That made it all the easier to strike.
Swift, silent and unseen, he cut through the Nyr-az-Telun as they slept. He slaughtered the disciples in silence, darting across the walls and ending them before they knew what was happening. He disappeared within shadows, using their own tactics against them.
He made his way towards Adravan’s quarters, sensed the old man’s heartbeat as he slept. Sensed Azima’s next to him.
Damien cut through their ranks, employing every trick Adravan had taught him, redirecting and distracting the disciples with smoke bombs and ignium lamps, luring them into traps. He knew the layout better than any of them, used every nook and cranny to his advantage, striking like a phantom flitting through the walls.
The bully Sateo cowered in fear when Damien disarmed him. He gazed at Damien not with hate, but terror. He begged for mercy.
Damien thrust his sword through Sateo’s heart and twisted the blade, refusing to look away as the life faded from Sateo’s eyes.
It’s what he deserves.
Caerith was different. There was honour inside her, even after carrying out Adravan’s orders to slaughter civilians. When Damien disarmed her, she stopped struggling. She knelt and closed her eyes. Damien didn’t dishonour her by hesitating.
Adravan’s best came at him—they believed Damien to be a traitor, one of their own turned against them. They fought with fury, snarled and spat at him, letting their emotions cloud their judgement.
Damien kept his composure. He weaved between their strikes, deflected their blades. He slashed their throats, disembowelled them, let their screams wash over him. He burned their training grounds, kitchens and barracks, set traps in their weapon stores.
Adravan’s heartbeat disappeared.
He knows how to conceal it.
He knows I’m here.
It wouldn’t help.
Fire raged through the camp, leaving nowhere for the cleric to hide.
He sought refuge in the hall where Damien had first laid eyes upon him, the hall where he’d cast a hungry girl out to wander the Solacewood alone.
Azima stood alongside Adravan, his only bodyguard.
‘Kill him!’ Adravan screamed.
Azima stood still, head angled, waiting to see what Damien did next.
In the ebb and flow of fire, the old man looked weak, small. Black smoke clung to his blue robes and pale skin.
Azima stepped forward, tossing her weapons away.
‘You choose him?’ Adravan shrieked.
Azima embraced Damien and whispered in his ear. ‘I knew you’d come. I won’t stop you, Damien. You’re an artist. Do your—’
Damien glared at Adravan as he plunged his dagger into Azima’s gut.
He hated the cleric for what he’d turned him into—a living weapon, a monster.
And Azima celebrated that. Celebrated the murder of innocents.
The monster has always been inside you, ‘Damien’.
Azima slumped to the floor.
Adravan cowered. ‘So I’m to die here, in my bed-clothes and bare feet?’
Damien said nothing.
‘So be it.’ Fear crossed Adravan’s eyes, but he didn’t scream, didn’t beg for mercy. He was a believer in Nyr—proud, stubborn.
He swept his arms wide and closed his eyes. Cleric Adravan would not die on his knees. ‘You crave war, Fieri. You crave death—and like a scuzz addict, you’ll find any reason to justify the need for killing. You’ll keep fighting, keep killing. The Death God is inside you. When the second war of the Gods comes, she’ll be watching you—and know that my presence, my power, will be the thing that saves you when—’
Damien cut Adravan’s throat, and not even the Solacewood wept for him.
But you’ll keep fighting, ‘Damien’.
You craved bloodshed before you came to this place.
You crave it now.
You crave a war without end.
Damien opened his eyes.
Pain flooded his senses. His body leaked blood from a thousand cuts, and each breath drove red-hot pokers through his lungs.
He tried to move but couldn’t; something dragged him across rain-slick ground. He couldn’t get a read on its heartbeat, couldn’t trust his senses.
Blurred shapes materialised in front of him.
‘V… Valentine…’
‘You’re alive, Damien.’
‘Nyrita… I…’ Damien’s voice trailed away.
‘You’re alive.’
‘I can’t… hear…’
His limbs didn’t obey his will. Blood filled Damien’s mouth and hushed voices talked over him, mingling with the rain falling upon him.
‘…Catryn’s help… Liberty Wind went down, Captain Tugarin nowhere to be…’
He remembered Korvan, remembered the destruction raining down on Dalthea.
Damien tried to get up, fell.
‘Valentine… What… What do we do?’
‘The only thing we can.’ She towered over him. Bursts of lightning streaked overhead and torrents of rain battered her. ‘We keep fighting.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
An ignium lamp set into the wall of Tiera’s cabin cast a dim, golden glow throughout.
Gallows ran his hand over smooth mahogany fixtures and panels, at odds with the rough ignicite throughout the rest of the ship.
Tiera slouched on the edge of the bed, her head hanging low.
‘You wanted to talk?’ he asked.
‘Ventris. She deserved to die, didn’t she?’
Gallows leaned against the wall. ‘When I fought the Idari, I didn’t think about whether anyone deserved to die—I didn’t like fighting and killing; I did it to protect Sera. Hell, I did it to protect myself.’
Tiera didn’t speak for a full minute. ‘I’ve killed. I’ve hurt and I’ve punished and I’ve never cared about the right and wrong of it. Not until I killed that finisa.’
Gallows had never seen Tiera like this—broken, vulnerable. ‘Ventris wouldn’t have stopped, Tiera. Soon as our backs were turned, more’n likely she’d have knifed us. Serena, too.’
‘Don’t reckon I’m much better. I wanted to bleed the world, Gallows. I wanted to teach it to scream.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I’ve always been angry—ever since Datthias branded me and…’ She clenched her eyes shut, wincing at some memory.
‘I found refuge with Ventris,’ she continued. ‘Fighting helped fill the pit inside me. Thought I was giving the world what it deserved. I hurt people because it felt good to hit back at something. Not caring was an easy way to live… But I wasn’t living. Nothing filled that hole, not ’til I met Fitz.’
Gallows kept quiet. He knew how hard it was to open up to yourself, let alone someone else. He didn’t want to overreach and send her retreating into herself.
‘I saw him again,’ she said. ‘Fitz. In the library. Just a shadow, a puppet version, but…’ Tiera shook her head, trying to find the right words. ‘He reminded me not of who I am, but who I want to be. I followed Ventris because it was easy. I gave in to anger because it was easy. But Fitz made me want to try harder. He offered something else. And I betrayed that.’
Gallows ran his fingers through his hair. ‘The ones we love help us to be the best versions of ourselves—and when we fall short, we blame ourselves. But as long as we remember ’em, they’re not really gone—and there’s hope.’
Seconds ticked past in silence. Gallows turned to leave.
‘Even though they’re dead?’ Tiera called at his back.
‘Yeah.’ Gallows stepped out of the cabin. His body throbbed with pain and exhaustion gnawed at him. ‘Because that doesn’t mean we stop loving them.’
Serena sat in one of the helm’s eleven curving stone chairs, staring at the stars, listening to the dragon ship and thumbing the pages of Captain Crimsonwing and the Sky Pirate’s Daughter.
A natural warm glow emanated throughout the room. Comforting. Safe. Consoles made from stone pedestals stood like elegant altars.<
br />
Gallows eased into one of the other seats. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t know how he’d react when she told him where she had to go next.
When he spoke, he kept his voice low and calm. ‘What happened to Enoch?’
She knew it was coming, but the sound of his name speared Serena in the heart.
She told Gallows everything—about Enoch’s pain, his past, about how he was created to kill Sirens. She told him about Sul and Musa and the Orinul, her words tripping over themselves as she tried to process it.
They sat together, wordless, watching stars wink in and out. Gallows didn’t seem happy at being alive, or grief-stricken at losing Enoch. Like Serena, he seemed numb. Tired.
Minutes ticked past.
‘So,’ Gallows said, ‘where’d you get the big, magic dragon ship?’
One corner of Serena’s mouth curled. ‘It was in the sky, floating in the mist. I can’t explain it, not properly… But I think this is Schiehallion—Musa’s war dragon. The machinery was added later, but only Musa could control it. I don’t know where it came from. Maybe the Orinul.’
‘You reckon you know enough to fly it?’
‘Yeah. Musa’s visions—they were flickers of her memories coming through. Some of her memories are floating around inside me. This was a sailing ship, at first, before Musa brought it into the skies. You know how ignicite regenerates over time? That’s how it fuels itself—it accelerates ignicite growth by using it. Except it was dormant for a long time.’ Serena pointed to a slot inside a stone console. A golden hue emanated from it. ‘When the scholars found it, I reckon they added the machinery to get it going again. The ignerium we found in the tomb gave it a kick-start. It’s powering the machinery, but it’s not fuelling the ship.’
‘Well, none of that makes any sense to be, we can’t call it Schiehallion. You thought of a name?’
Serena thumbed the dog-eared pages of the book in her lap, thinking about the dragon ship’s red sails as they cut through the mist towards her. ‘The Crimsonwing.’
Gallows beamed. ‘I like it.’
‘What happened to Ventris?’
Gallows took a moment to answer. ‘Dead.’
Serena didn’t have any reaction. ‘She was wrong.’
‘About what?’
‘The vision worming in her head. The one she showed me. It was an illusion, like all the other shit in Palthonheim. Guess it never occurred to her that the thing that put it there was lying. How did she die?’
‘Tiera.’
Serena wished for a different answer.
Pastel-pink tendrils crept through the sky. Sunrise. A new day.
Tiera stalked into the helm, silent, arms crossed. ‘This rig is too big for the three of us.’
‘Maybe we’ll join the Raincatchers’ Guild?’ said Gallows.
Serena watched the sun rise. She saw the advent of the new day as a chance to reflect and recover. What did Gallows and Tiera see when they looked beyond the skyglass? Did they carry the same doubts she did? Harbour the same worries? After she defeated the Orinul, Musa cut herself off from her friends to keep them safe. She shouldn’t have.
‘You said it was Musa’s ship,’ Gallows said. ‘Not Belios’?’
‘She was the Siren. Gallows, everything we think we know about the Indecim is wrong. The “Herald of Death” shit Myriel told me about was wrong—propaganda, spat by the Orinul. Aerulus and Nyr’s real names were Aldus and Nura. Sol wasn’t a sun god—he was Sul, a scribe—and a traitor, who changed the Fayth to say that Aerulus was the Gods’ leader, not Musa. They were all just people. The Orinul came from the stars—they arrived here and enslaved mankind and drew our life force to give them immortality—for millennia. The world’s much older than anyone knows.’
‘How could they have all that power?’ Gallows asked. ‘Why did no-one fight back before Musa?’
‘Their mind control—it’s different from Thackeray’s drug and your witch. It was different from mine, too, before I forced visions into Solassis’ head.’
Tiera’s face screwed up. ‘Huh?’
‘The Orinul made people see things, feel things. They controlled entire countries, used their illusions to keep people docile and happy.’
Tiera scowled. ‘The Orinul made people happy?’
‘Yeah. When Musa broke the spell, some ran to the Orinul, begging to be put back under. Some of ’em even fought Musa and her army. Most just killed themselves, too traumatised to come to terms with the truth. Imagine having everything you’ve ever known taken away from you. It was all a lie, but sometimes the truth ain’t any better.’
‘Thackeray’s drug gave me hallucinations, too,’ Tiera said. ‘Of myself. It took my identity away made me stupid, passive.’ Tiera clenched her fists. ‘The man who put the gun in my hand slapped me around and I didn’t even feel angry.’
‘But it wore off,’ Serena pointed out. ‘The Orinul’s visions didn’t. Not until Musa was born with a fragment of their power. The Orinul changed the course of history.’
Serena set her book down and stood in the centre of the bridge—her bridge. ‘There’s something I have to do. I’m always gonna be a Siren. I… I accept that now. There’s no cure. I can’t change that—all I can do is change what happens next.’
Gallows stood, too. ‘There’s no “cure” ’cause there’s nothing wrong with you, Serena. Nothing at all.’
She wished she could believe that. ‘Everything that’s happened to me, to us… It feels like everything’s been guiding us to this moment—like history’s repeating. I saw through Musa’s eyes—saw the people at her side… Saw how she cut them off, one by one. She isolated herself for years because she was scared of her power—because she lost the ones she loved. But I’m not gonna make the same mistake.’ She tried to fight it, but her eyes burned. ‘That’s why… That’s why I’m asking you to come with me. You don’t have to, but…’ Her words faded to nothing. The numbness melted away, leaving her stomach squirming.
Gallows offered her a weak smile. ‘We won’t abandon you, Serena.’
‘We’re kin,’ Tiera agreed. ‘Just like the Raincatcher’s Ballad says.’
Serena clenched her eyes shut. ‘You guys, Enoch, Myriel… You’re the only family I’ve ever had.’
‘We trust you.’ Gallows exchanged a glance with Tiera. ‘So, where are we going—Captain?’
Where it started. Where it ends. Serena knew where the force inside Sul dwelled. She could still feel it—feel its hatred, feel the souls entwined with it, rising, clamouring for its release.
An army.
She sensed it, buried deep in the ground somewhere—beyond the ocean, beyond Imanis, a kingdom far away.
No, not a kingdom—an empire.
‘Idaris.’
The End
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‘Fortune Find You!’
Also by Steven Mckinnon
The Raincatcher’s Ballad
Symphony of the Wind
The Fury Yet To Come
Wrath of Storms
Other works
Boldly Going Nowhere
The Vividarium, featured in the anthology In Memory: A Tribute to Sir Terry Pratchett
GoogleFuture, featured in Issue 6 of The High Flight Fanzine
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I give my limitless to Michael Schaefer—without his detailed advice and constructive criticism, Wrath of Storms would be a much weaker book. Likewise, deepest appreciation to Travis M. Riddle for reading this book in four days and providing comprehensive feedback. I owe both of you a drink! (As long as it’s tea.)
Likewise, thanks to Alan McKinnon, Luke Kemp, Maggie Martin and the rest of the Fantasy B-Team for words of encouragement, suggestions and support. Thanks once again
to Andi Marlowe tightening the manuscript and casting a critical eye.
I’d also like to take a moment to extend my warm regards to all of the authors, reviewers and bloggers I met as a result of entering Symphony of the Wind into the Self-Published Fantasy Blog-Off 2018. There’s not enough space to mention everyone, but here’s a start: Emma Davis and Adam “Swiff” Weller at Fantasy Book Review; Timy Takács at RockStarlit Book Asylum; Travis Riddle (again); Jenna-Kate Crombie at Book Odyssey (technically since Boldly Going Nowhere!); Kristen “Superstardrifter” McDowell; Mark Lawrence for spearheading the contest; Josh Erikson, Lauren McNeil, Shawn D. Robertson, T. L. Branson, M. L. Spencer, Lee Conley, Michael Baker, Marilyn Peake, Scott Kaelen, Ian Ségal, Justine Bergman, Michael Evan, Jacob Sannox, Sadir Samir, Dustin Freuh, Martin Ashwood, Nick T. Borrelli (Keep #FF going!); Cameron Scaggs and everyone at Nerd Book Review; Richard Nell, Quenby Olson, Dave Woolliscroft, Jon Auerbach, Phil Parker, Carol A. Park, Phil Williams, Kayleigh Nicol and Alan Brenik.
And to my fellow SPFBO ’18 finalists: Zack Pike (the winner!), Barbara Kloss, Devin Madson, Craig Schaefer, Mike Shel, Megan Crewe, Patrick LeClerc, Keith Ward and Angie Grigaliunas. I’m glad I got to share the SPFBO adventure with you!
Fist bumps and consolatory hugs to the friends and family members who were all neglected while this book was being forged. I would apologise, but I’ve already started work on Book Three, so…
Cheers to Sinéad, Callan and Robbie, Ryan and Rachel, and to the clans of Martin and Mann. Eternal appreciation to my mum, Jeana, and to my Granda Henry, Ross Bullen and Auntie Sally.
And to my dad, Charlie—for everything, forever and always.
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