Troops filtered through the concourse in silence, exchanging worried looks and hooking tanks up to igneus lines to siphon fuel. Cables trailed across the floor, connected to portable consoles. The entire skyport had been transformed into a command centre.
‘Another wave is sure to strike imminently, and I don’t know if our defences will hold.’ Lockwood indicated red crosses on a map of Dalthea set atop a folding table. ‘Barricades have been erected across Coppertan Road and Elmwood Arcade, with further blockades here and here.’
‘So we’re in the shit.’ Valentine crossed her arms. ‘The doc gonna be okay? We can use her.’
‘She will be,’ Lockwood answered. ‘When she stops demanding cigarettes. The general—is he alive?’
Valentine looked her in the eye. ‘No.’
Lockwood’s face betrayed no emotion. ‘I see.’
‘And the Council?’
‘Half are missing, half are dead. Nazari’s here, but the Lightbearers and Wraith forces have been testing our defences all night—our luck won’t hold forever.’
The vast expanse of the skyport shrunk around Valentine at that. Once, it was a fortress. Now? Valentine saw at least half a dozen vulnerabilities in the skyport’s defences just from where she stood. Might as well take refuge in a coffin.
‘Where’s Thackeray?’ she demanded. ‘Bastard said he was in a Watch House somewhere.’
Lockwood’s brow furrowed. ‘He wouldn’t reveal that information unless he wanted his enemies to believe it—most of the Watch Houses in the kingdom have been torched—only the Kingsway remains untouched. However, I’ve multiple reports of Lightbearers and Wraith troops garrisoning around the remains of the War Memorial Museum. I also have messengers in the field reporting of Lightbearers approaching this position; at first I believed the attacks on the skyport were mere recon patrols, but I believe Thackeray intended to keep us here to stop us getting to the Memorial Museum—and I played into their hands.’
‘They caught us by surprise,’ said Valentine. ‘There’s a Wraith fighter out there, taking out patrol craft. Thackeray’s cut our eyes out—we need to plan a counter-attack.’
‘If we abandon this fortification for an offensive action and fail, we lose everything.’
‘If y’all stay here and die, we lose everything. He’s plannin’ something at the Memorial Museum—give me the marked Bulldog and I’ll pull the trigger on him myself.’
Lockwood glared at her. ‘Ordinarily, I’d have you report to the sick bay—but you’re right. We must strike now before his forces are consolidated. I plan to deploy the Talon and another Raincatcher airship in separate directions to draw the Wraith fighter away. I’ll then send a force to attack the enemy in the open.’
Valentine looked around—most of the Royal Sky Fleet wore cadet uniforms. ‘With kids?’
Lockwood raised her chin. ‘With all I have. I have six units pinned down across the city, and lost contact with three more. I don’t know which Watch officers I can trust, nor which soldiers. And now you say Thackeray is in possession of this… “Lightning Harness”, a weapon which brought down the Schiehallion.’
‘Commander, I—’
A boom resounded against the skyport walls. Dust poured from the ceiling.
‘Captain Tugarin!’ Lockwood bellowed. ‘Deploy.’
Valentine grabbed the commander’s arm. ‘You don’t need a force to kill Thackeray, let me take the Bulldog and—’
An explosion by a gatehouse cut her off.
‘They’re inside the perimeter,’ said Lockwood.
‘Commander!’ Another officer sprinted towards Lockwood, a young woman with caramel-brown hair wrapped in a tight bun.
‘Specialist Lestra?’
‘An airship has just passed through Wrenwing Gap.’ She handed a scrap of paper to Lockwood.
‘Every airship’s fled the city, and one moron’s trying to get in.’ The commander frowned, and her head snapped up at Lestra. ‘You’re sure of this registration?’
‘Double checked, Commander.’
‘Why?’ Valentine asked. ‘Who is it?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Liberty Wind sailed through Wrenwing Gap. Flames shimmered upon her skyglass, the city breathed black smoke into the sky, and dots squirmed on the ground like bacteria.
‘You hearing the bricode, mate?’ Worry laced Morton’s voice. ‘Skyport’s gone and the whole city’s in the shit. The mad pirate’s won—we’d best turn back.’
Damien fixed a belt of throwing knives across his torso. ‘Take us closer—we can land on Terros’ Crown if not the skyport.’
A humourless laugh burst from Morton’s mouth. ‘You looking to die, friend?’
‘Closer.’
The Wind shot over Elmwood Arcade and turned north into Arrowhead. The diamond-shaped roof of the train station sparkled like a thousand shards of glass in the moonlight.
Farther north, darkness draped the Kingsway like a lead cloak. Castle Rochefort loomed in the centre of a chasm, unlit and grey, like a gravestone in disrepair. And beyond the Inner Wall, past Old Town Square and limned in amber, Musa’s Harp burned.
Dalthea spun beneath the Wind. The Queen Iona Bridge snaked out from the castle, culminating in a triumphal arch choked by people converging at its base.
‘The War Memorial Museum is there,’ Damien said. ‘They don’t look like Ventris’ people. Descend.’
He kept silent, but Damien sensed protests rise and fall in Morton’s throat.
The Wind circled the broken tower crowning the museum and dipped lower.
‘Morton, turn towards—’
The scraping needle on the RADIOM kit interrupted Damien.
‘Why’s the kit going berserk?’ Morton asked. ‘There’s nothing out here at this altitude.’
Damien watched as the answer breathed out of the black sky—a Wraith fighter.
‘Evasive action,’ he commanded. ‘Now.’
‘Feel like explaining what’s goin’ on?’
Damien launched himself into a chair. ‘This isn’t Ventris.’
The Liberty Wind banked hard, but not fast enough—the Wraith fighter opened fire and struck one of her thrusters.
‘Defensive positions!’ Lockwood called. RSF troops took position by a gyrogun emplacement standing guard by the skyport’s main entrance, while others took to the ramparts.
Gunfire raged and steel clashed. Bodies hit the ground but bullets didn’t slow the horde’s advance.
Valentine’s own gun stayed silent. She’s opening fire on civilians. Neutralising Lightbearers who took up arms and murdered people was one thing, but civvies?
The enemy spilled out of buildings and through alleys—undisciplined, wild, frenzied. Valentine snapped the bulky Vindicator left to right, squeezing the trigger only when she had a clear shot on a Lightbearer.
But more civilians fell, armed with nothing more than tools.
This ain’t right.
Wraith troopers were embedded among the people, their weapons silent, letting the pawns lead the charge. Valentine got one in her sights and sent it to the hells.
Bullets zinged overhead. Valentine ducked, the RSF sabre hanging at her side putting her off-balance. Through the chaos, she saw Wraiths pull dead and injured civvies back and disappear from the battle.
Belios, they’re making soldiers for their army. This isn’t a fight, it’s a goddamn proving ground.
A stream of fire scorched the air and turned a gyrogun nest into a smoking ruin. Soldiers screamed as flames clung to them.
The Vindicator roared in Valentine’s hands. Adrenaline coursed through her and made her fingers tremble—but Nyrita Valentine was disciplined. Short, controlled bursts.
Then the skyport’s Info Tower crackled into life.
‘Citizens of Dalthea…’
The sound of Thackeray’s voice only made Valentine shoot better.
‘…General Fallon has something to say.’
Valentine’s gun
fell silent.
‘I confess…’
A coldness spread through Valentine’s chest at hearing Fallon’s voice.
‘I conspired with members of the Council to illegally seize power and incarcerate the Prime Councillor on false charges…’
Valentine swallowed the urge to vomit. The mind control serum. A confession in front of witnesses. Bastard’s doing to us what we did to him.
Fallon’s voice droned over the Info Tower, confessing to more and more of Thackeray’s sins.
‘Commander!’ Valentine roared.
Lockwood didn’t hear her; Lestra screamed as a bullet tore through her shoulder.
The Wraiths soaked up bullet after bullet and mowed down RSF troopers. Bullets from gyroguns took legs and limbs and turned men into smears of gore.
Screw this. Valentine had to save Fallon.
She abandoned her post and retreated deeper into the skyport and dived into the marked Bulldog. It screeched across the skyport concourse, and out into the battlefield, racing past hollowed-out boutiques and across cobbled lanes. Valentine prayed that the gates into Arrowhead were still intact.
The Bulldog swerved to avoid ploughing through Valentine’s allies. She watched as two Wraiths dragged bodies into an alley—a dead RSF woman and a screaming civilian man with one leg blown away.
Eiro give us peace.
Even if Valentine made it to the gatehouse, she still had to cross into the Kingsway—and whatever Thackeray was planning, he’d have been sure to post guards at every entry point. So it’s suicide there or suicide in the skyport.
Wraiths murdered troops before her eyes and bullets drummed into the motorcarriage’s armour—but she refused to stop, refused to give in. This could only end one way. Whatever reason Gallows and the Siren girl had for returning to Dalthea didn’t matter; they’d let Thackeray live once before—Valentine wouldn’t let them get in the way again.
Lightbearers dived from her path but the Wraiths stood rooted to the ground, their weapons roaring. Valentine leaned to the side, glass from the windshield showering her.
The Bulldog lost its front tyres. Valentine accelerated, metal scraping against stone, vomiting sparks. Smoke billowed from the engine block. She charged through the Wraiths towards the gatehouse.
Then the Bulldog screeched to a halt. Its engine died, and the gatehouse may as well have been a thousand miles away.
Shit.
Grabbing her Vindicator, Valentine kicked the door open and used the motorcarriage for cover. She scanned the sky—the Wraith craft was nowhere near.
She prowled from cover, weapon held tight against her shoulder. The din of battle and flash of gunfire detonated all around, echoing off buildings.
A crush of glass prickled her senses—Valentine spun around.
Tristan knocked the gun away and his rapier sliced Valentine’s forearm. She dropped the Vindicator and retreated.
Tristan struck.
Valentine dropped and rolled, feeling his sword cut the air above her.
Her sabre hissed from its scabbard—she swept the tip of Tristan’s blade away at the last second. Steel chimed on steel. Blood slicked the ground, and the bodies of the Wraiths she’d run over twitched in the corner of her eye. Dead Lightbearers stared up at her, faces twisted and mangled.
Tristan adjusted his stance—but he hesitated, his face folding into a grimace. ‘It should never have come to this.’
Pain needled Valentine’s arms and face. Glass shards stuck in her arms and legs. ‘Y’all can put the sword down if you want, but it won’t stop me comin’ for you.’
Tristan gritted his teeth. ‘That’s just it—I can’t put the sword down, Valentine—I’ve invested too much.’
‘In what? Being Thackeray’s errand boy?’
‘I…’
‘Son of a bitch. When we raided the abattoir, you made sure you got to the Lightbearer runners before me. You killed ’em so they couldn’t talk. An’ I thought I was babysitting your ass.’
Tristan closed his eyes, fighting back tears. ‘Have you ever lost anyone, Valentine?’
Her grip tightened around the sword’s hilt so hard she thought it might break. ‘I lost my man to the undead freak you run around with.’
Tristan’s gaze hardened. ‘My father was a naval officer—he died when Horizon Bridge fell. When they returned his body, he still had the shards of an Idari bloodspear embedded in his jaw. My elder sister lived in the Sanctecano Islands for years—I haven’t heard from her since before the war. The Idari are slave-takers, Valentine—they mould people into mindless kuramanusa. If she’s alive, then what life is she living? If she’s alive, then we should be fighting to free her!’
Valentine swept an arm out. ‘You see the people you’re fighting?’
‘Every one. Fallon should’ve taken the fight to Idaris. Thackeray’s methods may be brutal, but he understands what needs to be done.’
Valentine stepped closer. Her sabre didn’t have the reach of Tristan’s rapier, but if she got close enough, she could lop his sword hand off.
Tristan’s blade danced from side to side. ‘Is there no other way?’
Screams tore through the air and fires raged around her. ‘Not any more.’
Tristan advanced, his sword clashing with Valentine’s.
She retreated but Tristan kept coming, a flurry of silver thrusts stinging at her. She deflected a strike, tried to sweep his blade overhead but he spun on his heel and thrust, piercing Valentine’s left forearm.
She recoiled, deflected another strike. Steel clashed, scraped and whistled; Valentine growled, exerting herself defending Tristan’s attacks while he hadn’t broken a sweat.
Valentine dodged a series of thrusts, but Tristan pushed her to her back leg; she stumbled over a Lightbearer’s body and hit the ground, the base of her skull bouncing off the road. She tried to get up but fell into a pool of someone else’s blood.
Tristan stepped over a mangled Wraith, flames dancing on the flat of his rapier.
Valentine prised a truncheon from a dead watchman and hurled it at Tristan, but he saw it coming and dodged.
Tristan rounded on her; she rolled across the ground, dirt mixing with her blood. Unbalanced, she sprang to her feet and swept the sabre in a wild arc, nowhere near Tristan.
He pressed the advantage and stabbed Valentine’s right shoulder.
Pain flared through her. She let out a guttural snarl and batted his blade away, then lunged forward—Tristan deflected her attack but she launched a savage hook with her left hand before he could counter.
Tristan twisted and spat out a tooth.
Valentine dropped to one knee, panting, breath burning in her lungs
Tristan rolled his shoulders and wiped blood from his mouth. The skyport loomed at his back.
The heat evaporated from Valentine’s veins. Cold air settled over her like a silken sheet, and the sounds of nearby fighting worsened. Soon, the bulk of Tristan’s army would overrun the RSF.
By uncovering the Gravehold and the government’s conspiracies, Valentine had added igneus to the kingdom’s rampant discontent and tossed a flaming match onto it—but she wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Tristan, Jagoda and Thackeray had manipulated the truth—not her.
Valentine gripped her sabre and glared at Tristan.
He’d kill her.
She stood anyway.
The wounds in her chest reopened. Blood seeped through her uniform, running down her arm and chest.
She raised the sabre—it wavered in the air.
With a slight shake of his head, Tristan raised his blade and marched towards her. ‘I’ll see you get a military burial, Sergeant Val—’
Then he screamed and stumbled forward.
Buzz Fitangus was on Tristan’s back, ramming a shard of glass into his neck.
Tristan rolled to the side and tried to speak.
‘Fitangus.’ Blood dripped from Valentine’s mouth when she spoke.
Buzz
dropped the shard of glass and stumbled backwards, eyes fixed on Tristan.
Valentine spat blood and bent down to Tristan. ‘What’s Thackeray want with Catryn’s machine? Tell me. Tell me.’
Blood spluttered from Tristan’s mouth. ‘He wants… a Spire… inside the city.’
Valentine grunted, dragging as much breath as she could into her lungs. ‘Why?’
‘The Idari… reached our shores… If they defeat us and occupy the kingdom… He’d rather see Dalthea destroyed… than under the Idari flag… Valentine… Look for my… Look for my sis…’
Tristan’s head lolled to the side, eyes open and unmoving.
Buzz held a hand out to Valentine—she swept it away and pointed her sabre at him.
‘You betrayed us.’
Buzz retreated. ‘Gods, I’m s-sorry…’ he whispered. ‘He made me, him and the Watch. Look…’ He held an arm out and pointed at fresh track marks. ‘He put scuzz into me, Valentine. I, I’m sorry. Gods, I’m sorry.’
Tears glistened in his eyes, and his words came out broken and fragmented. Buzz smeared his hand across his face and eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me… Please forgive me.’
Valentine had looked into the eyes of liars many times. Her blood afire, fury was the only thing that kept her standing.
‘I believe you,’ said Valentine. ‘We’ve all been manipulated, Buzz. So help me get to Thackeray. Let’s end it.’
For the first time, Valentine saw pride shine in Buzz’s eyes. ‘All right. But you won’t get far lookin’ like that.’
Morton pulled the steering column and the Wind tilted. The Wraith fighter shot past, punching bullets into her starboard side.
Can’t take much more o’ this. The ignometer told Morton the Wind was pissing igneus. Her rotors were damaged and RADIOM graphs stuttered in and out, making it impossible to divine the enemy’s movements.
The airship veered between buildings. Bullets chased it, shattering a row of windows and destroying the illuminated sign of the Feria’s Rest hotel.
‘Fast little bugger.’ Sweat slicked Morton’s palms. Warning lights throbbed and a shrill alarm echoed in his head. ‘You got a plan, I’d damn well like to hear it.’
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