining the clouds with gold.

  But beneath it all, instruments buzzed and needles carved frantic lines across paper.

  Then the dream stripped away. ‘How long?’

  Doctor tal Lunosdatter peered up from her clipboard. ‘Ten minutes. Let’s try for longer next time.’

  Ten minutes. It feels a fraction of that.

  Enoch’s head rested against a pillow. Were he a man, sweat would tickle his brow and deep breaths would calm his erratic heart.

  Lunosdatter’s pencil stood poised in her delicate fingers. And what horrors has she wrought with those fingers?

  ‘That was test number two; what differences did you detect from test one?’ Lunosdatter’s voice floated above the classical music. She questioned him like they were friends—like he wasn’t her prisoner. ‘Enoch, it is in your best interests to co-operate.’

  ‘Lunosdatter,’ he said. ‘Daughter of Lunos. Are you a follower of the Moon God?’

  ‘I follow none of the Eleven; I am a scientist.’

  ‘And yet here I am, defying what was once believed to be impossible.’

  The corners of Lunosdatter’s mouth curled. ‘A curiosity—but not the first dead man I’ve seen walking.’

  She was pretty, this Daughter of Lunos. Though young, her champagne-blonde hair was streaked with white—white, like moonflower petals. Fitting.

  Enoch undressed her in his mind’s eye, ripped the lab coat from her and pulled her close to his—

  His muscles drew in like tightening knots.

  ‘Enoch? Tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘I…’

  The doctor’s pencil scraped against her paper. ‘More memories from your time as a human?’

  Enoch’s eyes clenched shut. One hour in this woman’s company, and already she’d loosened the chains of something deep inside him—something his instincts screamed at him to keep locked away.

  ‘You’ve nothing to fear here, Enoch. I promise. Tell me what you remember.’

  Did he play for time, or risk an escape attempt and put all his friends in harm’s way?

  ‘Palthonheim,’ he answered.

  ‘Your mission there. The day you died.’

  ‘Yes. It… Comes in glimpses, but your tests make the memories more vivid.’

  Though she maintained a professional façade, Lunosdatter couldn’t hide the swell of pride in her chest. ‘My electrotherapy is working.’

  Enoch struggled against the bonds tying him down. ‘You may regret that.’

  ‘Enoch, we’re making great progress. In under just one hour of treatment, your memories are resurfacing—’

  ‘Do not mistake that for progress, Doctor. An ill wind howls—this path of yours leads to destruction.’

  ‘I am no mad scientist, Enoch. I am no monster—nor are you, for that matter. But my team and I have orders from King Arnault—he knows of Dalthea’s army of dead men, the ones who—’ The doctor consulted her notes. ‘—one Doctor Mathieson called “Wraiths”.’

  ‘And you know how that story ended.’

  ‘Yes—but it doesn’t have to be the same here. The methods employed by Dalthea were barbaric, but—’

  ‘You’re electrocuting my brain.’

  ‘I am stimulating its natural neural pathways—what Dalthea did to you was akin to wielding a hammer; I am using a precise instrument.’ The doctor cleared her throat. ‘And you’ve already told me it doesn’t hurt you. Let’s begin test number three, shall we?’

  It’s not your methods I fear—it’s their results.

  Gallows had heard of the Gods’ Challenge and had always wanted to check out its ancestral home—but this was pushing it.

  A metallic, coppery tang filled his nostrils, emanating from the bloodstains painted across the armoury’s walls. Outside, a circular cage sloped up like a bowl, crowned with barbed wire. Seven stone obelisks lined its edge and pointed inward, like the bent tines of a crown. Numerals glowed on each of them. Beyond the cage, thousands of people sat in an arena. An impatient murmur spread throughout.

  ‘What’s with the numbers on the obelisks?’ Gallows asked.

  ‘Timer,’ the Master-at-Arms answered, an old woman with unkempt grey hair and more wrinkles on her face than skin. She reeked of sweet rum. ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘What happens after ten minutes?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘No-one’s ever lasted that long.’

  Great. A discordant, grating voice boomed throughout the arena, stoking the crowd’s bloodlust. Suspended over the centre of the cage was a blazing ignium orb, shining as harsh as the sun.

  ‘What happens when I win? Will I see my friends?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What happens if I refuse to fight?’

  ‘Then you definitely won’t see your friends.’

  The wind howled from beneath the cage, suspended as it was over the streets of Rhis. Plumes of smoke rose and fell, and the chain-link walls clattered from side to side, like the gentle rattle of bones in a casket.

  The old woman swept an arm to the array of swords, axes and maces on display. ‘Choose your weapon, then.’

  ‘Machine gun.’

  ‘No guns. The Challenge is a tribute to Belios.’

  Gallows scanned the weapons—most were junk: Swords with rusted pommels, daggers caked in old blood, wooden shields with chunks torn out and never repaired.

  But among the pile of staves and maces, flails, bows and polearms, Gallows spotted something—his shortsword, liberated from the Queen of the North.

  ‘The shortsword.’

  The woman raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question the choice.

  ‘I’ll take a shield, too.’

  �
�One weapon only.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gallows slashed his sword through the air. ‘So, is there prize money for this thing?’

  ‘You’re optimistic. They explained you’re up against Thruzgaz Blood-Dancer, right?’

  ‘“Explained” might be pushing it. Is King Arnault watching?’

  ‘Oh aye, every day leading up to Wintercast. These competitions were traditional, back when the Indecim walked the earth. Mad keen on Belios, is Arnault.’

  ‘How do you know the battles were traditional?’ Gallows looked the old woman up and down. ‘Were you there?’

  She frowned. ‘I hope he guts ya.’

  Beyond the gates, the crowd cheered louder, filling the air with electricity. Acid lurched in Gallows’ throat.

  ‘Any other questions?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yeah. Is “Thruzgaz Blood-Dancer” his real name?’

  Serena leaned back in the seat, wedged between Prince Garald and Captain Thorir. She locked her arms tight across her chest, and the night air froze her skin.

  The crowd around her chanted ‘Blood-Dancer’ over and over. Serena had no idea what a blood-dancer was or why Garald had insisted she accompany him.

  She sensed Flicker and Scruff in the distance, and Myriel.

  Separate and isolate your enemy, then take ’em out. Gallows had taught her that when they’d gone through sword drills in the Liberty Wind’s cargo hold. Serena had asked what happened when more than one enemy attacked you. Gallows’ first answer was ‘Run’.

  ‘Fascinating, is it not?’ the prince asked. His voice sounded deeper in front of King Arnault. It didn’t suit a young man with a face full of acne and the rumour of a beard on his cheeks.

  He’d insisted Serena sit next to him in the Royal Box overlooking the bowl-shaped cage. She’d only glimpsed the king, but it was enough to send spiders skittering across her back.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied.

  The prince chuckled. ‘Yes, I… I can’t say I’m a fan myself, but Father—he is one for tradition.’

  Seven stone obelisks adorned with numerals skirted the edge of the fighting pit, curving like scorpion tails. Serena didn’t know—or care—what the numbers meant, but they burned like ignium lamps. The cage in the centre hung from the tips of the obelisks, suspended by thick, iron chains, swaying above the city.