His eyes widened, then he ran to Morgan. She had the decency to look surprised as the guardsman grabbed her like a sack, tossing her over a shoulder and heading for the door in the Skyforge.

  Lightning struck again, and this time it was everywhere. Evanne screamed, cowering. When she opened her eyes again, Tarragon was there. She held Requiem above Evanne’s prone body, the sword blazing as another series of bolts cascaded from above. The sword gathered them close, coils of power snaking around the blade. They arced from the skymetal weapon, lashing the deck, revitalising the ship.

  Which gave Evanne an idea. A crazy, stupid, insane idea. She loved it immediately.

  The ship shuddered, a beast awakening. A massive horn, low and long, sounded. The noise was something Evanne felt right in her gut, but she didn’t have time to piss herself right now. She stood, hollering into the wind, the gale howling right back.

  Tarragon screamed, “What are you doing? Get down!”

  Evanne screamed back, “Trust me! I know what I’m doing!”

  This was such an absurd lie, of course Tarragon just goggled at her. The ship’s horn silenced, the wind keening in its stead. Then the voice of giants spoke. It was male, calm, and certain. “ENERGY STORES TWELVE PERCENT. REACTORS NINE THROUGH TWENTY ABSENT. RED ALERT. BATTLESTATIONS. THREAT ASSESSMENT PENDING.”

  Tarragon wiped water from her face. “We have to get inside. The ship is going to war.”

  “Perfect.” Evanne sluiced water from rust locks, baring not quite shark teeth. She could hear Dancing in the Storm’s music switch from a dirge to a drumming beat. “Ship! Don’t do anything stupid!” The ship didn’t answer. Just a little more time. She eyed the clouds above, then put a hand on Tarragon’s sword arm. “Get ready.”

  “For what?” The once-fairy glanced about.

  Lightning struck once more. It raked the deck, a glowing, crooked line left in its wake as it hunted Evanne and Tarragon, the only two convenient lightning rods in attendance. Evanne held Tarragon’s sword arm, and the not-fairy tried to tug free.

  Morgan and Heser the Cheg made the Skyforge, and hauled the big doors wide. There, inside: a dragon’s hatchery.

  Lightning hit the blade. Evanne turned a half-circle, put her fingers inside Tarragon’s guard as Hitch had shown her how to do, liberated Requiem with a twist, and felt the char of the Three’s Storm building. She’d felt it before, just briefly, and it had almost killed her.

  Now the sword held the power of the heavens, too.

  Tarragon shrieked, “No!”

  Evanne hurled the sword. It tumbled end-over-end toward the Skyforge, trailing lightning, splashes of radiance hitting the deck. It soared past Morgan and Heser, lodging in the side of the dragon’s birthing chamber.

  The wind stilled. The sky held its breath. Evanne smelled charring and felt the blistering of her palms. Didn’t care. Not now. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Requiem discharged, angry at being held by not human hands, coupled with the power of the thunderclouds, all running into the murky chamber. Blue-white coiled within the depths. The sword spat energy again, whipcords of power coursing through the fluid within.

  The giant leg twitched.

  Evanne turned to Tarragon, who looked on the cusp of an important decision: slug Evanne, or hug her. Evanne interrupted the thought process. “Do you think it will work?”

  “Not a chance,” Tarragon said. “Dragons don’t⁠—”

  The chamber exploded. Morgan and Heser were drenched in thick, soupy sludge. Within, jaws wide as it howled, a blue dragon. Lightning crackled along its teeth, then it stared right at Evanne. And winked.

  Then it jumped through the side of the Skyforge chamber, shredding metal, and was on the wing. Soaring, and roaring, a crackle of blue-white energy marking its passage.

  The ship’s horn lowed again. “ENERGY STORES AT FIFTEEN PERCENT. THREAT ASSESSMENT COMPLETE. WE’RE GOING TO LOSE.”

  You’ve finished Heartsong! Evanne’s story concludes in The Hymn of All. An excerpt is included at the end of this book. You can get it here:

  [https://www.books2read.com/TheHymnOfAll]

  About the Author

  Richard Parry worked as an international consultant in one of the world’s top tech companies. It sounds cool, but it wasn’t all cocaine parties. He lives in Wellington with the love of his life, Rae. They have two cats, Harry and Friday, who chase birds. The birds, who have the power of flight, don’t seem to mind. Richard’s online hood is:

  www.parrydox.com

  WAIT. DON’T GO!

  Thanks for reading my book. If you liked it, would you share your experience with your fellow organics? Reviews are helpful to readers by ducting like-minded people to books they’ll enjoy.

  Review Heartsong at your retailer and Goodreads.

  FYI, an angel gets its wings for every five-star review.

  Also by Richard Parry

  THE SPLINTERED LAND

  Tomb of the Six

  Blade of Glass

  The Storm Within

  Requiem’s Justice

  The Copper Bard

  Heartsong

  The Hymn of All

  THE EZEROC WARS

  The Ezeroc Wars universe is big (and growing!). Get the reading guide here: https://www.mondegreen.co/ezeroc-wars-reading-guide/

  Tyche’s Journey

  Tyche’s Flight

  Tyche’s Deceit

  Tyche’s Crown

  Tyche’s Progeny

  Tyche’s Demons

  Tyche’s Ghosts

  Tyche’s Angels

  Tyche’s Fallen

  Tyche Forever

  Tyche’s Lost

  Tyche’s Crusade

  Tyche Origins

  Tyche Origins

  The Empire’s Rogues

  The Empire’s Rogues: Volume 1

  FUTURE FORFEIT

  Not sure where to start? Get the reading guide here: https://www.mondegreen.co/future-forfeit-reading-guide/

  Chromed: Upgrade

  Chromed: Rogue

  Chromed: Restore

  City Stories

  Chromed: Consensus

  Chromed: Delilah

  Chromed: Meltdown

  NIGHT’S CHAMPION

  Night’s Favor

  Night’s Fall

  Night’s End

  The Hymn of All

  A DARK FANTASY ADVENTURE

  A Day Like Any Other

  Amir was no fan of rain, cold, or halitosis.

  He stood in the middle of a corpse farm. Bodies were scattered. Most of them were in pieces. It spoke volumes of the past few moments, but the slimy rodent of a man before him did not seem to care. They stood, too close for Amir’s comfort because of the weevil’s halitosis, in a tavern. The tavern was in a blasted shithole named Wandermere. It seemed most had left, following music true, a melody that called the heart. Some say the dawn goddess sang it, her eyes violet. Others claimed it was a monster, teeth sharp, always parched, seeking to slake her thirst on the blood of villains. A vampire lord, they said, had fallen at her feet.

  Amir contacted a fence, who said a local man of action knew the hero’s location. They would meet in the pride of the town: this tavern. The storm outside hurried them in, armour slick, boots muddy, which meant Amir was pissed off before the ruckus started. The man of action turned out to be the weevil, who had been late to his assassination at the hands of the Vide. The Vide forgot their manners, and died against Amir, Faust, and Larochette’s steel. Which left the three of them in the middle of a shitty tavern, Amir talking to the weevil, because Faust said You’re the one who’s good with people.

  Vertiline had arrived after the ruckus but before the weevil. She’d pressed her lips into a line at the mess, and made a noise that sounded like hmm, which was the kind of noncommittal nonsense that made Amir fear a future sparring ‘lesson’ at the Justiciar’s hand. She’d walked to a scorched patch on the floor, touched it with her metal hand, sank back in thought a moment, then settled herself in a dark corner, eyes hooded.

  And that was when the weevil arrived, looking at the corpse farm as if this was the kind of thing Wandermere’s tavern produced on a daily basis. He’d demanded coin for information, which Amir expected, but more than the fence agreed, which Amir didn’t. It left them at an impasse, the weevil with information, and Amir with bared blade and stirring resentment.

  When the weevil spoke, he sounded like an old, blocked-up drain. “The problem is the amount of solars. There are none.”

  “Friend,” Amir lied, “you will note the number of corpses around me. These men and women did not accidentally fall. They tried to kill me, my friends,” he gestured with his sword toward Faust and Larochette, who were rummaging through the dead, “and would have dispatched you, if you had not been late.”

  “So you say.” The weevil’s face was so punchable Amir almost gave it a shot, but he didn’t want slime on his gloves. “Everyone knows you don’t turn up first to a meeting when you’re outnumbered. You want to make an entrance, casual like, hand over information, all without breaking a sweat, and still collect your solars.” He jingled the pouch Amir had given him. “There are no solars here.”

  The wave of foul breath that arrived with the use of the word solars made Amir pale. He slicked cold water from his hair, a parting gift from the deluge outside the tavern. Truth, but inside isn’t much better. They could have at least put a fire on. The roof was in bad need of repair, puddles of water spotting the floor in ways that dragged the steps and mired the patterns. Amir braced himself. “That is because we made no agreement for platinum. The offer was for sovereigns with a smattering of barons.”

  “I’m rounding up, see?” The weevil squinted up at Amir. “Cost of business is high. Was difficult to wrangle the information. I’m a businessman. Got expenses.”

  “Sir, are you aware you address a Knight of the Tresward?”

  The weevil squinted harder, eyes almost screwing shut. “Tresward known for their business acumen?”

  “Not our true calling, I’ll admit.”

  “Then why does it matter?” The creature attempted a smile, the result ghastly. “Solars for satisfaction. I’ll hear it no other way.”

  Amir felt the weight of the blade in his right hand, and imagined how it could be inserted underneath the weevil’s ribs, living for a brief moment in his heart. It was a sorely tempting thought, and he felt the blade tremble in anticipation. A small bending of the truth, first. “A child’s life is at stake.”

  The weevil pushed out his paunch and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from it. “Children are everywhere. Lose one? Plenty more where that came from.”

  Amir was moments from sticking the pig with his blade when strong fingers enclosed his wrist. “Sirrah.” Vertiline, calm as the sky before a storm. She’d arrived from behind the weevil without sound, despite the bodies and muck on the floor. It was a trick Amir would have to learn. He hadn’t even marked her moving, which was the kind of lapse that would get you killed. “It is my child.”

  “Then you can pay the solars.” The weevil’s squint turned into a glare. “We’re still talking, which means you’re not going to knife me with that pretty blade. You want your child back? Cross my palm with heavy platinum.”

  Vertiline cocked her head, hand still on Amir’s arm. How did she make it here so quietly? She breathes urgency to our cause but didn’t charge the weevil. He wondered why they weren’t beating the weevil into submission. “Is it a matter of true cost, wretch, or is this a play for more coin?”

  “Here, now.” The weevil straightened. “First, I ain’t no wretch. Businessman, see? Better than. Higher up than the likes of you.” He looked down at Vertiline, or made the attempt. “Second, does it matter? The cost is the cost.”

  “It is difficult to extract information from a corpse,” Amir murmured.

  “I know a way.” Vertiline didn’t let him go, still facing the weevil. “I knew a man, once. He said⁠—”

  “We all know men. What of it?”

  Amir noticed Vertiline’s jaw muscles clench. “This wonderful man laid his life down before a demon gate so the likes of you could keep breathing. He told me there’s always a reason. The reason, Meri said, was important. If it’s a simple play for more coin, with you holding the knowledge but unwilling to part with it, then we can kill you now and leech the answer from your soul. If it’s a cost of business matter as you suggest, then we can still kill you now. We will simply pay the people you are beholden to, avoiding middle-man fees.”

  The weevil paled but stood firm. “Here now. Ain’t no way you know who they are. They’re my people, not yours⁠—”

  “They will come looking for their platinum,” Amir said. “We need but wait.”

  “And you have confirmed it is a true cost of business.” Vertiline glanced to Amir. “Insert the blade as you were going to but mind the lungs. The corpse will have trouble speaking if he’s missing a lung.” And she let his hand go.

  The weevil noticed, backed away, voice rising as he said, “The Tresward are good. You’re no necromancers. You’re⁠—”

  //DO YOU DOUBT ME?// Vertiline’s voice cracked like the breach between worlds. The tables in the bar shook, and lamps flickered as a wild wind surged among them.

  The weevil sank to his knees. “Holy Cophine, please⁠—”

  //DO NOT PROFANE THE GODDESS.// She relaxed, the lamplight rising again, the wind dying down. “I am not her. I am her … sometime servant.”

  “Sometime?” Amir looked to his blade. “You still want me to stick him with the sharp end, boss?”

  “Wait,” the weevil pleaded again. “Just wait.”

  She crouched before the horrid little man, cupped his chin, and tilted his head so they locked eyes. “It is my child, creature. There is no force on this world that will keep me from her. I will raze cities and destroy armies if they stand in my way. Remember this as you give Knight Adept Amir what he’s asked for. Because if you treat us false, I will come back. I will come here, find you, and make your soul cry for mercy. Do you hear me?”

  The weevil’s frantic nod tugged his head free of her grip. She eyed him a moment longer, then stood, turning to Amir. “Pay the man.”

  “But—”

  “Adept, he is a businessman. He will remember the fairness of our offer as he remembers a future of pain. If more Vide come, he may be … circumspect.”

  Amir sheathed his blade, counting coins into his palm as he watched the Knight Champion walk to the tavern’s exit. As her hand touched the door, he called, “Could the Sway do that? Call his soul back from beyond to account for his crimes?”

  “The Sway can shatter reality. It can do whatever we need but we must mind the price.” She didn’t turn. “And I will pay anything.”

  Chapter One

  Tarragon prowled the corridors of Dancing in the Storm. There was an ache just below her heart, and she couldn’t rub it away. It was odd; she’d spent so long fighting Vhemin and now she’d fallen for one. And now, every minute of every day, I worry for her.

  Evanne had not been herself.

  How do I know what she’s like? I spent mere weeks at her side.

  Being Big meant Tarragon was … different. Big, sure, that was obvious to anyone with eyes or a seismometer. But her mind seemed larger, like she had more room to think about things like, What are we going to do next, maybe what is up with the Raven and all those people we saved, or the big one, how did I fail my exams? That was a bother that wasn’t going away, because she was sure it was a test impossible for fairies to fail. They had a Manifest.

  She knew lots of other things too, many from before the world fell, because she’d lived here. The ship was her home. She knew what this ship held, where to go to get the good booze, the great threads, or how to start the kitchen’s fabricators so they at least had plenty of oatmeal. What with all the people from Hollyhead, there were a lot of mouths to feed.

  Evanne wasn’t by the liquor stores, nor was she eating. That was a rare thing, because the maybe-Vhemin always seemed to need calories. She’d hungered for more and more after her fight with Dancing Stars. Tarragon drifted past the fabricators, smelling oatmeal and honey as starveling villagers ate, then shored up at the middle deck’s best faux leather store. No Evanne. If she wasn’t where all the cool clothes were, it left one place.

  The only training room still working was a modest football field in size. There were fencing sabres alongside racks of jousting armour, and weight cages for making the weak strong. A central stage took up a good third of the room where the battles were fought. Back in the day—a thought that made Tarragon feel as ancient as her eight-hundred-and-mumble years—glimmering Artifices made of illusory light would battle against dragons and warriors on that stage.

  Now, one warrior panted, sweat dripping. Her jacket and guitar rested against a wall by her scattergun. A rapier was in the woman’s hand, a tiny weapon for one whose shoulders were broad and strong. Tarragon fancied Evanne more of a match for the broadsword, but the maybe-Vhemin looked magnificent either way.