Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

The ship yawed to its port side, taking its position above the convoy on the bridge below. The barren eastern shore greeted Gallows. And beyond that, Irros’ Bounty and the Sanctecano Isles. Wonder if someone’s standing at the other side of the Poison Veil looking out at us?

  Royce coughed into his hand. ‘There’s another reason you’re here, Hunter Gallows.’

  Gallows closed his eyes. A stone weighed in his stomach. ‘What?’

  ‘Commander Lockwood has a mission for you.’

  Her feet floated across cobblestones like the Liberty Wind soaring over the desert. Barra’s Bazaar sprawled out in front of her. Mingling voices bartered, argued, laughed and shouted.

  She glided up the gentle incline, narrow tenements at her sides, towards the small central square that housed the market. The buildings stood at odd angles here, an unkempt patchwork of contrasting styles, masonry and architecture. It was like skipping through time, wandering into a different era with each stride. Men and women of every skin tone swept the market’s wares into their arms, their featureless faces ebbing and flowing.

  Textile mills cluttered the horizon—ugly, angular monstrosities, like the ploughmen she used to know who worked outside the monastery.

  Most of the mills were rusted to ruin now. Though she stood well away from it, the acidic smell from the Poison Veil nipped at her nostrils. Gulls wheeled in the air. If they squawked, they did so to themselves.

  The shell of an old lighthouse stretched up in front of her, half its stone circumference blown away in some battle or other. Or maybe it was the elements, the wrath of one of the Gods? Tiera smiled at its exposed guts. All but its curving, pyramidal roof had been ruined. Mohan a’Barra lives there. Tiera smiled. She’d never met the man, but…

  ‘I wonder if his eyes would pop like grapes?’ She chuckled at the sound of her own voice.

  Meet Eun-til Ra by the lighthouse.

  Retrieve the weapon.

  Kill the Prime Councillor.

  Shoot him once in the heart.

  Yulia materialised again, beckoning Tiera. She giggled, like she did when they snuck through the monastery to listen to music together.

  Tiera felt no fear as she followed her, weaving her way to the base of the lighthouse. It shimmered in the heat.

  ‘Over here…’ a voice whispered to her. She couldn’t make the face out but the blur was wreathed in crimson.

  He’ll be wearing a red shawl, Tiera. Go to him…

  ‘Who are you?’ the voice said.

  …and tell him Captain Vaughan sent you…

  ‘Captain Vaughan sent me,’ said Tiera.

  He may ask you to prove it. Do whatever he asks of you…

  The blurred face shifted to the left and right, the black pools he had for eyes narrowing. ‘All right. This way.’

  Yulia darted along a tall wall, arms held out by her side. Tiera looked up at her and smiled; she knew she wouldn’t fall.

  She followed the blurred man into the shadowy corners of the bazaar, the darkness shimmering like velvet in the wind.

  She found herself in a small room. The stench of stale sweat and bad breath tangled in her nose.

  Voices faded in and out.

  ‘…she is?’

  ‘Said she was with Vaughan. Just like that bastard to change the plan.’

  ‘Don’t trust her. Send a messenger to Zoven, tell him-’

  ‘Too late for that. We don’t have a choice… need to trust her, she’s…’

  Tiera giggled. ‘Wonder if his eyes would pop like grapes?’

  The voices stopped.

  ‘…out of her damn head!’

  ‘…definitely one of Vaughan’s, then…’

  ‘…no time! We stick with the plan!’

  ‘Hang on, hang on… we can make her… can trust her.’

  The voices melted away. Tiera hummed with the music in her head. Her stomach tilted.

  The red blur resolved in front of her. A man in his fifties, thin, fit. His short black beard was speckled with grey and three faded blue dots had been tattooed under his left eye.

  ‘Right,’ Eun-til Ra began. ‘Did Vaughan tell you what to do? Hm?’ Ra’s Val Candrian accent sounded like an angel’s lilting whisper. Tiera’s head lolled to the side. What a funny little man. Wonder if his eyes will pop-

  He slapped her face with the back of his hand.

  Numbness bloomed, no more distressing than a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Junkie bitch! You know what you’re to do, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tiera answered.

  ‘Good. But first we need to trust you, yes?’

  Do whatever he asks of you…

  Ra grabbed her hand and led her deeper into his den. The glow of a lamp bathed the room in sunset red.

  ‘Here.’ Her fingers clutched around something.

  The hilt of a cutlass.

  ‘…please don’t, please don’t…’

  A new voice, a man’s. He was on his knees. Tiera’s nostrils filled with copper.

  ‘Please, I beg you-’ he started. Ra sent his boot into his face, choking the man’s protests.

  ‘This is Constable Marrius Kyatis.’ Ra motioned down at the watchman. ‘This was to be a great day for Marrius—today he was to be martyred in the name of the Holy Sovereign Sons of Idar. Your soul would have spent an eternity in Heaven for the deed you were to carry out.’

  ‘Let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Please, please-’

  The back of Ra’s hand sent Marrius flailing to the floor, face-first. The motion left colourful brushstrokes in its wake. Tiera smiled.

  ‘Alas, plans change, and it is not for me to question them.’ Ra towered above the fallen watchman, snickering as Kyatis wept. ‘Yes, yes, pitiful Watch scum. End him. Kill him so we know you’re with us. Do it. Put this mutt out of his misery—and claim his reward in Heaven.’

  The sword sang as it pierced the constable’s eye.

  Colours spilled from him like jewels from a bag, glinting red and purple.

  ‘Reckon we can trust her,’ said a voice.

  ‘Someone give her the gun.’

  Captain Rowena Lockwood’s quarters wouldn’t have been out of place in a swanky hotel suite. Everything on her desk was arranged at precise, neat angles—stacked papers, a small bronze globe, gold-rimmed pens, charts, maps...

  And that damn painting: Aerulus battling the Orinul.

  But for all its glory, there was little evidence that Commander Lockwood owned anything in here. The whole room had the air of a show room. No pictures of family, no personal portraits, no coat of arms hanging on the walls—just the essentials. That said a lot about her. Not every commander possessed her restraint; many officers—the ones who came from money and climbed up the ranks without seeing anything resembling combat—they were all too keen to show off their suites, their crystal liquor decanters—their gold frames and rosy paintings of some ancestor who fought in some battle in some country. But not Rowena Lockwood.

  He leaned with his elbows digging into his knees, debating with himself how long he’d been here. Royce had shown him in and left without another word.

  A mission for me, huh? She’s riding around in a damn flying fortress—what does she need with a Hunter?

  The door swung open behind him with a smooth swish. Lockwood swept in, the crimson cloak trailing behind her white RSF uniform. She closed the door behind her.

  ‘Apologies for making you wait, Mister Gallows,’ she said when she took her seat. She spoke without looking up from the document her nose was buried in.

  ‘Not at all.’

  Lockwood signed her name on the paper and placed it atop a pile, then looked across the desk at him. He placed her at around forty years old, maybe older. Her features were fierce: Ruthless yellow eyes, knifepoint nose, and cropped grey-white hair that jutted up in shallow spikes. Strength radiated from her.

  ‘Commander Lockwood,’ she said. ‘Pleasure.’

  Gallows nodded. ‘All mine. I’ve read
about your exploits.’

  Her hard face remained impassive. ‘And I have heard of your exploits, Mister Gallows.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I am acquainted with Major Aramon Fallon. You come highly recommended. He told me of your… heroics during the liberation of the Sanctecano Isles. I am sorry for what you had to endure.’

  Gallows shot to his feet. He hadn’t seen Fallon in a year or more, but the man had a talent for pissing him off from afar. ‘Sorry, Commander. I’m not gonna do this. I don’t know what he told you, but I ain’t interested.’

  ‘Gallows, the kingdom is in danger.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘If only you had a giant warship with a shitload of guns.’

  ‘Major Fallon has uncovered distressing information. Gods damn it, man, will you sit?’

  After a moment Gallows did so, but he was determined not to be comfortable.

  Lockwood leaned closer. ‘Royce presented you with a writ, yes?’

  Gallows nodded.

  ‘Good. Then know that what I am about to tell you is confidential, and breaking that confidentiality carries the severest penalties.’

  ‘Got it, loose lips down airships.’

  ‘I understand you haven’t responded to Major Fallon’s requests.’

  ‘Been busy with my other friends.’

  ‘Ah yes. The Courtesan you meet on Terros’ Crown—and that partner of yours, Fieri. Major Fallon had some interesting things to say about him.’

  Gallows leaned back. ‘He’s been watching me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, V’s an old friend, and Damien… Damien’s a good guy. Look, I quit the army, Commander. If Fallon’s so good at keeping tabs on me, tell him to knock on my door—that way I can tell him no in person. Sorry he’s wasted your time.’

  Lockwood’s eyes raked over Gallows. ‘He’s uncovered evidence of a conspiracy.’

  ‘Then take it to the Watch.’

  ‘He had a man in the Watch. He’s missing. Most likely dead.’

  ‘He’s spying on the Watch? You know what, I don’t even care. Maybe if he stopped this covert ops bullshit and acted like a human being, he’d get whatever he’s after.’

  ‘Yes, tackling a conspiracy by walking up to it and shaking its hand will do wonders. His man went by the name of Daroh. He hasn’t heard from him in days.’

  Daroh? The name sounded familiar. ‘Fallon said he had information on my fiancée’s death. You know anything about that?’

  ‘No,’ said Lockwood.

  ‘Yeah.’ A stone weighed in Gallows’ stomach. ‘Reckoned that would be the case.’

  ‘Major Fallon has practically been excommunicated from the military,’ Lockwood explained. ‘Brass is stonewalling him, and after the Remembrance, he expects the Prime Councillor to relieve him of his duties. He’ll probably end up manning a watchtower in the desert, or sent off to our embassy in Rhis.’

  ‘Sounds cosy.’ Daroh, Daroh… Then it dawned on Gallows. ‘Hang on. Daroh. Yeah. I have a mate—you can tell Fallon that’s three—who mentioned Daroh’s name. Waltham, of the City Watch. His beat is Dustwynd and The Sands. He said this Daroh hasn’t reported for duty.’ Shit. Maybe there was something to Fallon’s conspiracy after all. Maybe he did have new information on Sera…

  ‘What’s he looking into, exactly?’ Gallows asked.

  ‘The destruction of Irros’ Beckon, and virtually the entire Dalthean Navy.’ Lockwood let the words hang in the air for a moment, before adding: ‘And the ignium fusion bomb that did it.’

  ‘The Night of Amberfire.’ The Poison Veil. The night Sera died. ‘Ten thousand lives snuffed out in a heartbeat. Then what do we do?’ Gallows’ nails dug into his palms, blood coursing in his veins like igneus fuel. ‘Stop gunning for the bastards that did it.’

  ‘That’s it, Mister Gallows.’ Lockwood’s eyes bored into him. ‘It wasn’t the Idari—it was us.’

  The watchmen parted like a herd of gazelle before a cheetah.

  Retrieve the weapon.

  Kill the Prime Councillor.

  Shoot him once in the heart.

  Retrieve the weapon.

  Kill the Prime Councillor.

  Shoot him once in the heart.

  The words waltzed like a nursery rhyme in her head.

  Tiera glided up the stairs. Shadows were thick here, like wading through water at dusk.

  The watchmen at her back laughed like schoolchildren but their words were nonsense to her ears, the gun weightless in her hands.

  It was us.

  The gravity in Lockwood’s voice told him she believed it.

  Gallows stood on one of the gun platforms, amidst a bank of anti-aircraft cannons—or double-As—and mechanised ballistae. The metalwork of the weapons gleamed in pristine, virginal condition—fearsome beasts aching to bloody their teeth.

  Masses had gathered at the foot of the bridge. From aboard the Schiehallion, they resembled flocks of fleas, shoving, jostling and climbing over one another for a better view of the behemoth flying overhead. The whispering breeze carried their cheering.

  He wanted to dismiss Lockwood’s claims, to tell her she was full of shit, but she didn’t strike him as a fool.

  Gallows’ calloused hands gripped the handrail of the viewing platform. His knuckles turned white at the thought of all those dead. Airships aflame, blackened husks of vessels, flaming bodies leaping into the boiling sea…

  And at home, the mushroom cloud shattering the horizon, Idari infiltrators springing their assault from the docks, the deployment of liquid igneus burning the homes of hundreds of people.

  And Sera.

  You were somewhere in the crowds as my airship crashed on the beach. Did you know I was coming back to you? Did you die believing I’d abandoned you?

  Gallows wanted to weep and lash out, wanted hurt something. More, he wanted to leap over the edge and just end it.

  But he wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not yet. He’d keep himself alive for the same reason he had every day since he got back—for her.

  In the cell, as Nidra played with Gallows’ mind and used him like a toy, she kept asking him about the ‘weapon’. Somehow she knew Dalthea had this new bomb in their arsenal. If Gallows had known back then, would he have told her?

  Of course I would have. She’d have made me.

  The Schiehallion soared above the procession, matching the unhurried pace of the Prime Councillor’s six-wheeled motorcarriage. His car was every bit as sleek and gleaming as the Viator professed. Two small Dalthean flags fluttered on its lustrous hood, which Gallows found galling.

  Every member of the Council was there. All of Thackeray’s supporters and enemies. Were they responsible for Amberfire Night?

  Kingsway’s mansions, villas and townhouses floated beneath him. Across the city, he could make out half-completed towers of steel, elegant sandstone tenements, glass towers, skybridges… The contrasting architecture of each district made the whole city look like it was constructed from pieces of different jigsaw puzzles, as if the pieces were forced in at the wrong angles. And taken from different boxes. Gallows drew his fingers through his hair.

  Armed guards lined the road and members of the military and Watch stood in perfect stillness as the parade of dignitaries marched forward, each of them joining as it passed. Is Major Fallon down there somewhere?

  Prime Councillor Pyron Thackeray stood upright from the open-top cab of his car, head angled towards the sky. Even from the Schiehallion, Gallows saw how powerful he looked.

  From nowhere, Genevieve Couressa’s voice eased into his head. It emanated from the craft’s speakers—and apparently every Information Tower in the city. Royce’s radio tech.

  Couressa sang a sombre rendition of The Soldier’s Prayer. It sent shivers down Gallows’ back.

  The cheering stopped, every face bowed low. The procession halted, and the world stood still—a second taken from time and suspended forever.

  Something about
Couressa’s voice haunted Gallows. How could something be so beautiful yet melancholy? Her silvery, weightless voice made his heart pound.

  He let it wash over him.

  The parade advanced down the bridge and through the Arc of Iona, where it separated, like the two-headed snake from the stories in the Codex. Each line encircled the edge of the courtyard, meeting together at the opposite end. In the middle of the courtyard stood a grand podium, decked out in banners.

  Prime Councillor Pyron Thackeray climbed its steps. His white and gold cane rapped on the stairs, and though the limp in his leg was pronounced, he kept his back straight and head angled high.

  Never did he let the pain beat him.

  He raised a hand to the people—his people. They responded with cheers, pouring their adulation out on the man they regarded as a hero of the war—the man who beat the Idari menace.

  Ahead of him, beyond the sea of people, the War Memorial Museum squatted on the ground. His Tower of Remembrance would be complete in under a year. It would be the tallest structure in the kingdom, reaching to the sky so the people would never forget—both a warning to the world and a beacon of hope for the people of Dalthea.

  The tarpaulin shivered in the wind, scaffolding protruding from it like exposed bone. History would be made today. Let this be the day Dalthea regained its pride.

  ‘Citizens of Dalthea.’ His words rang out of the speakers like the voice of Aerulus himself. ‘I stand before you a humbled man. I am humbled to see so many of you. I am humbled to see you all proudly waving the flags of our great nation. So many of you, coming together in peace and harmony, alongside our allies from Ryndara, Val Candria, Phadros and beyond—all of us here for one common purpose: To commemorate our fallen—the brave souls who gave their lives so that we may live.’

  The mass of people howled in a frenzy. ‘During the hostilities with the Idari, I gave up my position in the Council to serve aboard the RSF Valiant, transporting men and women to conflict zones around the Sanctecano Isles… often to their deaths. This fact has weighed heavily upon me every day since.’ Thackeray spread his hands and leaned onto the lectern, his voice rising like a tidal wave. ‘And weigh like a millstone it must, for this is a burden I do not—will not—shy away from! And the work is far from done.