The Fury Yet To Come Read online

  He remembered an old story popular among travelling skalds and the Fayth’s more devout followers; they said that Hell was formed of winding circles that became narrower the deeper a soul descended. Voices would call your name, beckoning you deeper into the void—and with every step you took, the voices would relate your life’s sins until—dead centre—you came face to face with your worst fear.

  Gallows felt himself descending.

  His worst fear was to lose Sera—Nidra’s ability to bend people’s will to her would make finding Sera easy; as long as Nidra lived, the woman he loved was in danger.

  It didn’t matter that Gallows had broken free of whatever curse she held over him—she would turn her dark art to Sera, steal her free will, destroy her spirit—as she’d done to Gallows. Nidra would torment him through Sera.

  If he was alive.

  The decision made, he’d spent hours scrambling on the floor like a malnourished rat, fingers seeking something sharp enough to pierce a vein. But the cell had been picked bare—no jagged stones, no rusty nails.

  They’d even taken away the chains he’d hung on when he woke in this place.

  The Fayth said that suicide was a sin—that to take your own life was a great insult to Aerulus the One Father, who fought and bled against the Orinul so that mankind could live free. But if there really was a Hell, it had already claimed him. With every second he stayed alive, Nidra and the Idari fleet inched closer to Dalthea.

  He refused to live as her prisoner—as some toy to be picked up and thrown away whenever her mood changed.

  He would not put Sera in danger.

  All he had to do was die.

  * * *

  Before the kuramanusa’s grubby fingers forced food into his mouth, Gallows begged them to take their knives and kill him.

  But Nidra had switched the guard. The ones I assaulted… She doesn’t trust them not to kill me.

  His voice buckled and broke when he screamed at Atun to come in and end him, but his pleading fell on deaf ears.

  Gallows hurled himself at the wall in the hope he’d crack his head, but the kuramanusa charged in and dragged him to another cell.

  Again and again he was denied.

  He woke with a jolt and found himself hanging from the ceiling, iron manacles wrapped around his wrists and hardened blood flaking on his forehead.

  This cell was as cramped as a coffin. Urine reeked from the walls and odours of rotten meat and burning chemicals lingered. The edges of the door were limned with the faint red light of a lamp.

  Like gas escaping through a pinhole in an airship’s ignium envelope, Gallows’ voice wailed. His scream resounded across the black stone walls, shrieking back at him. The chains jangled as he thrashed, willing the screws to fall loose.

  21st Day of Musa

  ‘Have you been taking dancing lessons, Corporal Gallows?’ Sera’s voice floated through the silvery music bursting from the Laguna Lounge’s house band.

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Gallows replied. ‘Turns out I just have an innate talent for it.’

  The two danced in a whisking waltz, their bodies pressed together. Gallows didn’t know why, but he kept laughing every time he looked at her.

  ‘You know,’ Sera started, ‘if you keep doing that, you’ll convince me that this is all just a big joke—much like how my family will react when I tell them I’m taking your surname.’

  ‘The month’s wages I spent on that ring proves I’m serious.’

  ‘You’re unemployed!’

  Gallows grinned at her. ‘A common misconception among people who don’t understand the treasure hunting trade. I’m on sabbatical.’

  ‘I’ve seen how much you make when you’re at “work”.’

  ‘Yeah, but not how much I steal.’

  She punched his arm, which hurt more than Gallows would admit.

  ‘When will you tell your father?‘ Gallows asked.

  Sera slowed. ‘Tomorrow,’ she announced. ‘And if he doesn’t like it…’ Her eyes fell to the floor.

  Gallows pulled her tight and kissed her. He’d met her dad once before, and it wasn’t an experience he looked forward to repeating.

  ‘You can tell him I’m a military man now,’ he said. ‘Though I never understood what he had against treasure hunting—except for all the danger and stealing.’

  Sera sped up again, falling into step with the music. ‘Perhaps it’s because you told us you were a “historian and purveyor of antiques and artifacts.”’

  ‘Not once have I said that.’

  ‘It’s literally the first thing you said to me!’

  ‘“Hello” was the first thing I said to you. Like most people.’

  ‘Ty,’ Sera giggled, ‘you came into my office wearing a goofy smile, stupid long hair, and said, “Reckon I got something for you—how much do you pay for priceless, forgotten portraits of dead geniuses?”’

  ‘As I recall, I didn’t get paid for that public service.’

  ‘As I recall, I agreed to go out with you.’

  ‘Yeah, look how that worked out.’ Gallows bit his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘Still, win some, lose some.’

  Sera punched his arm again. ‘Tyson Gallows, you’re a miscreant and a rogue. You’ll lead a girl astray.’

  Gallows’ mouth curved. ‘So don’t look back.’

  * * *

  They stumbled home together, voices hoarse from laughing and singing. Gallows leapt up onto a statue of some Prime Councillor or other and—punishing his lungs—screamed his undying love for Sera. Doubled over with the amusement of it all, he dropped his silver pocket watch onto the cobbles, scuffing the sheen of the metal.

  Sera collected it from the ground. ‘I’ll polish it for you. It’ll look brand new when you get back. I promise.’

  It was the only time she’d brought up the fact he’d be gone tomorrow. Gallows didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘No.’ Gallows climbed down and took the watch from Sera. ‘It was already like that. This… This is a relic. A personal one.’

  Sera wrapped her arm around Gallows’ waist. ‘Tell me about it.’ They stepped past other revellers dancing in the street. Gallows wondered how many more men and women would be sailing to the Sanctecano Islands come morning.

  He opened his mouth, but stopped himself. ‘I’ll tell you. But not tonight.’

  They waltzed through the town, all the way to Sera’s lavish apartment, laughing and kissing every step of the way.

  * * *

  When he woke up, Gallows refused to check the time. The cobalt tones of evening were giving way to the pinkish red of sunrise. It made his chest ache.

  Sera lay next to him, the sheets moving with the rise and fall of her chest. She’d never looked more beautiful.

  Gallows got dressed in complete silence. ‘I’ll come back soon,’ he whispered. ‘I promise.’ He kissed Sera’s forehead and placed his pocket watch on her cabinet. As he left, he could hear the seconds tick away.

  Gallows woke when currents of agony ran through his arms and threatened to tear his limbs from their sockets. His lips and throat had turned as dry as the Obsidian Sandlands back home.

  Echoes of Nidra’s torment skirted through the edges of his mind. Was she concealed in the shadows even now?

  The room quaked. The chains in the ceiling groaned as Gallows was shoved to the side. Dust fell from the ceiling like snow in a breeze.

  Then it fell harder, heralded by a distant crack of thunder.

  ‘Trick…’ The word hissed from Gallows’ mouth. He clenched his eyes shut.

  Idari voices floated through the bars of his cell door—short, sharp… Panicked.

  It’s not real.

  Another boom, and this time Gallows felt the force of it in his stomach.

  Not real.

  It couldn’t be real—he refused to give in to the temptation of hope. Optimism didn’t belong in this place.

  Then the gunfire came.

  Gallows tri
ed to scream. Saliva bubbled over his lip.

  What illusion was this? Had she planted something inside Gallows’ head?

  Or was he simply going mad?

  He peered into the dark corners. She was here—he knew it. ‘Where?’ he rasped.

  Dirt and rubble showered his bare skin, stinging his wounds. Frenetic gunshots rang out and anguished screams wailed like twisting metal. Ahead, the red glow from the corridor lamp stuttered and died off, like the dying gasps of breath from a strangled throat.

  Someone was outside.

  Nidra.

  The key scraped in the lock for an excruciating second. Gallows’ muscles tightened. Dread swelled inside him like something tugging at his organs, pulling him down deeper and deeper...

  Sweat from his own skin reeked in his nostrils. He couldn’t plead or scream or run or fight. He closed his eyes and let his body turn limp. Whatever happens, happens.

  The door screeched open.

  Gallows didn’t dare open his eyes. He couldn’t stand the thought of seeing that smile she wore—that look of sick satisfaction when she writhed on top of him.

  Without hearing her footsteps approach, cold fingers wrapped around Gallows’ neck, thumbs pressing into his Adam’s apple.

  It hurt, and the pressure increased.

  Don’t fight.

  With a jolt, the fingers thrust Gallows’ head up. His eyes shot open of their own accord.

  But it wasn’t Nidra—it was a man. He wore a fitted, dark blue uniform, like the ancient shadow warriors from Nom Ganald. Brownish blood stains were painted upon it.

  The man was around the same age as Gallows and had the blondish, crown-gold hair of the Ryndarans.

  His narrow, icicle-blue eyes needled Gallows.

  And he didn’t stop squeezing.

  Let it happen.

  The grip tightened. Gallows didn’t fight it; physical pain was a relief compared to the mental anguish Nidra had subjected him to. In any case, his garbled protests died in his belly long before they reached his throat.

  Gallows’ muscles spasmed and his sluggish heart rate spiked.

  Think about Sera.

  Pain engulfed him. His consciousness slipped, like soft hands enticing him underwater. Sharp pain swelled in his skull like a balloon expanding inside a fist.

  Deeper, he felt himself sink.

  Gallows’ body shook and shuddered, the hard-wired instinct to survive taking over. But he stared past his killer—he didn’t let his eyes plead for his life.

  Don’t fight it.

  And then, like razors scoring the back of his throat, oxygen sheared down into his lungs.

  The pressure abated and the world brightened.

  The killer recoiled.

  ‘No… No. Kill… me.’ The words slithered from Gallows’ mouth.

  The man looked at him, face drawn in question. His breaths came in quick, sharp jabs. The immaculate hands that had been so sure against Gallows’ throat now trembled.

  The assassin’s eyes stretched and clenched, face squirming.

  Gallows choked down a breath. ‘Whoever… you are… Finish… what you started.’

  Lines creased the assassin’s brow. His fingers flexed and rolled into fists, like he was unsure what to do with them. His head shook like he was engaging in a debate with some phantom next to him.

  ‘What are… you waiting… for?’ Gallows pressed. ‘Do it.’

  Rage filled the assassin’s eyes for an instant—or was it desire?—and in that moment, Gallows was sure he would kill him.

  But he didn’t.

  The sound of the killer’s breathing filled the room.

  ‘No, no, do it!’ begged Gallows.

  With trembling fingers, the assassin unlocked the manacles with the same key he’d used to get in. Gallows dropped to the floor, instincts screaming at him to lash out—but he didn’t possess the strength.

  The stranger offered his hand.

  Gallows froze. A thousand questions ran through Gallows’ mind.

  He clasped the stranger’s hand and got to his feet. ‘Hell of a time… for a killer to get a conscience.’

  Voices and footsteps—the clamour rolled through the corridor.

  ‘They know you’re here,’ Gallows said.

  The killer held a hand up until long after the noise stopped. Gallows was about to speak again but the assassin silenced him with a glare.

  Then without a sound, he left.

  Gallows made to follow, but pain kept him rooted. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Who in all hells is this guy?

  When his heart settled to a steady rhythm, Gallows drew away from the wall. Given the increasing clamour of violence, he gave himself a choice: Wait, and die at Nidra’s hand—or follow the killer, and die at his.

  * * *

  The stone floor was as cold as a frozen lake. Gallows’ bare feet stumbled along the winding passage. The air weighed like a thick shroud here, and a strong metallic tang filled his nose.

  He wasn’t surprised to see the trail of blood—but he didn’t expect to see so much of it.

  At first it was a pale red smear, like a watercolour flourish from an artist’s brush. But the farther Gallows ventured, the darker the blood got. Crimson handprints stamped the walls, thin slashes of blood trailing onto the floor like wet red ink upon parchment.

  What the hell?

  A piercing screech cut through the air—and when it stopped, it left a mausoleum’s silence.

  Gallows pressed against the wall and edged his feet onward. Beaten and bleeding, he wasn’t ready for whatever was around the corner—but if there was even the slightest chance—a glimmer of hope—that this man could get Gallows home, he’d seize it.

  From the floor, the eyes in Atun the Ironrender’s severed head stared up at Gallows.

  ‘Belios.’

  Fresh death reeked stronger with every step Gallows took. Detached fingers dotted the floor, blood dripped from the ceiling, and a kuramanusa had been run through with a pike. Arcs of arterial spray and assorted gore left bloody crescents on the walls, like dripping scythes.

  Gallows snatched a shortsword from the body of an Idari soldier—he hadn’t had time to draw it before he died.

  Gallows tested the blade—it was cheap and curved at the end. They say no two Idari swords are the same, but this looks mass-produced. It wavered in his hand when Gallows raised it.

  A rasping hum buzzed in his ears and grew louder with each step. When Gallows reached the end of the passage, the assassin was on top of a kuramanusa, hands wrapped around his throat.

  The slave’s legs thrashed but Damien was strong. He kept his grip around the enemy’s throat long after his hands fell limp.

  When the assassin looked up at Gallows, his grin was as wide as a wolf’s. ‘Follow me.’

  * * *

  ‘There are two more Dalthean troops,’ Gallows said, one hand steadying himself against the wall, the other clasping the sword. ‘We gotta find ’em.’

  The killer didn’t argue. They pressed on.

  ‘My name, by the way, is Damien’.

  Knowing his name didn’t make Gallows any less afraid of him.

  He followed Damien down a spiral staircase and along the balcony of a grand hall. Decrepit chandeliers drooped from the ceiling.

  Flickering candles dotted the ground of the hall, coating the room with a breathing, orange haze. Blankets and sleeping mats lined the floor.

  ‘Holy shit,’ breathed Gallows, looking at the brickwork and patterns of stone. ‘No way… This is a fourteenth century Phadrosi castle. Why the hell did they build this all the way out here?’

  ‘Thirteenth century,’ noted Damien. ‘But otherwise, you’re correct.’

  ‘They give you history lessons in assassin school?’

  Damien’s eyebrow arched. ‘And needlework.’ The candlelight danced and died as ordnance impacted the outer walls of the castle. ‘Dalthean forces are converging on this position. We don’t have much
time.’ Damien started down the staircase.

  ‘Hey!’ Gallows yelled, throat burning with pain. ‘I said we got two more.’

  Damien turned, and Gallows raised his sword. Gods knew what the killer must have thought of the half-naked, beaten, bloodied man raising a sword in challenge to him.

  But he said, ‘Very well. Location?’

  Gallows shook his head. ‘Did you see ’em when you came to… rescue me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you check the rooms?’

  ‘I didn’t need to—they were empty.’

  ‘How in all Hells do you know that?’

  Damien didn’t answer.

  Gallows pushed past him and crossed the landing—before Damien’s hand yanked him back.

  Before Gallows could protest, a crack ripped through the ceiling and one of the chandeliers plummeted, erupting into mangled glass and twisting metal.

  ‘Now we can go,’ said Damien.

  * * *

  It was identical to the one Damien had led him through, but Gallows recognised the twisting passage spiralling out in front of him—it was where Nidra had been holding him before.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispered. ‘What date is it?’

  ‘It is three o’clock in the morning,’ Damien began. ‘On the Eleventh Day of Terros.’

  A meat hook pulled at Gallows’ gut. He slowed down, struggling to breathe. ‘Weeks... I’ve only been here a couple of weeks…’ Is that even possible? What the hell did she do to me?

  ‘Is… Major Fallon alive?’

  ‘I don’t recognise the name,’ Damien answered. ‘Sorry. I urge you to stay quiet here—there are heartbeats close by. Get ready.’

  Damien stepped over piles of jagged stone and came to a passage blocked by heavy wooden beams. Damien set his shoulder beneath the beam and lifted. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Quickly!’

  Gallows fell through the opening. ‘Clear.’

  Damien rolled. The beams buckled, bringing stone tumbling behind him.

  ‘Guess we ain’t going back the way we came,’ said Gallows.

  Damien took point again. As far as Gallows could see, he was unarmed.