The Spirit Rebellion (51 page)

Authors: Rachel Aaron

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BOOK: The Spirit Rebellion

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meet the author

Rachel Aaron
was born in Atlanta, GA. After a lovely, geeky childhood full of books and public television, and then an adolescence spent feeling awkward about it, she went to the University of Georgia to pursue English literature with an eye toward getting her PhD. Upper-division coursework cured her of this delusion, and she graduated in 2004 with a BA and a job, which was enough to make her mother happy. She currently lives in a ’70s house of the future in Athens, GA, with her loving husband, an overgrown library, and a small, brown dog. Find out more about the author at
www.rachelaaron.net
.

introducing

If you enjoyed THE SPIRIT REBELLION,

look out for

THE SPIRIT EATER

The Legend of Eli Monpress Book 3

by Rachel Aaron

The great hall of the Shapers had been flung open to let in the wounded. Shaper wizards, their hands still covered in soot from their work, ran out into the blowing snow to help the men who came stumbling onto the frosted terrace through a white-lined hole in the air. Some fell and did not rise again, their long, black coats torn beyond recognition. These the Shapers rolled onto stretchers that, after a sharp order, stood on their own and scrambled off on spindly wooden legs, some toward the waiting doctors, others more slowly toward the cold rooms, their unlucky burdens already silent and stiff.

Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, lay on the icy floor toward the center of the hall, gritting his teeth against the pain as a Shaper physician directed the matched team of six needles sewing his chest back together. His body seized as the needles hit a sore spot, and the Shaper grabbed his shoulders, slamming him back against the stone with surprising strength.

“You must not move,” she said.

“I’m trying not to,” Alric replied through gritted teeth.

The old physician arched an eyebrow and started the needles again with a crooked finger. “You’re lucky,” she said, holding him still. “I’ve seen others with those wounds going down to the cold rooms.” She nodded toward the three long claw marks that ran down his chest from neck to hip. “You must be hard to kill.”

“Very,” Alric breathed. “It’s my gift.”

She gave him a strange look, but kept her hands firmly on his shoulders until the needles finished. Once the wounds were closed, the doctor gave him a bandage and left to find her next patient. Alric sat up with a ragged breath, holding his arms out as the bandage rolled around his torso and tied itself off over his left shoulder. When it had pulled itself tight, Alric sat a moment longer with his eyes closed, mastering the pain. When he was sure he had it under control, he grabbed what was left of his coat and got up to find his commander.

The Lord of Storms was standing in the snow beside the great gate he had opened for their retreat. Through the shimmering hole in the world, Alric could see what was left of the valley, the smoking craters rimmed with dead stone, the great gashes in the mountains. But worse than the visible destruction were the low, terrified cries of the
mountains. Their weeping went straight to his bones in a way nothing else ever had and, he hoped, nothing ever would again.

The Lord of Storms had his back to Alric. As always, his coat was pristine, his sword clean and sheathed at his side. He alone of all of them bore no sign of what had just occurred, but a glance at the enormous black clouds overhead was all Alric needed to know his commander’s mood. Alric took a quiet, calming breath. He would need to handle this delicately.

The moment he stepped into position, the Lord of Storms barked. “Report.”

“Twenty-four confirmed casualties,” Alric said. “Eighteen wounded, eight still unaccounted for.”

“They’re dead,” the Lord of Storms said. “No one else will be coming through.” He jerked his hand down and the gate beside him vanished, cutting off the mountain’s cries. Despite himself, Alric sighed in relief.

“Thirty-two dead out of a force of fifty,” the Lord of Storms said coldly. “That’s a rout by any definition.”

“But the objective was achieved,” Alric said. “The demon was destroyed.”

The Lord of Storms shook his head. “She’s not dead.”

“Impossible,” Alric said. “I saw you take her head off. Nothing could survive that.”

The Lord of Storms sneered. “A demon is never defeated until you’ve got the seed in your hand.” He walked to the edge of the high, icy terrace, staring down at the quiet, snow-covered peaks below. “We tore her up a bit, diminished her, but she’ll be back. Mark me, Alric, this isn’t over.”

Alric pulled himself straight. “Even if you are right,
even if the creature is still alive somewhere, we stopped the mountain’s assault. The Shepherdess can have no—”

“
Do not speak to me about that woman!
” the Lord of Storms roared. His hand shot to the blue-wrapped hilt of his sword, and the smell of ozone crept into the air as little tongues of lightning crackled along his grip. “What we faced tonight should never have been allowed to come about.” He looked at Alric from the corner of his eye. “Do you know what we fought in that valley?”

Alric shuddered, remembering the black wings that blotted out the sky, the screaming cry that turned his bones to water and made mountains weep in terror, the hideous, black shape that his brain refused to remember in detail because something that horrible should never be seen more than once. “A demon.”

The Lord of Storms laughed. “A demon? A demon is what we get when we neglect a seed too long. A demon can be taken out by a single League member. We kill
demons
every day. What we faced tonight, Alric, is something I have not seen in a thousand years. A child of the Dead Mountain itself.”

“A child…” Alric swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “How is that possible? The Dead Mountain is under the Lady’s own seal. Tiny slivers may escape to form seeds, but a child of the creature itself?” Alric shook his head. “Such a thing cannot be.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” the Lord of Storms said. “But it is the Lady’s will that keeps the seal in place, and when her attention wanders, we’re the ones who have to clean up.” The Lord of Storms clenched his sword hilt as the smell of ozone intensified. “Thirty-two League members and a ruined valley are
nothing
compared to
what this could end up costing us. We have to find the creature and finish her.”

Alric was looking for a way to answer that when the soft sound of a throat clearing saved him the trouble. He turned to see a group of old men and women in fine, heavy coats standing in the doorway to the great hall. Alric nodded graciously, but the Lord of Storms just sneered and turned back to the mountains, crossing his arms over his chest. Undeterred by the League commander’s rudeness, the figure at the group’s head, a tall, stern man with white beard down to his chest, stepped forward.

“My Lord of Storms,” he said, bowing to the enormous man’s back, “I am Ferdinand Slorn, Head Shaper and Guildmaster of the Shaper Clans.”

“I know who you are,” the Lord of Storms said. “We’ll be out of here soon enough, old man.”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you need,” Slorn said, smiling benignly. “However, we sought you out to offer assistance of a different nature.”

The Lord of Storms looked over his shoulder. “Speak.”

Slorn remained unruffled. “We have heard of your battle with the great demon as well as its unfortunate escape. As Master of the Shapers, I would like to offer our aid in its capture.”

“Guildmaster,” Alric said. “You have already helped so much providing aid and—”

“How do you know about that?” The sudden anger in the Lord of Storm’s voice cut Alric off cold.

“These mountains are Shaper lands, my lord,” the Guildmaster replied calmly. “You can hardly expect to fight a battle such as you just fought without attracting
our attention. Our great teacher, on whose slopes we now stand, is enraged and grieving. His brother mountains were among those injured by the demon, many beyond repair. We only ask that we be allowed to assist in the capture of the one responsible.”

“What help could you be to us?” The Lord of Storms sneered. “Demons are League business. You may be good at slapping spirits together, but what do Shapers know of catching spirit eaters?”

“More than you would think.” The old man’s eyes narrowed, but his calm tone never broke. “We Shapers live our lives in the shadow of the demon’s mountain. You and your ruffians may be good at tracking down the demon’s wayward seeds, but it is my people, and the great mountains we honor, who suffer the most. Tonight several beautiful, powerful spirits, ancient mountains and allies of my people, were eaten alive. We cannot rest until the one responsible is destroyed.”

“That’s too bad,” the Lord of Storms said, stepping forward until he towered over the old Guildmaster. “I’ll say this one more time. Demons are League business. So until I put a black coat on your shoulders, you will stay out of our way.”

The Guildmaster stared up at Lord of Storms, completely unruffled. “I can assure you, my dear Lord of Storms, we will avoid your way entirely. All I ask is the opportunity to pursue our own lines of inquiry.”

The Lord of Storms leaned forward, bending down until he was inches away from the old man’s face. “Listen,” he said, very low, “and listen well. We both know that you’re going to do what you’re going to do, so before you go and do it, take my advice: Do not cross me.
If you or your people get in my way on the hunt for the creature, I will roll right over you without looking back. Do you understand me, Shaper?”

Slorn narrowed his eyes. “Quite clearly, demon hunter.”

The Lord of Storms gave him one final, crackling glare before pushing his way through the small crowd of Shaper elders and stomping back across the frozen terrace toward the brightly lit hall.

Alric thanked the Shaper elders before running after his commander. “Honestly,” he said, keeping his voice low, “it would make my life easier if you learned a little tact. They were just trying to help.”

“Help?” the Lord of Storms scoffed. “There’s nothing someone outside the League could do to help. Let them do whatever they like, it’ll end the same. No seed sleeps forever, Alric. Sooner or later, she’s going to crack, and when that happens, I’ll be there. And this time, I won’t stop until I have her seed in my hand.” He clenched his fists. “Now get everyone out of here, including corpses. We burn the dead tonight at headquarters; I want nothing of ours left in this mountain.”

And with that he vanished—just disappeared into thin air, leaving Alric walking alone through the center of the Shaper hall. Alric skidded to a stop. It was always like this when things were bad, but the only thing to do was obey. Gritting his teeth, he walked over to the best mended of the walking wounded and began giving orders to move out. His words were met with grim stares. Most of the League was too wounded to make a safe portal back to the fortress. But they were soldiers, and they obeyed without grumbling, working quietly under Alric to bring home the dead through the long, bloody night.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Aaron, Matt, Krystina, Steven, Andrea, and everyone who read my books back when they were really terrible. Your feedback got me to where I am today.

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