‘Can’t you stop the bleeding?’ Enoch demanded. ‘Remove the bullet?’
‘The bullet’s the only thing stopping the bleeding,’ said Gallows. ‘If we remove it, it could kill her.’
‘This cover won’t protect us for long,’ said one of the guards. ‘And there’s nowhere else to go.’
Above the fighting, an inhuman roar echoed across the cavern walls: Helena tal Ventris. She was staring down at the body of Solassis.
Then she met Gallows’ eyes.
A culling followed.
She slaughtered the Crimsoncloaks with brutal efficiency. One of her own crew tried to stop her from crossing the quaking ground—Ventris ran her through without a thought.
And she was coming for Serena.
Gallows gripped his sword. ‘Enoch, protect them.’
He marched towards Ventris. Her eyes were wide and manic, pin-prick pupils sharp. Cuts etched across her face, and bruises bloomed on her pallid skin like ink in a glass of water. She strode across the quaking platforms, like the world itself trembled before her.
‘Ain’t any honour in dying,’ Gallows called. ‘You don’t have to do—’
But she did.
Ventris struck, and it took more strength than Gallows knew he had to deflect it.
The steel sang as her sword clashed with his. She fought with relentless purpose, strength radiating from her. Half of Gallows’ mind was on his footwork, half on defending himself against Ventris’ blade.
He staggered back, slipped and tumbled onto the ground.
Helena booted him in the ribs. ‘What do you fight for?’
Gallows twisted away, the clang of Helena’s sword on the stone ringing in his ears. Each breath seared his lungs.
This wasn’t a fight Gallows could win.
All the same, he got to his feet.
‘So desperate to cling on to life,’ said Ventris.
Gallows wiped blood from his lip. ‘Better’n killing folk without any damn reason.’
Helena’s mouth crinkled. ‘I fight for something bigger than me—bigger than all of us.’
Ventris’ blade scythed at Gallows. He leapt back.
‘Tarevia, Ryndara, Dalthea,’ she recited. ‘People are the same everywhere—always ready to sell you out for a pittance.’
‘Is this where you tell me how everything you’ve done is justified?’
‘I take what I want, justification be damned.’
Steel whirred in a silver blur, the cracking ground threatening to swallow Gallows before Ventris had the chance to kill him.
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘and I bet having a “tal” in your name didn’t open any doors for you.’
Ventris scowled. ‘Not as many as if I’d had a cock between my legs. I’d served on warships and watched boys with half my experience climb the ladder. By the time I earned my byname, I’d already slaughtered most of them. Arnault was a fool to think he owned us.’
Gallows advanced, his sword zig-zagging and forcing Helena to retreat.
‘Colette was an addict before I gave her purpose.’ Ventris kicked dirt and stone into Gallows’ face and slashed his arm. ‘Solassis’ father beat her every time his streetball team lost—and every time he’d had a drink—and every time the sun set.’
Ventris lunged; Gallows swept the tip of her blade away and sliced her forearm. Her sword clattered to the ground.
‘It’s over—’
Ventris leapt at Gallows; they hit the ground, tangled together. Gallows’ head glanced off jagged edges of broken rock, and his sword slipped from his grasp.
Ventris loomed over him, kicking him in the ribs. ‘Tiera’s priest abused her in the name of the Gods, branding her like a beast of burden. Qitarah’s husband almost beat her to death when the child she carried died in the womb. Thommo and Madyx were sentenced to hard labour for the crime of loving each other. Do not speak to me of justifications—the only laws in this world are those we make ourselves. Damn you and damn the Gods.’
The heel of Ventris’ hand slammed into the bridge of Gallows’ nose. Bright light exploded in his eyes.
‘Humanity’s time runs short,’ the pirate continued. ‘If we’re to die, I choose to do so on my own terms.’
Behind Ventris, shaking from side to side and wreathed in the amber glow of ignium, a small AFR craft sailed low to the ground. Stone battered against its hull, and one of its four rotors had been destroyed.
Its hatch opened, and Tiera Martelo appeared.
‘Helena!’ Tiera yelled. ‘Let’s go!’
Ventris scowled. Gallows couldn’t tell if she was going to retrieve her sword and kill him, or retreat. Or both.
She turned her back to him. ‘You live to fight another day, Hangman.’
Gallows watched her as she sprinted towards the rescue craft.
But as soon as she was close, Tiera and Damien sprang from the craft and pinned Ventris to the ground.
Gallows’ vision flickered in and out. Sweeping lights spread across the cavern—more rescue craft arrived.
Genevieve Couressa towered over Gallows, reaching down and helping him to his feet.
‘My hero,’ he said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DALTHEA VIATOR
New Water Pipeline POISONED—Supplies At All-Time Low!
Raincatchers HOARDING Water!
City Watch On STRIKE! Arch Vigil FIRED! Riots OUT OF CONTROL!
Council Convene Emergency Meeting—Is Fallon’s Time Over?
WIN! A Month’s Supply Of Water Tokens!
Scratching, the needle danced on the record again, blasting the same three notes that heralded an Information Tower announcement.
Buzz’s head snapped back, face itchy and clammy from the cloth hood. The sound blared through him, tinny in his ears.
And then it stopped.
Hot tears ran down his cheeks. His muscles ached and his wrists were raw from a rope binding him to a wooden chair. He needed sleep, but every time his head lolled, they blasted that sound.
‘Bit different from Genevieve Couressa, eh? Cheer up, lad, it’s only been a day.’
Buzz recognised Tanner’s voice; he trembled every time the watchman spoke. At first, Tanner acted like the good copper—he was the one who gave Buzz water. Lots of water. And he laughed when Buzz pissed himself.
I only been here a day?
A heavy door screeched open, and someone whipped Buzz’s hood away. Oily light washed through his blurred vision—he made out the exposed brick wall of a cellar.
The man who removed the hood stepped forward.
‘You… I seen you… You’re…’
Out of his Watch gear, Constable Tristan looked older. He wore a bottle-green cloak, brown leathers and dark riding boots. ‘Forgive me, Mister Fitangus.’ Tristan knelt in front of Buzz and mopped his brow. It stung his cuts. ‘Hooding is a barbaric practice.’
‘Then why d’ya do it?’
Tristan couldn’t meet his eye. ‘Good men must do… unsavoury things in times of war.’
Buzz struggled against his bonds. ‘Who’s at war? I’m not a Lightbearer, you know I’m not a Lightbearer.’
‘Correct.’
Dread seeped through Buzz like turpentine. ‘You’re the Watch… The Lightbearers kill your kind.’
‘You needn’t concern yourself with that, Mister Fit—’
Buzz spat in Tristan’s face.
Tanner stepped forward. ‘Filthy bastard.’
Tristan held a hand up. ‘If a harmless prisoner is enough to get you riled, then perhaps you’re not the right man for this job. Mister Fitangus will be no further trouble.’
Buzz didn’t appreciate the weight in those last words. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Kill me, then. I got piss-all to live for anyway.’
‘I’m not going to kill you, Mister Fitangus. Not yet. I need you to tell me something.’
‘You’re in the Watch—what do I know that you don’t?’
‘Alas, the dissolu
tion of the Watch has forced my hand, Mister Fit—’
‘Call me Mister Fitangus one more time, an’ I’ll boot your balls up into your throat, you jumped-up, pubeless schoolboy.’
Tanner thundered forward and raised his fist.
‘Leave us,’ Tristan ordered.
Tanner’s nostrils flared. ‘If you take that from this little shit, ain’t no-one will respect you.’
‘Go. Now.’
Tanner scowled but did as he was told.
‘Now, Bertram—what has your investigation with Lance Corporal Valentine uncovered?’
‘I ain’t telling you shit.’
‘I don’t have time to play this game.’ Tristan walked behind Buzz and untied the rope securing his left arm.
‘Being nice to a prisoner is the oldest trick an interrogator ever pulled.’ That said, Buzz couldn’t deny the relief.
‘Agreed.’ Tristan’s boots slapped the stone floor. He stood in front of Buzz and grasped his free arm in a vice grip. ‘But the Confessors perfected the art of it.’
‘Aye, big scary man with your big scary talk an’ your…’
Tristan slipped a syringe from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers. A viscous, molasses-brown liquid sloshed in its chamber.
Buzz’s entire body turned rigid. ‘No. Please, please, no...’
‘Will you answer my question?’
Buzz pulled back from Tristan’s grip, but he was too weak to break free.
‘As I thought.’ The copper wrested Buzz’s arm and tapped a vein with the syringe.
‘Please…’ The temperature plummeted. Buzz couldn’t tear his gaze away from the syringe. ‘I got away from it,’ he croaked. ‘I got away… You don’t need to do this. Please—’
The needle pierced the vein, and Tristan pushed the plunger.
Typewriters clacked with the rapid fire of a repeater rifle. Fallon kicked the door open, almost taking it from its hinges.
‘Stop what you’re doing, all of you.’
The typewriters silenced.
‘Private Khan, Private Weatherby—seize all this equipment. Seize every record, every notepad, every godsdamn ball of paper from every godsdamn wastebasket.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Private Khan slung her repeater rifle over her shoulder and got to work, Weatherby at her heel.
It was a risk, coming out in the open to hit the Viator’s offices—especially with Valentine’s operation imminent—but Fallon needed to make sure the job was done properly.
The soldiers ripped at filing cabinets and desks, yanked reams of paper. Khan carried out her orders with precision; Weatherby rampaged with a grin plastered on his face. Half a dozen reporters shrank back against the office walls.
The door to the editor’s office squealed open. A stout man with dark skin and a gleaming, hairless head materialised. ‘General—what is this? If there’s something I can assist—’
‘Mister Akara, the Dalthea Viator is to cease operations immediately.’ Fallon brandished a piece of paper in front of the editor.
‘You can’t mean to shut down the kingdom’s free press, surely?’
‘You’re goddamn right I do.’
‘Careful with that!’ A burly male reporter shot to his feet, fists clenched.
Weatherby held a small, glass streetball trophy. ‘Worth something, is it?’
‘It was my father’s,’ the reporter insisted.
Weatherby let it smash on the floor.
Gods damn it.
The reporter started forward, but stopped when Weatherby raised his shotgun.
‘Petrik,’ warned the editor. ‘Do nothing, say nothing.’
‘Same goes for you, Private,’ ordered Fallon.
Like a hungry black bear handing over its last salmon, Weatherby lowered his weapon. If it was any other time, Fallon would’ve ripped the soldier’s dog tags from him and sent him packing.
‘General, please,’ Akara begged. ‘Think about what you’re doing.’
Fallon stormed across the office and stood nose-to-nose with the editor. ‘You shoulda thought what you were doing when you dragged this rag back into the gutter. I installed you as editor because you had spine, Akara.’
‘Which is exactly why you should reconsider your actions. I have uttered not one lie during my tenure here.’
‘No? What proof have you got that the Raincatchers are hoarding water? How do you know how much poisoned water has been circulated?’
‘Through my usual sources, General.’
‘I’m your usual source.’
Akara’s face screwed up. ‘Y-yes, exactly—I’ve been following the Council’s every instruction.’
Fallon took a step closer to Akara; the editor cowered. ‘I’m not the damn Council.’
‘Sir!’
Fallon spun around. Private Khan held a sheaf of papers up. ‘A copy of the Arch Vigil’s last report, found on this woman’s desk.’ She motioned to an elderly woman with pale, blotchy skin and purple irises.
Fallon marched over and snatched the papers from Khan’s fingers. Sure enough, they were marked with the official seal of the Watch. ‘How in all hells did you get this?’
The reporter exchanged a glance with Akara. Then she stood, her eyes hardening. ‘I bribed a watchman.’
Fallon tucked the papers into his inside pocket. ‘That’s illegal.’
‘As is the acceptance of a bribe.’
‘Come.’ Nervous laughter trickled from Akara. ‘Reporters have been greasing palms for as long as words inked paper, General. I’m sure you yourself have—’
‘Finish that sentence and I’ll gut you. Private Khan, arrest this woman.’
Khan hesitated.
‘Private.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Selling state secrets. Whipping the public into a panic. Stretched military, not enough food, money, resources… Like sand flowing through his fingertips, Fallon was losing everything.
‘Arrest all of ’em.’
Khan’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Yes, sir.’
As Khan marched past with her prisoners, Fallon grabbed the elderly woman’s arm. ‘What’s the going rate to convince a watchman to betray his oath? Five hundred aerons? A thousand?’
She raised her chin. ‘Thirty.’
Glass splintered beneath Valentine’s boots. ‘Defensive formation. Open the gates.’
The colossal, rusted gatehouse separating Irros’ Beckon from Old Town Square screeched open. Dust and vapour swirled through like the last breath of a dying man, and wind whipped sand into Valentine’s tinted goggles. Of all the damn times a sandstorm could hit.
The storm meant the anticipated civilian crowds were nowhere to be seen, but the absence of a patrol craft in the area didn’t fill Valentine with confidence.
Commander Lockwood of the Royal Sky Fleet had wanted to postpone the operation until the sandstorm cleared and deploy the Vigilant, but Fallon had insisted—as had Valentine. Most of the military were patrolling the streets to do the Watch’s job—she wouldn’t get another opportunity.
If you couldn’t trust the men and women around you to back you up, then you were as good as dead. This was her chance to make amends for leaking secrets—no more suspicious looks from her men, no more dead rats in her locker—no more whispers that maybe the firing pin of her repeater rifle had gone missing.
The gates halted, and the ruin of Irros’ Beckon stared back at her. In the depths of the sandstorm, jagged silhouettes filled the horizon like broken tombstones in the dark.
Valentine took the first step forward, her heavy Vindicator repeater tucked to her shoulder. It didn’t weigh as heavy as the new sergeant stripes on her uniform.
‘Clear!’ one of the men by the gate called.
‘Send ’em in!’ Valentine ordered.
Two Bulldogs—the military’s armoured motorcarriages—rolled through the opening, acting as vanguard for a hundred troops.
The vehicles sprayed stone and sand as their wheels chewed through the
ground. Gunners jutted from hatches on the roofs, standing sentinel behind their rotating gyroguns.
The sandstorm obscured the muddied hue of the Poison Veil—the radiation cloud that hung over the sea—but Valentine still smelled its metallic tang through her mask. Just stepping into the destroyed harbour district put a sour taste in her mouth.
Scorched sand crunched beneath her steps. A colossal coastal gun glowered by the ruins of the harbour, scorched and rusted. Airship husks lay strewn across the coast, blackened, burnt and twisted. Bones filled the beach. Clothes still clung to skeletons and fingers fused to the sand.
With a clang, the gatehouse doors closed behind her.
‘Conti, take Team One and go north—form a perimeter then close in. Watch the old filtration building—in this storm, the Lightbearers will take whatever shelter they can get. I’ll hit the southern stretch to the base of the lighthouse. Don’t step into the water and don’t go in the tunnels. Make sure your dusters are zipped and your masks are tight—the mist will burn your lungs. Rendezvous back here in twenty. We don’t find anything, then we hit the tunnels together.’
Conti saluted and departed behind one of the Bulldogs, disappearing in the sandstorm.
The Vindicator pressed tight against Valentine’s shoulder. Heart thumping, she scanned the southern stretch of the beach, the growl of the Bulldog tussling with the snarl of the wind. The storm was so thick, she couldn’t even see the decrepit lighthouse on the bluffs surrounding Widow’s Trail.
Her team of fifty followed the Bulldog south, every step taken in silence but for the howl of the wind.
‘Outpost, forty yards!’ Private Jartan called.
‘On me! Reynold, eyes open.’
The Bulldog halted, and Corporal Reynold aimed the six brass barrels of its gyrogun at the entrance.
‘Hargreave, Simmons,’ called Valentine. ‘Tail-end Charlie.’
The two men took position at the rear, kneeling and tucking their weapons to their shoulders.
Valentine led the others to a relief outpost, one of many set up on the beach during the Idari conflict. She pressed against the wall and out of Reynold’s line of fire.
‘Breach!’
Wrath of Storms Page 27