The Fury Yet To Come Read online

  The Fury Yet To Come

  Steven McKinnon

  Contents

  Blurb

  A note on the text

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  Afterword

  Also by Steven McKinnon

  About the Author

  A loyal soldier. A sadistic witch. A battle to the brink of madness.

  * * *

  Corporal Tyson Gallows would confront any danger to keep his fiancée out of harm’s way. After his elite squadron falls to an enemy ambush, he wakes to find his hands chained and his mind held captive by a demented witch.

  * * *

  Tortured to the verge of insanity, he wages war in the battlefield of his subconscious and scouts for his opportunity to strike back. With his fellow soldiers’ tormented cries ringing in his ears, Gallows misfires his attack and exposes the source of his strength—his deep devotion to the woman he loves.

  * * *

  If he can’t break free of the witch’s stranglehold soon, he’ll lose something far more precious than military secrets—he'll lose his soulmate.

  * * *

  The Fury Yet To Come is a grimdark fantasy novella. If you like fierce battles, black magic, and psychological thrillers, then you’ll love Steven McKinnon’s action-packed prequel to Symphony of the Wind.

  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.

  ‘Positive emotions get all the glory—here’s to anger, rage and fury.’ — Major Aramon Fallon, Fourth Platoon, Dalthean Army

  I

  The world bled into view.

  A hanging ignium lantern stabbed light into Corporal Gallows’ brain. Searing pain coiled around his wrists from thick, abrasive rope. He hung from the ceiling.

  Fragmented images floated through his head like reflections in a cracked mirror. The ambush, the slaughter… the manic eyes of the kiro…

  I should be dead.

  The thought jolted his senses. Reeking sweat stung the fresh cuts across his body and copper filled his mouth.

  Gallows swung, feeling his bare feet graze the stone floor. He tried to shout, but the words failed in his throat.

  What is this place? Gallows peered into the shadowed corners and strained to hear any sound above the hammering in his chest.

  The wound in my shoulder, where the bloodspear struck me… It’s been dressed.

  Why?

  ‘Hey—!’ Gallows tried to speak but his lungs convulsed, phlegm and spit trailing onto the floor. The lamp shone upon the rust-red stain of stale blood on the flagstones.

  Think…

  Gallows’ mind went through a grinder at he struggled to sew together the moments leading to the ambush.

  His unit… Rocco, Helmsley…

  He’d watched them die.

  He could still feel the rifle stuttering in his hands, felt its weight as he brandished it like a club…

  Fury had kept Gallows alive when he should have fallen.

  His eyes shot open as the memories knitted together. Our own men slaughtered us.

  Gallows’ muscles constricted at the thought, as though squeezed by an invisible force. Why am I still alive?

  As if in answer to his question, the cell door creaked open.

  Wreathed in shadows—like Nyr, the Death God—a spectre materialised. Its robes shimmered like water as it glided towards him, slender fingers pulling its yawning hood back.

  A woman.

  Hair the colour of scorched gold tumbled over dark skin. Golden tattoos curved across the side of her face like cursive lyrics, and her black eyes glowed with traces of amber. Gold rings snaked around her fingers, and a crimson necklace caressed her neck.

  ‘Nyr usually ain’t as colourful,’ croaked Gallows, ‘but points for trying.’

  ‘Where is the weapon?’ The woman’s voice sounded playful, like a child asking for a toy.

  Gallows said nothing—he subscribed to the notion that it was better to say nothing than say too much. That, and he had no idea what she was talking about.

  Then she was on him, her nails drawing across his chest, reopening a recent cut and filling him with searing fire. His scream sounded inhuman in the confined space.

  ‘Your mission.’ Her voice cut like a serrated edge. ‘The weapon? Where?’

  Gallows shook his head. ‘Lady, I… I don’t know what—’

  The woman’s lips pressed close to his ear, warm, sweet breath caressing Gallows’ cheek. ‘I will stain your very soul. Speak to me, and I will end it now. No more suffering. No more pain.’

  Gallows’ head rose to meet her eyes, their dark shade contrasting with the golden patterns on her skin.

  Corporal Tyson Gallows, Fourth Platoon; #485654.

  The army trained men like Gallows to recite their name, rank and serial number, and nothing more. But it was bullshit—all that told their captors was that they’d done the interrogation resistance training—and if they were important enough to do that, they were important enough to be trusted with intel. Grunts like Gallows knew the basics, but it was much safer to play dumb and hope they believed you.

  In this case, Gallows didn’t need to play.

  ‘I don’t… have a damn clue who you are… or what you want… so you can tickle me till Nyr’s Day, but you’re wasting your time.’

  Her eyes appraised him, as a wolf would before it pounced upon its prey.

  Gallows chose not to wait—summoning what little strength he had, he kicked out at her with both legs.

  And like a swirling snowdrift, the woman spun away, out of reach. ‘Tut tut,’ she teased. She punished Gallows by sketching stinging circles into his knots of muscle. Her nails were as sharp as daggers. Blood oozed onto the stone floor. ‘A dog must not bite its master.’

  Gallows bit down to stifle a wail. ‘Who… who are you?’

  She raised her pointed chin. ‘I am Grand Perceptor Nidra Hraat-il-Theiah of the Great Empire of Idar, the Holy Twin Cities, the Sun and Moon and all that which the holy Sovereign Sons survey. I am the Divine Perceiver, the Envoy of the Great Seer and loyal instrument of the Two Emperors.’

  ‘Great. Corporal Gallows. Pleased to meet you.’

  Nidra stepped back, casting Gallows a mocking glare that sent acid rising into his mouth. Her lips stretched into a sharp curve and she interlocked her long fingers. The lamp made her nails gleam.

  Gallows couldn’t stand it. The way she looked at him, looked through him…

  It was subtle at first, the pain—nothing more alarming than a bite from a stoneroach.

  But then it burrowed deeper, an invisible needle stabbing Gallows’ brain. He shook his head, growled and spat—but the pain inside him sharpened. A thousand voices sang a thousand lies—a hideous, discordant screech. Paralysed, Gallows gasped for breath. On it came, discordant music rising in his ears.

  ‘Where is the weapon?’ she repeated. ‘What was your objective? Speak.’

  ‘Corporal Tyson Gallows, Fourth Platoon… four-eight—’

  ‘Tell me about the weapon.’

  As Nidra spoke, the chaos dampened and a calmness draped over Gallows’ mind.

  Why was he protesting this? Why was he fighting the sweet relief Nidra offered him? What was he so afraid of?

  The pain waltzed from Gallows’ head, dissolving into nothing. He stopped struggling.

  ‘Speak.’

  22nd Day of Musa

  Private Morris Cooper vomited onto the assault boat’s
deck.

  ‘Right, who had ten minutes?’ Gallows called. Sleep still pressed on his eyes and the stifling heat of the compartment made his head ache. Ignium fumes wafted throughout the ship, made worse by the fresh bile from Cooper’s gut.

  ‘Me, I did, it was me!’ Private Rocco’s wiry hand shot up, protruding through the frayed ends of his night-blue sleeve like an uncoiled spring. His faint, purple irises loomed large behind thick spectacles. ‘That’s a pile of aerons I won’t be telling the missus about.’ A violent lurch in the sea jerked the boat. ‘Oh-oh, he’s about to go again! Twenty-five aerons says he goes again!’

  ‘Shove off, Rocco,’ Cooper croaked. His greenish skin was as pale as the stringy phlegm curled around his chin.

  ‘You okay?’ Gallows asked, but Cooper was too preoccupied to answer.

  Sergeant Arville Omari leaned over—his calloused hands cradled the boxy, rust-coloured Vindicator repeater rifle standing between his legs. ‘Don’t pay any mind to these sons of bitches, son—it gets easier.’ His voice rolled across the compartment. ‘But quit getting it on my boots.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s… this climate.’ Cooper’s baby face reddened like the blush of an apple. He contorted as he wrestled with the rebellion raging in his body. ‘And the allergies… And the sea-sickness.’

  The boat trembled once more. The vessel was a new, igneus-fuelled assault craft; it glided across the surface of water like a razor blade. Gallows reckoned Cooper wouldn’t be the only one spewing his guts.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Gallows. ‘Keep your purification tablets on you and drink plenty of water. Oh, remember to waterproof your flashlight too.’

  ‘Huh?’ Cooper pulled his flashlight out from his belt. Its light was brighter than an ignium lamp’s, but didn’t last as long. ‘How, uh… How do I waterproof it?’

  ‘I’ll handle this,’ Rocco cut in. He took two square, foil wrappers between his bony fingers and handed them to Cooper.

  Scarlet rose in the kid’s face. ‘This is for, um… for protection.’

  Rocco burst out laughing.

  Gallows’ mouth curled too. ‘Sure is,’ he said. ‘One over each end. If you end up in the brine, your flashlight will appreciate it.’

  The boat rose on a sharp wave and crashed again, and the scarlet on Cooper’s face gave way to green.

  ‘You’re in the wrong outfit if you got a weak belly, mate,’ said Rocco. He placed a cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Gallows. ‘He’s crapping it more than you. We all are. But you’ll be fine, okay? We got your back.’

  Cooper offered him a weak smile. Then the newly-insulated flashlight slipped from his hands and rolled on the floor.

  ‘Hate it when that happens,’ snickered Rocco.

  Gallows leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes, tuning out Rocco’s jibes. Damn, but he was a talker.

  Wonder how these guys all fell in with Fallon? Gallows had known his squad for all of twenty-four hours, but they seemed a good lot. Major Fallon had a habit of pulling in the outcasts who no-one else wanted—Tyson Gallows included.

  He ran a finger up the bristles on the back of his head. He could never get used to cropped hair.

  ‘Oi, Gallows, Gallows,’ called Rocco, ‘you got any idea what this is about? Do you?’ Rocco’s restless boot stuttered on the floor at random intervals.

  ‘Not a clue,’ yawned Gallows. ‘Better ask Sarge.’

  ‘Man, the sarge is as clueless as the rest of us dogs.’

  ‘Don’t you ever shut up?’ Omari asked.

  Gallows massaged his temples, but all that did was amplify the throbbing in his head. Sera had convinced him to buy a bottle of Glenfortoshan whisky at the Laguna Lounge. It had cost almost as much as the ring he’d given her.

  ‘In point of fact, we’re not all clueless.’ That was Private Gideon Helmsley, sitting at the far end of the compartment. Sweat gleamed on his dark skin, and his mess of curly black hair threatened to leap from his head. His green eyes were buried in a small edition of the Fayth Codex.

  ‘You reckon being smarter an’ richer than us means a damn thing out here?’ Rocco prodded. ‘You shoulda stayed at home, become a priest or some shit.’

  ‘Hah! I was three semesters in at the Fayth Collegium. Father insisted I stay, but not I, no sir! Not when war rages just beyond our shores. We cannot expect to send men and women off to war while staying at home upon our behinds. Fight the good fight, that’s what I say.’

  Rocco leaned onto his knees, eyebrow arched. ‘You’re a pacifist!’

  Helmsley squirmed in his seat. ‘Yes, well, being a stretcher-bearer is still serving one’s country.’

  ‘Take it easy, Rocco,’ said Gallows. ‘How many other folk are still skipping around the Kingsway while he slums it with us?’ Gallows chose not to mention he and Sera were looking to buy a property in Dalthea’s most exclusive district—people might think he had money.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s fair I s’pose.’ Rocco replaced his cigarette. ‘Still ain’t answered my question. Here, wonder if Major F—’

  With a groan, the hatch swung in and Major Aramon Fallon strode into the compartment.

  ‘Speak o’ the devil,’ muttered Rocco.

  ‘The only devils around here are the Idari kiros, Private Rocco—and I can guaran-damn-tee you, if one of ’em gets this close to you, you’re already dead.’

  ‘Always an inspiration to your troops,’ said Gallows.

  Sergeant Omari battered his hands together. ‘Alright, Fourth Platoon—cut the chatter and listen.’

  Fallon motioned to the rear of the compartment. ‘Helmsley, map.’

  Helmsley stuffed the Codex into his pocket and unfurled the map from the ceiling, pinning it to the wall. It displayed a topographical image of the Sanctecano Islands.

  Fallon marched across, face in a permanent grimace. Always looks like he’s on his way to a fight, and sounds like he eats razors for breakfast. The major’s right eye was obscured by a metallic silver patch. Gallows was kidding himself if he said he didn’t want to know the story behind it.

  ‘We’re ball-deep in Operation: Prevailing Wind,’ the major began. ‘We’re spearheading Phase Two of the invasion to kick the heartless savages off these isles, save the locals and generally be goddamn heroes. The Ryndaran warships have begun their bombardment of the northern Idari fleet—that’ll draw most of the patrols, clearing the way for us to hit the western isles. Our primary objective is to engage and destroy enemy anti-air vessels so 32nd Airborne can get close enough and clear the beach for landing. Our principal target on the ground is a munitions factory, a few miles from the shore. We reckon the Idari are moving west and plan to use the Sanctecano Isles as a staging ground for an offensive action against Dalthea—and I for one’ll go to Hell before I let these savages march through my godsdamn city. If they take Dalthea, then they get the keys to the rest of Imanis. This is our last chance to get in, kick ’em in the balls and end this war before it begins.’

  ‘You make it sound easy,’ said Rocco.

  If it was possible, Fallon’s scowl sharpened. ‘It won’t be. The Idari have got these islands wrapped up tighter than a nun’s clam. If the mongrels don’t take the bait to the north, then it’s up to us to lure their patrols away for the 32nd to do their thing. Let’s hope it don’t come to that.’

  ‘Just like them rotorheads, eh? Safe in the sky dropping bombs, an’ then retreating home in time for tea.’ The tip of Rocco’s boots danced on the metal floor as he spoke. He ceased when Major Fallon’s gaze speared him.

  ‘The munitions factory is here.’ Fallon fixed a transparent film marked with a grid onto the map. ‘Island designation ND2642. But before that, we need to clear the beachhead—this is the only entry point that can handle sea vessels. Most of the population centres have been cleared out, with the townspeople taken further inland and their homes burned to ash. Enemy forces have been holing up in the governor’s mansi
on on ND2642 here.’ Fallon pointed to a red X marked within a small island. Smaller boxes surrounded the mansion, which meant plenty of fortification and supplies. Evicting the Idari wouldn’t be easy.

  The island itself was nestled between curving water routes; rocky inclines and treacherous waters meant that the beach was the only approach—sailing around and trying to scale the rock would be too time-consuming to work, even assuming the Daltheans slipped past enemy patrols.

  ‘We get through the enemy patrols then hit the governor’s mansion with airstrikes,’ Fallon continued. ‘After that, we clear any resistance and secure the beachhead, then we take out the munitions depot. Any questions? Good. Now the bad news: Phase One of Prevailing Wind was as effective as a grave robber in a crematorium. Back home, the Viator’s telling everyone that we got the Idari running—so it’s up to us to keep ’em honest.’ The major’s cane rapped on a collection of boxes on the map, situated on the westernmost island. ‘The scouts encountered heavy resistance here—seems the Idari have been setting up shop longer than we realised.’

  Gallows raised a hand. ‘Do we know why Phase One failed to destroy the munitions factory?’

  ‘Negative. Sixteen hours into the battle, things were progressing smoothly. Twenty-three hours into the battle, we got reports of missing soldiers and signals requesting reinforcements.’ Fallon looked from the map to his troops, rage filling his good eye. ‘Most of the message runners died. The Bride’s Code transmitters fell silent. We can only assume the enemy force was greater than intel suggested.’

  ‘If the 32nd have been given orders to bomb the beach,’ Gallows started, ‘does that mean Command reckon the first wave are all dead? Won’t a bombing raid risk killing any survivors?’