Valentine weaved between backstreets, the howl of the Wraith never far away. She killed the headlamps and ploughed through debris. Her pulse raced faster than the stammering bricode.
She turned towards the Inner Wall, rounded a corner, sticking to shadows—
Three Wraith soldiers stood in the middle of the road.
They raised their weapons and executed four RSF troops lined up against the wall opposite.
Valentine’s fingers coiled tighter around the wheel. A predatory screech heralded the approach of the fighter craft.
One way to go.
The engine revved, and Valentine accelerated.
As one, the Wraiths turned. They didn’t fire a shot before Valentine mowed them down.
A procession of Lightbearers marched through the gate to Petrel’s Tail—Valentine accelerated, and they fled.
The Wraith followed—and Valentine’s luck ran out.
Bullets drilled through metal. Catryn screamed. The Bulldog burst through a rubbish heap and twisted through a courtyard full of gnarled trees.
Valentine tried to control it. Metal screamed and snapped.
The Wraith shot ahead and made another attack run, the thrum of its rotors scouring the air. Its guns blazed.
Valentine yanked the wheel—the Bulldog flipped, bounced and ploughed into a brick wall, whipping Valentine back and forward. Glass showered her and lacerated skin. Black smoke belched from the engine block.
‘Catryn…’
The Wraith soared, turning for another run.
Valentine’s fingers fumbled with the belt. Pain lanced every inch of her.
C’mon, c’mon…
The latch opened.
‘We gotta go!’
Catryn gasped. ‘I…’ She clutched her chest. Blood oozed over her fingers.
‘Shit.’ Legs aching and copper coating her mouth, Valentine kicked her door open and hauled Catryn through.
She couldn’t wrench her eyes from the fighter in the sky. It turned with unnatural speed.
Valentine half-pulled, half-dragged Catryn over a mound of bricks and pushed her against the portion of the wall still standing.
The Wraith’s approach made Valentine’s stomach clench. Its bullets razed the stationary Bulldog. It exploded, shrapnel flying over Valentine’s head.
She stayed there with Catryn until long after the Wraith’s howl dwindled away.
Only in a city circling the drain could Buzz Fitangus expect not to be harassed by the Watch.
He wandered across Coppertan Road, and a horse-drawn carriage swerved at the last second to avoid trampling him.
Buzz watched as men and women in army gear were set upon by hordes of people, thrown to the ground and beaten. He watched soldiers open fire on unarmed mobs before being struck with brick and stone. He watched Tarevian cocktails sail across the air and through Watch House windows. Half of Dalthea burned.
‘—kill the bastards!’
‘—tell Fallon he’s next—’
‘—told us bloodlung was cured—’
‘This is for Sadie!’
A pierce razed the sky—Buzz threw himself onto the ground. When he looked up, he could only watch as a patrol craft burst into flame and hit the side of Terros’ Crown, the biggest hill in The Sands.
Belios’ ballsack… Buzz had more reason to hate the Watch than most people, but whoever made them take strike action didn’t know Dalthea—didn’t know the beast that lurked within her. She wasn’t the mistress who’d take you to bed and chuck you out just as quick any more—her soul had rotted.
Lightbearers flooded the streets, marched as one. ‘Bear the light! Stand and fight!’
Music sounded within their caterwaul. They were happy.
And those strange shadow soldiers marched alongside them, chasing what lawmen Dalthea still had into holes—working with the people.
Buzz wandered, numb to it all.
A pile of men and women lay in the road, bullets in their heads. They wore civvie gear, but signs reading “WATCH SCUM” were hung around each of their necks.
And, next to them, the mangled body of a kid, trampled into the ground.
What sort of monster kills a kid?
It was too much. So much of Buzz’s own childhood had been spent cowering in shadows, and the thought that this kid’s last moments were spent fearing for his life almost brought Buzz to his knees.
He’d sold out the lass Serena to the Council—she wasn’t more than a kid herself, and he’d set her up to die. General Fallon was right—Buzz might not have known people wanted her dead, but he knew their intentions were far from noble—yet he fed them information.
Dalthea’s soul had been slipping away long before now.
His head told him to flee—he’d spent most of life hiding from the Watch and crooks like Farro Zoven—he could hide from these Lightbearer buggers. He’d gone to ground for less—much less. As long as Buzz Fitangus squared it with his own conscience, then everything was rosy.
But that was back when he needed scuzz—thought he needed scuzz.
He’d changed. He was responsible for his actions, and he felt every consequence of them. The numbness he’d insulated himself within melted away and let in pain, revulsion and guilt. It all flowed through him, tightened his chest and squeezed. It was great and terrible and tender and beautiful—because now he could do something about it.
Fists clenched and allowing the hot tears to stream over his face, Buzz followed the Lightbearers, and realised what he had to do.
Valentine moved as fast as she could with one arm around Catryn. The backstreets criss-crossed in every direction, like cracks on thin ice. She’d lost her Vindicator in the Bulldog’s flaming ruin, leaving her negotiating hostile territory armed only with a .22 five-shot pocket revolver.
She raised it every time someone looked at her, enough to banish any dark thoughts they may have harboured, but her tattered and bloodied uniform turned Valentine into just another injured citizen.
She kept one eye on Catryn and one on the sky, seeing the Wraith craft on every corner, in every shadow.
Helping Catryn wasn’t easy—she’d dressed the wound as best she could, but without proper medical supplies, the doctor would die—soon.
Shadows bobbed and stretched towards Valentine, forcing her to change course again and again. Gunshots echoed off tenement walls, hoarse voices shouted warnings, and Lightbearers clashed with soldiers. When Valentine did have to discharge her weapon, it was to warn rather than kill. It worked.
But barricades cut off routes the deeper they ventured into Petrel’s Tail, forcing Valentine to skirt the main road.
‘C’mon, hustle.’
‘I’m still bleeding.’
‘You ain’t got time to bleed.’
A horse thundered past with a flaming carriage trailing behind it. Valentine and Catryn tumbled onto Elmwood Arcade—smoke billowed from its residential blocks. Once-baroque and colourful merchant houses stood as blackened and hollow as decayed corpses. Wraiths pulled men and women from their homes, lined them against walls and shot them—to the cheers of Lightbearers and civvies.
The black steel of Valentine’s revolver froze her skin. Tonight, Pyron Thackeray dies.
‘C’mon, we stick to the shadows and advance.’
Swan-necked street lamps lay broken on the roads. Rioters congregated around the derelict mansion that once housed the Musicians’ and Hunters’ Guilds, and Valentine glimpsed men and women standing on upturned motorcarriages, addressing the people. They’re getting organised.
They made their way past one of Musa’s churches, an opulent sandstone structure crowned with gargoyles and decorated with harp motifs. Nuns handed out food and medical supplies to rioters.
Across from the church, an inferno raged through the Campbell, Coutts & Crawford building, tearing its pillars and awnings down. Valentine watched the signage peel away and fall to the ground like confetti. She stepped over rubble, footing uneven. ‘Can you
manage?’
‘I got a choice?’
‘You’ll thank me when I save your ass.’
‘Your optimism is exhausting.’ Catryn’s head hung low, her curtain of grey-black hair concealing her face.
‘C’mon. C’mon.’ Her own body threatening to give up, Valentine hauled Catryn into an alley behind a watchmaker’s shop. She hobbled up the steps to the rear entrance—the door hung on its hinges.
Valentine teased it open and checked the corners—empty.
Brass fittings, screws and clockwork glittered on the floor, but there was nothing of value. Jagged glass teeth protruded from the jaws of an empty window frame, ushering hissing wind. The strangled screech of a skipping Genevieve Couressa record whined from an unseen corner.
A horde outside marched as one—Wraiths, Lightbearers, citizens in rags.
‘They’re headed north…’ Valentine said.
‘The Kingsway?’
‘Maybe.’ Half the rich had fled when the Lightbearers started burning themselves in the street, which made the Kingsway ripe for looting—but why would the Wraiths be ordered to loot and ransack?
A lance of light glared past the shattered window frame, glinting on shards of glass and over bodies. The growl of an engine followed it.
Valentine pushed Catryn to the side. ‘Back!’
Catryn grimaced. Fresh blood leaked from her dressing.
Valentine risked a glance and confirmed her suspicion. ‘It’s the damn Bulldog from before.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Paint job on the back and sides, red crosses. Sons of bitches knew how to set ’emselves apart so the rioters didn’t hit it.’
If she had her Vindicator, she could take both the driver and the gunner out before they even heard the shot—but with a pocket revolver and only two rounds left, she’d be better using it on herself and Catryn. Kills me to let the bastards get away…
‘Hold up, it’s stopped.’
The driver’s door opened, and Valentine recognised the soldier stepping out—Captain Arlo Renata.
Traitor son of a bitch.
‘Front tyre’s busted,’ Renata called. ‘Keep your eyes open while I change it.’
‘Aye,’ said the gunner, a man Valentine didn’t know.
She slipped back into cover.
‘Any chance they’ll offer us a lift?’ Catryn whispered.
‘Nah, but y’all got the right idea. Can you use any of this shit lying around?’
As plans went, it was simple.
Valentine circled to the rear of the Bulldog and hid behind a dumpster. The motorcarriage sat twenty yards away; the gunner fidgeted, adrenaline and bloodlust making him twitchy. He swivelled the gun left and right, flinching at every noise. That made Valentine’s task tougher.
He trained the weapon towards the town square ahead—Valentine darted across to the other side, pressing against a brick wall. She unholstered the revolver and shot Catryn a thumbs-up sign.
Genevieve Couressa’s voice trilled from the broken window.
The gunner spun and Renata took cover, weapon trained on the watchmaker’s shop. The gunner opened fire, shooting wild, bullets punching through brick and stone.
Valentine crept closer, the roar of the cannon concealing her approach.
The storm of bullets halted, leaving only silence.
‘Does Ginny Couressa always put the shits up you?’ Renata asked.
The gunner said nothing.
And neither would Renata, ever again.
Valentine covered his mouth and brought him to the ground, slamming his head into the concrete over and over. Blood, bone and brain leaked from the wound.
The noise alerted the turret gunner; he swivelled the weapon but couldn’t aim it low enough to get a good angle on Valentine.
‘Screw this,’ the gunner barked, ‘don’t need a gyrogun to do you.’
Valentine took the gift Catryn had given her from her pocket—a spring-loaded sphere made from miscellaneous clockwork that wouldn’t do much other than scratch the fingers when it went off—but the gunner didn’t need to know that.
Back pressed against the Bulldog, Valentine tossed it up, and yelled, ‘Fire in the hole!’
The gunner scrambled. ‘Shit!’
But the device didn’t go off.
Damn.
Valentine took the chance—she stepped out and raised the revolver—and stared into the barrel of a Vindicator.
Then a brick sailed through the air and cracked against the gunner’s jaw. It wasn’t enough to knock him out but it bought Valentine a valuable second. She squeezed the trigger twice, bullets sailing through the soft meat of his throat.
Blood pooling through his uniform, the soldier slumped over. Valentine pulled him down and left his corpse in the mud.
‘Your clockwork distraction didn’t work.’
Catryn clutched her side. ‘But the brick did.’
Breath stinging his lungs, Buzz followed the mob into the Church of Feria’s vast hall of cloisters. Shadows draped across its vaulted ceilings—no igneus lamps at this Lightbearer meeting.
Whispers mingled with excited whoops and howls. Folk from Widow’s Trail stood shoulder to shoulder with them from Arrowhead. Dark-skinned Val Candrian women stood alongside blonde, blue-eyed girls with Ryndaran blood. Men who hadn’t worked since the Night of Amberfire rubbed elbows with affluent bankers from Petrel’s Tail. This was the first time Buzz had ever seen Dalthea united.
He recognised some faces—watchwomen and lads who sold themselves in Scab End after the Courtesans’ Guild shut shop. They all stood together. So did clerks from the Magister’s Office, and the Fayth Collegium. Some were here looking for justice for Sadie Abernathy and those who were still trapped in Dustwynd. Others had been protesting ever since General Fallon took office.
Most were here because they’d tasted blood and wanted more.
Buzz couldn’t see any sign of Pol or the Judge, but Tristan stood out from the rest; his clothes weren’t tattered and bloody and his face displayed no bruising.
The traitorous bastard broke from the head of the assembly and raised his arms—just like Adaryn Kayn had. The tip of the thin sword in his hand glinted.
‘The enemy cowers inside the skyport,’ Tristan began, ‘conspiring with the Raincatchers to steal water and flee—abandoning the kingdom we fought and bled for! While the Idari sharpen their knives across the sea, our leaders let bloodlung claim the lives of innocent people—people like Sadie Abernathy!’
The roar from the crowd threatened to pull the Church of Feria down around them.
‘They used dark arts and narcotics to force a false confession from Pyron Thackeray—the man who halted the advance of Idari savages on our shores! They killed Adaryn Kayn because his truths burned their lies away! The tyrant General Fallon is gone, but there are those who work in his name, seeking to provide for the few while depriving the many. Brothers and sisters, only by our own hand can salvation be wrested. Our enemy will not hesitate to destroy you—we must possess a similar ruthlessness—as keen as a blade fresh from the forge. We must be willing to kill, as our enemies are. It is better to die on your back than live on your knees!’
Blood ran over Dalthea’s cobbles tonight, and more would flow before day broke. Buzz knew he had a part in that.
‘Follow!’ Tristan commanded. ‘To Petrel’s Tail! To battle! To liberty!’
Buzz marched with the others, his body immune to gnawing hunger and the bite of the wind. His eyes stayed on Tristan the entire way, fingers curled around the shard of glass in his pocket.
The Steelpeak mountains shimmered behind the skyport—indomitable, unconquerable—hazy like the wall of dust that heralds the arrival of an invading force.
‘Just a little closer.’ Valentine yanked the steering column to avoid a crater in the street. Renata’s tyre-changing skills left a lot to be desired.
Bodies littered the skyport campus—some RSF but more Wraiths. Compared to the
rest of the kingdom, it was pristine. They were testing the defences—and they’ll be back.
She steadied the trembling in her hand and rolled the window down. Cold air crept through at once. Tin cans clattered on the concrete, and in the distance, bursts of gunfire punctured the stillness.
The skies were silent; no airships, no-one fleeing—the calm before the storm. Steering with one hand, the Bulldog inched closer. With her free hand, Valentine waved a rag. As far as white flags went, it fell short.
Catryn sat slumped against her door, breaths shallow.
‘C’mon,’ Valentine muttered.
From the skyport’s black, spiked ramparts, soldiers appeared, bearing Vindicators and other weapons. One of them used an ignium lamp to flash bricode: Stop. Identify.
Valentine slowed the motorcarriage. She was well within firing range now and didn’t know what to expect.
She adjusted the headlamps, popping them in and out, relaying a friendly Bride’s Code message.
They responded: Exit.
‘Gods damn it.’ Valentine stepped out of the Bulldog, knowing a Wraith could be creeping up behind without her knowing.
A soldier trained a rifle on her and called, ‘Name!’
She cupped her hands. ‘Sergeant Valentine! I’m one of Fallon’s! I got a civilian who needs medical attent—’
‘ID!’
‘Listen, asshole, you want my dog-tags, y’all can come down—’
‘Stand aside!’ Commander Lockwood appeared alongside the soldier. The claymore on her back caught frosty moonlight. ‘Let them in!’
The black and hulking Tugarin’s Talon sat proud on a landing platform, one of the few airships still inside the skyport. Guildmaster Tugarin barked orders to his crew, ferrying trolleys filled with barrels out to RSF troops.
Kingdom’s gone to shit, and the Raincatchers are still doing their jobs.
Sandstorm shields closed over the skyport’s landing pads and docking areas, settling atop arches that curved like fingers. The RSF had evicted the squatters and street vendors who called the skyport home, but the sweet aroma of stoneroach kebabs lingered.
Wrath of Storms Page 43