The Spirit War (57 page)

Eli bowed his head. “I’m sorry this is happening,” he said, rubbing his eyes on his sleeves. “I’m sorry I
let
this happen. I’m letting everybody down. It’s my fault.”

And it was. It was his fault. His fault for thinking Benehime would actually be above starting a war over her stupid obsession. His fault for letting it continue. He could stop it right now. One more lie, that’s all it would take. But…

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I can’t go back to her. I’m so sorry, so, so sorry, but I can’t.
I can’t.
”

The sob shook him this time, and Eli clenched as his burned chest seized. Despite the motion, Karon didn’t move. Eli swore
under his breath and let gravity slide him down the cliff and toward the cold, wet stone, curling into a ball on his side as the mist swallowed him whole.

Miranda stood at the foot of the watchtower with her arms crossed and her mouth set in a stubborn line. Gin stood beside her, growling deep in his chest as he kept his eyes on Sara and, more important, Sparrow, who was standing beside her. Sara stared right back, smoking her ever-present pipe in long puffs. Sparrow simply looked bored, lounging on the wagon with a sleepy expression like ghosthounds growled at him all the time. Of course, for most of the last two months, that had pretty much been the case.

Miranda ignored the flamboyant man completely, focusing on Sara, head wizard of the Council of Thrones, inventor of the Ollor Relay, and Eli Monpress’s mother. Powers, she thought with a stifled groan, that explained so much. But at least it meant Eli came by his scheming honestly, most likely making it the only honestly gotten thing he possessed. She studied Sara as the wizardess took another puff of her pipe, trying to see what Master Banage had ever seen in the woman. Whatever it was, it must be long gone. Miranda had been ready to strangle her from the first moment they’d met.

The door of the tower creaked and she turned gladly to greet Master Banage. But it wasn’t the Rector who emerged from the tower. It was Josef, and he did not look happy.

“What’s all this?” he said, eyes moving up and down the spectacle gathered at his door.

“All this” was a line of wagons, the same wagons from the Council’s assault on the Spirit Court Tower earlier that morning. Each was large enough to carry eight men with room to spare and filled with lumpy objects hidden beneath a cover of thick, tied canvas.
There were ten wagons in total, all identical, and none with a driver or animals to pull them. They rolled on their own, much like Slorn’s wagons, though with wheels instead of legs. But these weren’t like Slorn’s wagons; Miranda was positive of that. One, Sara wasn’t that nice, or a Shaper, and two, the wagons didn’t move and fidget like Slorn’s awakened creations did. These wagons followed Sara’s instructions with a sluggishness that reminded Miranda more of bad puppetry than spirit work. Still, strange as this was, Miranda put it out of her mind. The threat, if there was one, wouldn’t come from wagons that moved themselves but from whatever Sara was hiding under their cloth covers.

Sara met Josef with a smile, her eyes flicking to the enormous sword on his back. “You must be Josef Liechten, master of the fabled Heart of War. I hear you’re king of Osera now. Congratulations, and my sincere condolences on the loss of your mother.”

Miranda snorted. Sara didn’t sound sincere at all. Fortunately, none of this seemed to faze Josef.

“Right,” he said. “And why are you here?”

“To honor the Council’s duty to Osera,” Sara answered with a shrug. “And to offer a new weapon in the war against the Empress.”

That got Josef’s attention. “What have you got?”

Sara smiled. “You’ll see for yourself as soon as the fog clears, which should be any moment now.”

“What are you talking about?” Miranda said.

Sara looked surprised. “Can’t you hear it, Spiritualist? Listen. The mist is straining. Something’s pushing on it.”

Miranda shifted her attention immediately to her mist, but Allinu felt fine. Nothing was different. Miranda frowned and pushed softly on the thread of power connecting them. The thread pushed back, but the push was weak and thin, and Miranda’s breath caught.

“Allinu!” she shouted, looking up.

“Sorry, mistress,” the mist whispered around her. “We’re holding as best we can, but the Empress has a wind. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up.”

“A wind?” Miranda scowled. “How big a wind?”

“Big enough to blow your mist away,” Sara said, glancing up. “Look.”

Miranda looked. Sure enough, she could see patches of the evening sky overhead.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” Allinu whimpered. “We tried.”

Miranda made a soothing sound and held out her hand. The mountain mist spiraled down, sinking into her ring with a sigh. Banage’s fog was dissipating as well, and Miranda turned, staring out at the sea as the air cleared.

“Powers,” she muttered, blinking against the strong, unnaturally steady wind from the sea.

Behind her, Josef added a more powerful curse.

Just beyond the line of trees and wrecked ships was a wall of palace ships. There were seven in all, pulled so close to each other that their crews could step from one boat to the next. Their decks were black with soldiers arranged in alternating lines, the first row kneeling, the next standing just behind them. All of them were holding larger versions of the curved bows the soldiers who’d invaded the bay had been carrying, and every bow was drawn. Miranda swallowed as the full force of what she was seeing hit her. Thousands of arrows, notched and drawn, and all of them pointed at the top of the storm wall where the Oseran forces were standing.

“Durn!” Miranda shouted, but her rock spirit’s name was lost in the deafening snap of the bowstrings. A black wall of arrows shot over the bay. There wasn’t time to duck, no time for Miranda to do anything except to raise her hands in a pathetic shield as the arrows whistled toward her.

When the arrows were close enough that Miranda could see the fletching, everything suddenly went black. She blinked in surprise and then winced at the thud of the arrows striking something solid and smooth. Miranda stepped back, and then she began to grin. Durn towered over her, a great stone wall covering a ten-foot-long span of the storm wall. She grinned wider and slapped her hand against the stone. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Durn answered, his gravelly voice thick with pride.

Beside her, Josef lowered his sword. “Nice trick.”

Miranda looked over her shoulder. By luck of where she’d been standing, Durn’s wall had also sheltered the road, the door to the tower, and most of their forces. Outside the stone’s reach, arrows lay everywhere. They stuck in the ground, lay broken on the stone, and a few were even embedded in the wooden shutters of the watchtower windows. Miranda swallowed. If Durn hadn’t shielded them, that surprise attack might well have been the end. Back on the road, the sailors and Spiritualists stood in a stunned clump, their eyes glassy as everyone realized how close they’d come to death.

“They’re notching another volley.”

Josef’s voice fell through the stunned silence like an iron weight. Miranda turned her head to see the swordsman at the edge of Durn’s wall, peering out at the enemy.

“Get to cover!” she cried.

She didn’t have to say it twice. Soldiers and Spiritualists scrambled for the safety of the tower’s shadow. They used the broken arrows as markers, crowding into the lee of the tower where no arrows had landed. Sara, however, did not move. She stood calmly beside her wagons, and Sparrow stood calmly beside her, though his face was paler than usual as he kicked a stray arrow that had landed inches from his boot.

“They’re not going to shoot again,” Sara said when she caught
Miranda’s alarmed look. “The arrows are just to keep us huddled. I’d get your Spiritualists back out here. The real attack is about to start.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda said, crouching behind Durn. “How do you know?”

“I’ve fought the Empress before,” Sara said, lifting her chin. “Look. Here they come now.”

Miranda pressed her hand against Durn’s surface. The stone softened under her fingers, letting her push a small hole through the wall, just enough to see that Sara was right. On the deck of the center palace ship, behind the line of archers, a circle of ten people stood around a ball of stone and metal. The circle of figures raised their arms, and the ball began to glow red hot. Miranda felt her mouth go dry. She’d never seen one before, but there was no question that the thing at the circle’s center was one of the Empress’s war spirits. But even as she recognized what she was looking at, the circle of wizards threw their arms toward Osera and the glowing ball launched off the deck. It flew through the air with a deep, wailing scream, leaving a trail of smoke behind it as it arced up and then down, straight toward Durn’s wall.

Miranda ran back before she knew what she was doing, throwing out her hand as Mellinor surged out of her. The water flew up in a spout at the falling war spirit, and they collided midair in a burst of steam. A second later, she felt Mellinor’s triumph echo through her as the jumble of metal and stone, now black and dripping, slammed to the ground at the watchtower’s foot, followed by a shower of icy cold water.

Miranda held out her hand as Mellinor flowed back into her. “Good catch!”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Mellinor said, his voice dire. “Look.”

Miranda glanced back to see the war spirit stirring in its crater, and then the spirit began to unfold. Stone and iron shifted, forming
four sturdy legs, a solid, low-slung body, and a broad, flat head with a great hanging jaw of sharp, steel teeth. The moment the transformation was complete, the war spirit rolled smoothly to its feet, steam rising as it started heating itself up again.

“Powers,” Miranda muttered, raising her hands. Beside her, Gin fell to a crouch, claws ready. But before she could do more than ready her spirits, Josef stepped in front of her, sword out.

“I’ll handle this,” he said. “Get your wizards ready to stop the rest.”

“The rest?” Miranda said, bewildered.

Josef nodded and jerked his head toward the water. Miranda turned, and her heart sank. The sky was full of smoke trails as countless red-hot spirits launched from the decks of the palace ships. Most were already flying high overhead to fall on the city behind them. Miranda could only watch in horror as the first one crashed into the mountain, landing in the houses on the eastern slope with an impact she felt through her boots.

But even as the first wave hit, more war spirits were launching. The second volley hit the palace itself. One struck the crumbling tower at the top, taking it clean off. Another crashed into the palace’s eastern face, cracking the wall as it tore into the inner halls.

“Miranda,” Mellinor whispered in her ear. She barely heard him. She was staring in horror as a war spirit crashed through the palace roof, shattering the floors below with a distant boom of pulverized stone.

“
Miranda!
” the sea spirit shouted.

She snapped out of it. “Right,” she muttered, running for the lee of the tower where the Spiritualists were hiding.

“All of you!” she shouted, pointing to no one in particular. “Get to the city and get those spirits under control!”

The Spiritualists stared at her dumbly.

“Go!” she shouted again.

This time, they obeyed. The air was full of flashes as they called their mounts and took off toward the burning city, but Miranda didn’t see it. She was already marching back toward Durn’s wall.

“We have to stop those ships,” she said. “Where’s Master Banage?”

“Still in the tower, I think,” Gin said, hunching down behind the stone spirit.

Miranda bit back a frustrated groan. “What’s he doing? We need him.”

“Don’t know,” Gin growled. “Look sharp, Sara’s on the move.”

Miranda snapped her head to see her dog was right. Sara had all ten of her wagons lined up along the edge of the storm wall. She and Sparrow were beside the first one, untying the canvas cover.

“What are you doing?” Miranda shouted, marching over.

“What does it look like?” Sara said, undoing the last knot with a snap of her fingers. “I didn’t come here to enjoy the show. The war spirits that have already landed are more than enough to overwhelm your small force of Spiritualists. If we’re going to save this island, we can’t have them launching any more, which means we have to sink the ships.”

“Sink the—” Miranda said, coming to a stop beside her. “How?”

“Same way you sink anything,” Sara said. “Put a hole in it.”

She flashed Miranda a thin smile and tugged the canvas aside. It slid off the wagon, revealing… Miranda wasn’t actually sure. The wagon was full of straw and raw wool, like a packing crate, and nestled neatly in the padding were five black orbs. Each one was slightly larger than a man’s head, perfectly round and as shiny black as a puddle of freshly spilled ink. The sun was well down now as evening shifted into night, but Miranda could see the orbs well enough thanks to the grim glow of the burning city behind her. The spheres glistened wetly in the fire light, and though she could hear nothing, something about the orbs made Miranda very uneasy.

“What are those?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Sara said, picking one up.

The orb fit neatly between her small hands. As Sara rested it against her chest, Miranda swore she saw the orb’s black surface tremble.

“Sparrow,” Sara said, lowering the orb. “Ready yet?”

“Almost,” Sparrow answered.

Miranda glanced up at his voice to see that he’d uncovered the next wagon. This one held no soft packing or strange orbs. Instead, the wagon contained a miniature catapult. The weapon was very cleverly made, with several different levels of tension to fit the most power into the smallest space. So cleverly made, in fact, that Miranda was only slightly surprised when it greeted Sara in a calm, professional voice.

“Hello, Sara. What is our objective today?”

Miranda gaped. “You brought an awakened catapult?”

“Of course,” Sara said, placing the black orb in the small depression at the end of the catapult’s arm. It didn’t look big enough at first, but the catapult shifted as the sphere settled, moving the grain of its wood to hold the glassy ball neatly in place.