The Hand of the Storm

by Iain Lindsay

  “We’re going to do the jobs that she can’t let the Protectorate Navy be seen doing?” Gulbrand was suspicious. “Nasty jobs. Jobs with low honor?”

  “Think of all that fighting – plenty of honor in winning, huh?” The Captain argued.

  No matter how put-out the crew were, however, it was clear that when faced with the combined might of the Southern Battle Group and the watchful eyes of Admiral Geisse; they really had no choice in the matter. It was also without a doubt a far better prospect than being dead at the blades of the Volt. Odestin and Sevesti eventually started to cook up a scheme where they might be able to make some money from all this ‘vessel under royal warrant’ stuff.

  “And how about you, Tal?” The Captain had finally turned to his newest and youngest hand, who had made a good recovery despite his strange illness earlier. “What do you think of this life? I’m afraid, what with all the fighting, poisoning, fires, man-demons and undead things that it’s not been the sort of mission I would have wanted you to start your airship career on.” The Captain was tired, but his voice was kindly. “If you want your docket money and to leave now, then I would understand. There are lots of things that you can still do with your life, Talin of the Nhkari.”

  The thought of leaving Holder and the others was unthinkable. Holder who was as trapped as he had once been. Gulbrand who would fight to the death for what he thought was right. Kind-mannered Sevesti – even foul-mouthed Odestin; and then there was the tylaethi Lura, his sponsor who had stood for him because she, too, had once felt like an outsider.

  “I like this life,” Talin said simply, and he realized that he meant it as well.

  “Good.” The Captain looked out over the prows of his boat. “Because I know I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else, other than walking these decks.”

  Epilogue

  “What in the name of the great waters do you call that!?” the sighing voice of Wolf-Mother, guardian god of the Nhkari peoples, raged at her accomplice.

  The pair of spirits had left their darkling plain as they worked, and now the gigantic Wolf-Mother with her eyes of starlight was crouched, nose over paws, on the edge of what appeared to be a vast plateau. She glared with her glowing eyes into the shadows of the gulf, as the walls extended a long, long way down. Forever, or so some said. In the shadow-furs of her shoulder there stood a smaller figure; Raven in his humanoid shape except for his black-feather cloak, his clawed feet, and his black-beaked face.

  “That is called an intervention, my dear.” Raven cackled through his harsh and guttural cough.

  “An intervention!? You’ve given him to the enemy!” Wolf Mother growled, desperately wanting to shake out her ruff and send the much smaller godling flying. But she resisted the urge.

  Raven scrabbled on her back, parting furs that were as tall as wheat as he considered; “you were the one who chose Cumu son of Serin as our Champion, Wolf-Mother.”

  “Of course. Cumu son of Serin is fierce. Stubborn. He has been taught some of the ways of the hunting wolf.” Wolf-Mother said proudly.

  “Well…the only way to get him out from under our enemy was the boat…” Raven clacked.

  “The boat of one of the invaders?” Wolf-Mother started to growl. “What if we have been wrong? What if our Champion sides with them, and not us?”

  Raven ruffled his cloak that was as old as time itself, casting an eye back over the horizon, which glowed with a distant line of fire. “Then all the gods will be lost, Wolf-Mother. All.”

  The pair of old deities said no more as they stared into the Abyss at the heart of the worlds…

  THE END

  Dear Reader, Shhh! A Secret…

  First things first – thank you for reading this book! It means so much to know that this world has found a home out there with you, whomever you may be.

  Now; a secret. Iain Lindsay doesn’t exist. Or he does, but not in the way you might think. Iain Lindsay is the Nome-de-guerre for a UK writer and researcher. My day job is in creating some of the fantastical worlds you might see on some of your shelves, but Iain Lindsay is the guy who writes about the airships and dangerous sorceries of the World Islands.

  I would love to spend more time writing and sharing the Airship Wars stories – please consider leaving a review if you would like that to happen!

  Hand of the Storm (on Amazon)

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  Signing up gets you super-secret updates on what I am doing, advance sneak peaks at future books and artwork, behind-the-scenes world-building, and of course free stories!

  Many thanks once again, and as they say in the World Islands – May favorable winds carry you…

  (Shhh!)

  Extract: Storm’s Gambit

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  Captain Tremaine, lately of The Storm, awoke to the shriek of birds and, just for a moment, he had no idea where he was.

  Or rather, when. The heimarian fishing eagles of his distant home had used to sing like that, and once upon a time he had loved waking up to the sound of their joyous challenge. He would race to the shutters and throw them open, just in time to see one of the gigantic gold-plumed bodies of the birds pass by as they floated from the Jarsdottir Massif behind the keep. It would be cold, he allowed himself a moment to recall – cold in the Heim mornings on the ancestral lands of House Tremaine. Cold in the days and nights and every other time as well! his childish fantasy collapsed as the heat of his present prison threw itself around him.

  Captain Joselyn Tremaine was not in far-off Heim anymore, that much was for certain.

  He awoke properly to the hot and humid airs of the yurt – if that is what you can call this thing, the man pondered. It smelled faintly of animal dung, and its walls were made of long green whips of wood, over which other branches had been woven, interspersed with fabric panels like windows that did not (much to Tremaine’s annoyance) do anything at all to keep out the heat. Someone had thoughtfully left a bowl of clean water next to another of brightly colored fruit just inside the tent-flap “door” and his clothes were carefully folded on a wickerwork chair.

  With his wakefulness came the Captain’s many aches, bruises, and various pains. His shoulder itched like a dog in summer, his ribs felt like he had been kicked by a mule, and he had lost his pocket mirror somewhere in the assault, so he couldn’t survey the tapestry of bruises that was his face.

  “Cap’n?” A voice growled as head, arm and one-shoulder of his Quartermaster had trouble fitting through the doorway. Gulbrand was frowning, the Captain could tell because the sight of him was terrifying rather than merely frightening. “It’s time,” the largest heimr grunted.

  “I guess I’d better get it over with.” the Captain groaned, reaching for his things.

  Trousers; durable and with enough move in them for a fight. His linen shirt; still ripped from the sea crossing – not that he needed it in this heat. With a bit of pride, he took the time to re-lace and tie his calf-length black leather boots. Their leather creaked as they fitted his feet like gloves. Next came his sleeveless jerkin, black of course, with brass buckles that strapped tight until he felt it hold his pleading ribs. He pulled it straight and just-so.

  “You sure you need to primp and preen like that?” Gulbrand muttered, sparing a look over his shoulder into the bright dazzle of sun and shrieking birds outside. “I don’t think these swabs care what you look like.”

  “Yes, I need to pimp and preen like this.” Tremaine snipped, next selecting his gauntlets. They were soft and a golden tan color, and he had them made to fit his and only his hands. He flexed his fingers, unable to even notice he was wearing them.

  Good. Just how the Fencing Master would have wanted it, the Captain’s eyes fell on the last piece of his attire; the star of the show.

  His fine, long-handled Maricci sabre. “Did I ever tell you about this?” Tremaine said in a quiet voice as he pic
ked it up. A slight-curve to the thin blade. A cross-hilt with a flare of backwards-leaping bronze circles protected his wrist.

  “It was your fencing tutors.” Gulbrand grunted impatiently.

  “It was.” Tremaine agreed. The hilt held only one gemstone – a small ruby welded into the metal. “It’s a misfit of a blade, he said.”

  Swish. Like he used to call me. “It has a pommel weight, see? And the grip is the length of a hand-and-a-half sword.” Both of his hands held the fencing blade from its unfeasibly long grip for a moment. Swish.

  “Definitely not a true fencer’s weapon,” Tremaine cocked an eyebrow in imitation of the man who had taught him to fight. “And its decoration is lazy.” Another swish through the warm airs of the yurt as the sounds of the gathering crowd outside started to grow. The blade was indeed simple and unadorned. No runes incised into the metal. No House insignia. Nothing but hardened mirror-steel. The scabbard was just red leather, with iron studs.

  “Captain, do we have time for this…” The Quartermaster was getting tetchy.

  “But it is a Maricci, and so it is still amazingly light for all it’s odd shape.”

  ‘Too fine for you, Jocelyn! Not until you can prove as quick with your blade as with your tongue!’ The words of his old tutor sounded still in his mind.

  “The point, my geologically-gifted friend,” the Captain allowed himself a cold smile. “Is that even the unlikeliest of tools can still get the job done.” Swish.

  The Quartermaster backed out of the tent as Tremaine advanced, his eyes sparking with pale fury into the oppressive heat of the morning.

  The sun was clearing the strange, fluting rocks around them, and glinting off every dripping bit of greenery that hung from every surface. Everywhere except the wide packed-earth of the Challenge Ground. The Captain’s ears were filled with the sound of shrieking birds as he descended, alone, waiting for his rival.

  “Are you so eager to meet your gods?” A shape flung itself from the trees overhead, somersaulting and turning in the air before talons slammed into the earth beneath it. The Captain’s opponent was immense. Taller than he was by a foot or more, with long limbs here and there wrapped in supportive linens. His form was a brilliant sunburst and blood crimson, and from his shoulders stretched wings.

  The Khokol clacked its blackened beak lustily, as if it would soon dine on something very tasty indeed…

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  Thank you for supporting my work! STORM’S GAMBIT will be available in Spring 2018.

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