Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  Symphony of the Wind

  Steven McKinnon

  Contents

  Blurb

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  A note on the text

  The Raincatcher’s Ballad

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Afterword

  Also by Steven McKinnon

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A bounty hunter with a death wish. An orphan with her head in the clouds. A conspiracy with the power to bring down a kingdom.

  Serena dreams of leaving her harsh desert home behind in her very own airship. But when an assassin's knife meant for Serena kills her friend instead, the rebellious orphan ventures into the corrupt heart of Dalthea to discover who put a price on her head. With each new turn, she edges closer to uncovering the awful truth—and the mystical powers brewing deep within her.

  After his fiancée’s death, soldier-turned-bounty hunter Tyson Gallows is eager to sacrifice his life in the line of duty. When a foreign enemy assassinates a high-ranking official, he vows to bring them to justice. On the hunt for a killer, Gallows exposes a sinister plot that proves his fiancée’s death was no accident.

  Driven by revenge, Serena and Gallows must join forces to take down the conspiracy before the kingdom falls to ruin.

  Symphony of the Wind is the first book in a gritty epic fantasy trilogy. If you like hardened heroes, steampunk airships, and dark magic and monsters, then you’ll love Steven McKinnon’s visceral adventure.

  Get the prequel novella, The Fury Yet To Come, absolutely FREE by joining the Raincatchers’ Guild Mailing List!

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  ‘Fortune Find You!’

  A note on the text

  This book was written in the United Kingdom and utilises British English, such as ‘colour’ instead of ‘color’, ‘armour’ instead of ‘armor’, ‘mum’ instead of ‘mom’ and the suffix ‘-ise’ instead of ‘-ize’ etc.

  For Zoe,

  who is a symphony unto herself

  The Raincatcher’s Ballad

  By gaze of stars and glow of the moon

  Navigate sea and sky

  Pitched to the wind, pray homeward soon

  For Heaven’s court, we’ll fly

  Guided by will, our compass so true

  Calm the wrath of storms

  Pierce the veil, sky forever blue,

  The wind, our siren-song

  Aerulus-blessed, and so we soar

  From chains that bind the land

  Melodies of Nyr, she sings and roars

  The choir of the damned

  Anchor raised, we sail for the sky

  ’catchers, sailors, kin

  Live by the code, united by

  The symphony of the wind

  Chapter One

  Nothing but the hum of engines and the song of the wind.

  Just how Serena liked it.

  She clasped the railing, savouring the cold air as it whipped her long, emerald hair. The sun sat low, and the Liberty Wind charged towards the horizon. The work would begin soon.

  But for now, there was no-one else in the world—just Serena and her ship sailing weaving their way through the sky, soaring through wispy clouds—a world away from the scorched and arid plains below.

  She raced to the aft-deck to watch the airship’s exhaust sew silver streams. These were the precious moments she got to herself—and she wouldn’t let the small matter of being forbidden up here while the ship was in the air stop her from enjoying them. Anyway, what was life without a little danger?

  The familiar tumble in her stomach rocked her as the Wind pitched upward. She closed her eyes, and spread her arms like wings.

  Gods, why couldn’t she could stay like this forever? Just her and the limitless sky—no restraints, no boundaries, just endless-

  ‘Oi, muck rat!’

  Serena’s eyes shot open and dread filled her belly like sewage—Harvel Roarke had that effect on people.

  ‘You’re supposed to be in the holds making space!’

  Serena winced at the sound of his grating, nasal bark and felt her skin burn scarlet. ‘Sorry, I, I was just-’

  ‘How many times do you gotta be told?’ Roarke’s livid eyes appraised her like a coyote’s. ‘Just ’cause the captain’s got a soft spot for ya don’t mean I ain’t afraid to beat some sense into ya. Go, get a move on!’

  ‘I was going anyway.’ She hurried past him, tying her hair and pulling her flight cap on. It made her scalp itch.

  ‘Green-haired freak,’ Roarke muttered.

  Serena scurried through the metal hatch and dropped onto the gangway below, greeted by the metallic whiff of ignium and recycled oil. The wall-mounted lamps bathed the gangway in warm orange. If she tried hard, she could convince herself the rust was autumn leaves.

  She stepped over rucksacks and spare parts on her way down into the holds, exposed pipes rattling every step of the way. The sound of engines, pistons and rotors seeped through the walls, humming like mosquito wings. Serena charged around a corner—and walked straight into the kuramanusa.

  ‘Oh, sor-’ She’d seen him often enough but he’d never uttered a word to her. A scar cut straight down the middle of his face in a perfect line. The scarring on the right side swirled like cursive writing. Beautiful—and deliberate.

  She’d heard stories about the kuramanusa—men and women enslaved by the Idari. ‘May I pass?’ he said in broken Dalthean, maintaining a smile despite Serena’s staring at him.

  Her face burned and she flattened herself against the wall, allowing him to squeeze past with the two ignium canisters in his wiry, veined arms.

  She wove between the rest of the crew, jostling and elbowing her way through the cramped passages. Voices shouted all around her. Being tall for sixteen was good for traipsing across the streets after curfew, but it was a handicap here. ‘’scuse me, ‘scuse me,’ she said, ducking under someone’s arm.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on, dolly!’ A peal of laughter followed, and Serena rolled her eyes. Oxbridge. She hated being called ‘dolly’, and she hated the way he laughed every time he said it. Sooner I age out and get my own airship, the better.

  She continued down the walkway. A jet of steam spiked from one of the pipes ahead of her. Without even looking, Serena pulled her wrench out and tightened the bolt, the steam stuttering to a halt. She was sick of people walking past thi
s stuff. Why was she the only one who cared? Repairs weren’t even her job! ‘Whole thing would fall out of the sky if it wasn’t for me.’

  Acid vinegar wafted through the Wind’s poky excuse for a kitchen. Clara’s broth. Or cleaning fluid. It wasn’t always an easy distinction.

  Clara’s pudgy face poked out. ‘Where’ve you been, missy? You should’ve been down here ages ago.’

  ‘Shit, sorry, Clara. Just wanted some fresh air before we got stuck in. Sorry.’

  The woman’s pink face softened, but not much. ‘Aye, well, that’s all right by me, turtledove, but you know how Roarke gets, especially on the job. You’re lucky old Fitz is fond of you. Plenty of folk would be glad to get a job aboard a raincatcher. You need to learn to appreciate what you have.’

  ‘Oi, Clara! What broth you got for us?’ called Dixon as he barrelled down the passageway.

  ‘Bone and canned vegetable!’ smiled Clara, her grin filling half of her face. ‘Slaved over it too so I expect an empty bowl come supper.’

  Dixon beamed. ‘Feast fit for King Owain himself!’

  Canned vegetable soup was all they ever had, but Dixon always asked and he never failed to act delighted. He winked at Serena and carried on, securing his goggles. Serena watched him go, aware of how fast her heartbeat had become. She could never meet his eye when they bumped into each other, but he was one of the good ones. And not much older either…

  Clara motioned with her head. ‘Right, off you run, we got work to do, and if you’re lucky, I’ll see if I can conjure a chocolate square for you and your pal.’

  Serena darted towards the holds, feet clattering upon the floor.

  Captain Fitzwilliam took a sly draught from his flask. The Liberty Wind twisted in the air, her rotors thrumming and beating the air like giant batwings, her shadow flitting along the barren, lightning-scorched earth as the sun died for the day. She arrowed towards the towering Spire. Its peak pierced the heavens.

  The air was always suffocating in the thunderplains, and it could choke the life from a man if he stayed out here too long—one of the side-effects from the Spires interfering with the natural way of things. Long as it keeps cash flowing, they can make it snow for all I care.

  Third water run of the day. His bones ached, and it took longer for ’em to settle these days. He found his knees clicking more, found himself getting up to piss during the night, and of course his paintbrush moustache was more grey than black—but damn it, he was alive, and that wasn’t nothing. He’d sacked more airships, cracked more safes and bedded more women than any man had a right to. He welcomed old age.

  Changed days now, but a good captain learned to roll with the punches. Sometimes literally. Captain Vaughan’s face floated in his mind again. Flash bastard.

  ‘Right, listen up!’ Fitz squared his broad shoulders. ‘You know how it’s done by now—and if you don’t, Dixon, I’m done teaching ya.’

  Tiera, Fitz’s first mate, stood at his side like always. Her long, wild black hair hung in a taut ponytail, and she stood straight with her muscular arms crossed. The faded, brown, leather work gear always looked good on her. So did the knives in her belt.

  ‘Third shift of the day,’ Fitz continued, feeling the sweat running along the back of his shaved head. ‘Sector Seven Spire and all the rest of it. You all know the drill by now, in and out! Sooner we get our boots on the ground, sooner we get our arses in the air. Get down, grab the barrels, secure ’em in the holds, and before you know it we’ll be sailing back to the capital. We’ve got six hours before that bloody great spike’s activated, which means I want us skyward in four! Before the war, I was infamous for getting a job done in half the time needed. O’ course, it was that reputation that got me conscripted and sent off to drench my boots in Idari blood with the rest of King Owain’s merry fools, but in spite o’ that, it’s a reputation I mean to maintain. Because believe you me, boys and girls, don’t none of ya want to be near that thing when it starts pissing thunderbolts around us!’

  ‘Captain,’ said Culran. ‘You able to negotiate additional leave privileges for this water run, or only money?’

  The kuramanusa. Can’t keep callin’ him that, though. Probably hates the Idari more’n anyone else. Tall and thin but muscled, Culran was quick on his feet. Good bloke. Good worker. Makes sense, a bloke held captive all his life would prioritise leave more’n money. ‘Double in aerons and water tokens,’ Fitz answered with no small amount of pride. ‘I’ll bring extra leave up with Roland tomorrow but don’t count on it.’

  ‘Half these buggers can’t count at all,’ said Dixon, followed by murmuring laughter.

  ‘Laugh it up,’ said Fitz, ‘but I expect to see you sweatin’. I know three runs in one day ain’t what you’d call conventional, so I appreciate the work you lot are putting in. Now, are you done with the questions? Good, we got work-’

  ‘Captain!’ interrupted Roarke, his fingers caressing the knife hanging from his belt. ‘What if that wanker Vaughan shows up again?’

  ‘Young Drimmon’s looking after the RADIOM,’ answered Fitz, striving to keep his voice cool. Sometimes running a crew felt like placating a gang of hungry wolves with a salad leaf. ‘He’ll fetch us if anything big comes our way.’ The Wind’s RADIOM unit wasn’t flashy, but it did its job—sensors sent out a weak pulse and a needle sketched out the results on a moving strip of paper. Sometimes it couldn’t detect a frigate chasing the Wind’s arse, other times it could pick out individual gulls in a flock. Sometimes machines were as fickle as people.

  ‘And if that flash pillock does show up with another bit o’ parchment he says gives him legal claim to what’s ours,’ Fitz continued, ‘I promise you, lads, I’ll ram it down his bloody thieving throat!’ Fitzwilliam beamed and puffed his chest out. But instead of roaring cheers and colourful language, a lethargic chorus of grunts greeted him.

  ‘We lost our whole take last time, Captain,’ said Smithy, anxiety lining his red face. ‘I got kids.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Drimmon, ‘and here’s me with a girl to propose to. Her dad thinks I’m a right chancer at the best of times, never mind not getting paid.’

  ‘Yeah, a girl to propose to and a whore’s debt to settle!’ That was Oxbridge, bursting into laughter.

  Fitzwilliam stayed silent as the crew laughed and jeered. Was it really so long ago when people were scared of him? Drimmon’s face was a picture of tired resentment, the features on his face drawn tight. Fitz felt sorry for the lad. He was all for camaraderie and sharing a laugh, but he had to maintain respect aboard his ship. There was no quicker way for a captain to lose the respect of his crew than when he tried to be their mate. ‘Enough!’ he called. ‘We got work to do, so get to it. Fortune find you!’

  The crew shuffled out, muttering to themselves. They possessed all the enthusiasm of a deflated gas balloon in an airship graveyard. How long before their dissatisfaction resulted in mutiny?

  ‘And Drimmon assures me he was just talking to that enchantress in Scab End.’

  The crew laughed, jeering and jostling the lad.

  Better to be their mate than their target.

  ‘You got caught again,’ said Angelo.

  Serena trundled into the hold. ‘Pffft. So what?’ She slid the doors closed. The room smelled damp and the orange glow of the ignium lamp stuttered and made an infuriating buzzing sound. Storage boxes, barrels and crates lined the room, stacked higher than safety regs advised. Without thinking, Serena checked that the lines holding them were secure.

  ‘You need to be more careful.’ Angelo sat in his usual space on the floor, legs crossed and clasping an old book. He avoided her eyes when he spoke. His choppy black hair spiked up in a random pattern like silhouettes of a mountain. His glasses sat lopsided on his face, and a pair of flight goggles hung around his scrawny neck.

  Serena threw herself next to him. ‘Like he’d actually do anything,’ she said.

  ‘Roarke?’

  Serena groaned. ‘Who else?’

&
nbsp; Serena had no idea why Fitz kept Roarke as chief engineer, no-one liked him. She guessed it was because Fitz didn’t have much of a regular crew; Clara was a decent sort, and Oxbridge—he might call her stupid nicknames but at least he wouldn’t yell at her. Tiera? Well, she was the real boss, everyone knew that. And Dixon, he wouldn’t have cared at all if she was out running on the deck. Probably would’ve joined her…

  But no, it had to be Roarke. What was the fuss about? She’d have jumped belowdecks before the altitude got too dangerous. ‘Gods, I can’t wait until we’re old enough to get off this ship.’

  ‘Don’t mind it,’ said Angelo. ‘Better than some. And you’re seventeen before me.’

  Serena smiled. ‘Don’t sweat it, I’ll take you with me,’ she said, punching him on the shoulder. ‘You can be my first mate.’

  Angelo shook his head, and turned the page of his book. ‘I like being in the holds. Safer. You can crawl through the insides of the ship. Go anywhere you like. See everything. Better than being outside.’