The Fury Yet To Come

by Steven McKinnon

Nervous laughter trickled from Helmsley. ‘Why do they call it “Ginny”?’

  ‘Named after Genevieve Couressa,’ Rocco answered. ‘She’s got big boobs.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Stay focused,’ barked Fallon.

  The room turned crimson as one of the three lamps sparked into life.

  Gallows yearned to be by Sera’s side, to feel her heartbeat next to his. Musa, Belios, Nyr and whoever the hell else might be listening, you better not let me die.

  The second red light came on.

  Major Fallon turned, his one good eye meeting every one of his soldiers. ‘None of you die. That’s a goddamn order.’

  The vessel soared into the air as it skimmed the incline of the beach. It landed hard, red became green, and the hatch opened.

  ‘Go!’

  * * *

  All remaining Dalthean vessels landed on the beachhead, cannons roaring.

  Metal hatches opened. Troops fanned out to defensive positions, and opened fire with their repeaters. Sand and dirt exploded as incoming fire lashed at the Dalthean assault boats. Towering spiral flames rose into the air, and charred black remains littered the sand.

  His head low, Corporal Gallows pounded across the beach. There were dozens of Dalthean troops at his back, all with the same objective as him: Secure the beach and rout the enemy.

  The Idari infantry took up defensive positions beneath the assault boats’ shells. The enemy fled into bunkers and civilian structures, hollowed out and bastardised with barbed wire. Looming behind them, the governor’s house stood on thick stilts, reaching at least four storeys, matched by the neighbouring kapok trees.

  The ground quaked and rock split beneath the Dalthean seaborne onslaught. Officers barked orders and the sluggish stutter of Vindicators sent Idari men to their graves.

  ‘Troop Two, on me!’ a female officer shouted. Like Rocco, her irises were coloured purple. ‘Stay behind the rocks, let the boats knock as many bunkers out as possible, then kick ’em when they’re down!’

  ‘Incoming!’

  ‘Son of a bitch, my legs!’

  ‘Medic! We need a medic!’

  ‘Pop smoke to the north side, enemy in the treeline!’

  ‘Roger!’

  Gallows’ unit kept moving. In the chaos, it was tough to tell who was who. More than once a bullet zinged past his head, and Gallows was convinced it came from one of his own side.

  Ahead, the enemy strongholds took fire from the Dalthean vessels’ bombardment, some shells even reaching as far as the mansion.

  ‘Keep the pace!’ growled Fallon. ‘Eyes open for anti-air fire—we see a double-A, we gotta take it out before the rotorheads come in!’

  Blood and ignium gas filled Gallows’ nose. Enemy fire ripped the sky open, and a man in a Dalthean uniform was torn asunder in an instant.

  Voices tangled in the air as men dived for cover. Rifle rounds snapped around Gallows as he took aim. His Vindicator shuddered, killing men before they realised they’d taken a bullet. Idari kuramanusa spilled from a wall of smoke like phantoms made real.

  ‘Incoming!’

  ‘Too many of the bastards!’

  ‘Keep shooting!’

  It didn’t take long for the mound of bodies to form.

  Bullets flying, men weeping, blood seeping into mud… No amount of training prepared you for it all.

  Focus, damn it—take your eyes from the Idari for a second, and they’ll gut you.

  Gallows pressed on, surrounded by allies. He couldn’t tell Fallon’s voice from the rest.

  More kuramanusa slave-soldiers broke from the treeline. Most of them looked like they hadn’t been fed in a month. Aside from the danger and the adrenaline worming through his limbs, Gallows felt something else: Pity. His enemies weren’t warriors—they were blunt instruments—cattle, whose spirits had been broken apart and ground down to nothing. Gods know what the Idari put them through.

  With heavy limbs, Gallows raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Some of the kuramanusa wore relieved expressions when they died.

  ‘Platoon Three,’ came a voice, ‘defensive positions, pin ’em in—keep your eyes on the bastards!’

  Gallows took aim and fired at the stampede of slave-soldiers. Most of the kuramanusa charging towards his unit weren’t armed with guns—they brandished swords, hatchets, and rusty knives. They’re being used to soak up our bullets.

  But it wasn't just kuramanusa heading their way—hiding behind the human shields were regular Idari infantrymen, with barely any dirt on their blood-red uniforms.

  ‘Hit the deck!’ boomed Omari.

  Gallows threw himself to the ground as one of them opened fire with a flintlock rifle. Sergeant Omari returned fire. A kuramanusa kept charging towards Gallows, not seeming to mind his own intestines nesting around his legs. Gallows didn’t need to shoot him again before he died.

  ‘Dig in here!’ called Fallon.

  Gallows crawled along the ground, keeping as flat as possible, not taking his eyes from the treeline ahead.

  ‘Cooper, you okay?’ yelled Rocco from somewhere to Gallows’ left.

  Gallows didn’t hear the kid answer, but Rocco said, ‘Good lad, keep it up.’

  It was strewn with bodies now, but a dirt path led to the governor’s mansion from the beach. The gatehouse had been destroyed, but Gallows reckoned a host of traps littered the obvious route in anyway.

  Bullets snapped and echoed through the jungle. The assault boats’ cannons silenced, though Gallows’ ears still rang from the clamour.

  ‘We got the bastards running,’ said Rocco.

  ‘You think so?’ Omari asked. ‘You’re welcome to stick your head out and see if it stays on your neck.’

  ‘Rein it in,’ ordered Fallon. ‘Still more comin’.’

  The Vindicator’s buttstock shoved deeper into Gallows’ shoulder with each pull of the trigger. The enemy rampage had calmed—instead of spilling from the treeline and civilian structures, they trickled, luring Dalthean fire one way and attacking from another.

  Moments turned into minutes. Ignium and gun smoke settled in the air, and even the adrenaline was beginning to wear off. Guns still fired but Gallows couldn’t see any more hostiles. There’s more coming. There has to be.

  ‘Is that all of ’em?’ a soldier from another squad asked. Gallows adjusted his aim and burrowed deeper into the sand.

  ‘Reckon so,’ said someone. ‘We did it, lads! We won! We—’

  Then the real soldiers came.

  Idari veterans—kiros, clad in red and gold—rushed from the mansion doors like a tide, their guns blazing. The decorative flintlock weapons may have been old-fashioned, but they were lethal enough.

  A Dalthean soldier flew back, clutching at the hole in his throat. He gasped, blood spluttering between his fingers. Then he stopped moving altogether.

  The new wave of soldiers was smarter, more experienced; the troops ducked and weaved between fire, gave orders to one another instead of just charging with their eyes clenched shut. Gallows hit a few, but more were coming.

  ‘Medic!’

  ‘Get down!’

  ‘This way, follow me…!’

  ‘…ten o’clock! Bastards are trying to flank us!’

  ‘So don’t let ’em!’

  ‘Sniper!’

  ‘…and send a runner back to the boat, tell ’em we need reinforcements…’

  ‘Medic! Medic!’

  A familiar face smothered in bloody dirt fell next to Gallows.

  ‘Cooper, stay low!’ Gallows yelled. The kid stared up at him, head shaking. ‘You okay?’

  Cooper nodded, mouth pinned shut.

  Gallows patted his arm. ‘Good. Keep firing!’

  An enemy soldier leapt from Gods knew where, the bayonet on his rifle catching the moonlight. Gallows rolled on the ground—the bayonet sliced through his uniform, missing an artery by an inch.

  His shaking finger pressing the trigger, Gallows sent stuttering
hot metal into the enemy. Guts and blood sprayed out with liberal abandon.

  Omari roared almost as loud as his weapon. He carried a D-22 ‘Mouthshutter’ shotgun—and used it to separate an Idari’s head from his shoulders. ‘Hold the line! Hold the line!’

  ‘They’re falling back,’ said Rocco. ‘Fearsome kiros, my arse!’

  ‘Doesn’t feel like they’re retreating,’ Gallows said. ‘The best of ’em will be holed up in the house.’

  A trail of bright red lights simmered in the sky

  ‘Anti-air gun!’ yelled Fallon. ‘We can’t light up the mansion until the double-As are down!’

  Gallows hauled Cooper to his feet. ‘Stay with me,’ he told the kid.

  They tumbled, tripped and scrambled across the rocky terrain towards the mansion, Gallows’ repeater spitting death every step of the way. Cooper’s weapon fired but he hit nothing.

  ‘Cover!’ yelled Omari.

  Fallon’s squad took cover behind a decimated brick wall skirting the mansion’s courtyard. It was dotted with bullet holes.

  ‘First Platoon!’ yelled Fallon. ‘Take the west side! Watch the smaller structures, keep your eyes on the corners! Second, you guys hit the north-east. Third, Fifth and Sixth—you boys are on cleaning detail: About a mile into the treeline there’s an anti-air platform—take it out and pop a flare when you’re done. Any of your lads are separated, now’s the time to bring ’em in. 32nd Airborne will flatten anything else. Seventh and Fourth Platoons: We hit the courtyard and draw fire from the mansion. Everyone else, secure the beach and make sure none of the Idari scum hit our boats. Go!’

  Fallon bolted through the opening in the wall, cursing and yelling. Dirt flew up at his heels in spouts.

  ‘Oi, arseholes!’ screeched Rocco. ‘Fire in the hole!’ Rocco hurled an ignium charge over the wall. It exploded, sending a group of enemies scattering. Fallon advanced, gunning them all down. He picked off more as they appeared behind windows or scurried between the mansion’s stilts.

  Gallows followed the major towards a ruined guardhouse by the outskirts of the courtyard. ‘You got good aim for a man with one eye.’

  ‘All instinct,’ said Fallon. ‘Platoon Seven—circle west from here. My men, fan out opposite—don’t let ’em catch us in a pincer! Stick to cover!’

  Bullets zipped overhead, glowing like fireflies for an instant before dying off. Gallows, Helmsley and Omari pressed behind an outhouse, while Fallon, Cooper and Rocco took cover behind a dismantled motorcarriage.

  Smoke rose in coils, and ignium stung Gallows’ eyes. Blackened bricks lay strewn on the ground, and scorch marks peppered the earth. The windows and doors on the lower levels of the mansion were barricaded with wood and chains.

  ‘Don’t suppose you got a key?’ Gallows asked.

  ‘Hold position,’ said Fallon. ‘Wait for the other platoons to clear the grounds. If the double-A stands, then we breach—I don’t wanna be standing out here with our dicks in our hands.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, sir,’ said Cooper.

  Omari thumbed more shells into his shotgun. ‘Boy’s finally getting a sense of humour.’

  Rocco peered through the husk of the motorcarriage with a scope. ‘They’re converging three floors up,’ he said. ‘Maybe our lads are drawing them away… Shit, gyrogun, maintain cover!’

  From nowhere, a storm of bullets punched holes into the outhouse and chewed through the black husk of the motorcarriage. The report of fire was deafening over the weapon’s spinning barrels—the world vibrated like Gallows was standing in the midst of an earthquake.

  The enemy stopped to reload, but Gallows’ head still rang. Heart pounding, he chanced a look—the gyrogun was similar to the few Dalthean models he’d seen before: A tight cluster of cylindrical barrels mounted on a wheeled platform and operated by a hand-crank. When the crank rotated a barrel and lined it up with the weapon’s horizontal shaft, it fired a round.

  ‘Pick your chances!’ Rocco yelled above the echoes in Gallows’ head. ‘These things spend ’emselves quicker’n a lad on his first night with a woman!’

  Gallows pressed his back against the wall before the gyrogun roared into life again. So much for the Idari shunning technology.

  ‘Major!’ Gallows started. But when he looked to Fallon, the words fell dead in his mouth.

  The major’s face had paled, and brownish-red blood welled over his uniform.

  Gods above…

  ‘Medic!’ Omari yelled.

  ‘Who’s hit?’ Rocco demanded.

  Fallon squirmed on the ground. ‘I am!’

  Helmsley ran to the major, unpeeling supplies from his medikit.

  ‘Forget me,’ Fallon spat, ‘we can’t take another hit from that gyrogun!’

  ‘We ain’t getting close to it,’ said Omari. ‘Not without armour.’

  Helmsley ripped Fallon’s shirt open. ‘You’re bleeding out, sir! I, I don’t have the materials to perform surgery but I can patch you up and get you—’

  ‘Screw it,’ barked Fallon. ‘Get back to the beach, tell ’em we need a Bulldog pronto!’

  ‘But I’m the medic!’

  ‘Carrying stretchers while getting’ shot at takes balls, Private—but right now, you’re as useful to me as tits on a snake—get me the goddamn Bulldog!’

  ‘Sir!’

  Both hands clutching his helmet, Helmsley turned and fled, bullets peppering the ground next to him.

  ‘So much for them shunning technology,’ said Rocco. ‘That gyro looks as lethal as what we use.’

  Gallows dragged Fallon away from the motorcarriage shell, and along with Rocco, they huddled behind the outhouse, the clatter of the gyrogun filling the air.

  ‘Helmsley’s right,’ said Gallows, ‘you gotta get out of here.’

  ‘Like hell!’ the major spat.

  ‘Is this worth dying for?’

  Judging by the scowl on his face, the question made Fallon angrier than the bullet in his gut. ‘You’re goddamn right it is.’

  ‘Hey, hey…’ Rocco pointed to the sky. Bright orange orbs rushed up, trailing smoke like the tails of a comet.

  ‘Damn, that was quick,’ said Gallows. ‘They must have taken out the double-A.’

  ‘And that means we can bomb the shit out of the mansion,’ said Omari.

  Pressing over the land, the rolling hum of a large airship boomed like thunder—it belonged to a six-thruster second-generation craft, bulky and fitted with ignium envelopes on its port and starboard sides. The words ‘RSF Leap of Faith’ were painted on its hull.

  Cheering erupted from Dalthean troops as it lumbered through the sky, its twin searchlights pinning a predatory gaze on the enemy position.

  Accompanying the Leap of Faith were two Eagle fighter craft—small, one-person winged craft with a single thruster and spiking stabiliser fin. The ground rumbled as they shot past.

  Gallows breathed easier. With air support, we’ll be done here in—

  From the trees, a double-A launched torrents of hot metal into the sky. In an instant, the two Eagles erupted in flames and arrowed into the earth. The Leap of Faith took evasive action, wheeling in the sky as bullets peppered its hull.

  ‘The hell’s happening?’ Fallon demanded. His voice was growing weak.

  ‘The double-A’s still standing!’ Gallows shook his head in disbelief. ‘The 35th are turning back!’

  ‘Guess the rotorheads got tired of waiting!’ said Rocco.

  ‘No, Third Platoon, Fifth and Sixth… They sent the flare up!’ Gallows felt his voice grow hoarse from shouting beneath the roar of the Leap of Faith’s thrusters. ‘They gave the signal to attack.’

  Sergeant Omari shook his head. ‘Or someone else did.’

  ‘They lured our boys and sucker punched ’em?’ said Rocco. ‘Sneaky Idari bastards.’

  The double-A continued drilling bullets into the sky, chasing the Leap of Faith.

  ‘We gotta take it out,’ said Omari.

  Fallon struggled to h
is feet, hand pressed against his wound. ‘Where in all Hells is my Bulldog?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Gallows. ‘Wait…’

  Smoke coiling from one of its rotors, the Leap of Faith came around again, its guns needling bullets into the mansion’s stilts. With a crack, the stilts split and the lower floors of the mansion collapsed in a deluge of brick and stone.

  The Leap of Faith kept going, kept soaking up damage from the enemy anti-air defences. It was going in for the kill, exchanging fire with the emplacement.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ said Omari.

  ‘Balls o’ brass,’ said Rocco.

  The airship lurched and descended as AA fire chewed through her armour. She deployed her ordnance—a blinding white light filled Gallows’ head, and an almighty roar detonated.

  When Gallows opened his eyes again, the airship was gone. Columns of black smoke towered above the treeline, accompanied by the crackle of fire.

  They’d won, but it didn’t feel like a victory.

  ‘The weapon.’ Nidra’s nails dug into Gallows’ skin, pulling him from her thrall.

  ‘I…’ Gallows gasped. Coming out the other end of Nidra’s power was like having a blanket pulled from you as you slept—and for a moment, Gallows yearned to stay within the warmth before the threads were taken away.

  Nidra tipped her head to the side, appraising Gallows like a vet choosing which dog to put down.

  The maddening silence was made worse by the fact Nidra seemed to enjoy it.

  ‘I’ve no idea where your weapon is,’ Gallows insisted. ‘How many times do I have to say the same damn thing?’

  Nidra kept her mouth closed, but her forehead glistened and her shoulders sagged.

  Whatever her power is, it’s taking its toll.

  ‘It would be better for you,’ she said. ‘To tell me where it is. If I don’t get what I want, then you are of no use to me.’

  ‘And if you do get what you want?’ Gallows croaked. ‘You’ll let me go to live happily after ever? Screw you.’

  Nidra drew in closer. Gallows could smell the sweat on her brow.

  ‘Give me the location of the weapon,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all you have to do. Then it’ll be over. I promise.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s convinced me.’