Chapter Fifteen #3
My lips part to ask a question, but it is drowned out by the sudden blare of the Westerly Beacon overhead.
And then, there is no more time to ask anything.
Soren has my hand in his and he is running—pulling me across the rocky beach, up the narrow stone steps, into the dark passageway that cuts back into the city proper.
The soaring walls of Hylios are something of an architectural marvel.
Since my arrival in the capital, I have spent many twilights strolling along the ramparts, admiring the view of the labyrinthine canals below, the endless expanse of ocean that stretches as far as the eye can see.
The true marvel is not in the lofty sightseeing spots atop the walls, however.
It is within the walls themselves.
A series of ladders, trapdoors, and narrow corridors cut through the thick stone, leading to hidden battlements built at strategic points around the perimeter.
It is dark and narrow inside. Only the occasional slotted window allows shafts of sunlight to pierce the shadows, cleverly angled so an archer might take aim without exposing himself to return fire.
Navy-clad members of the Hylian Guard are taking up their positions even as Soren and I race southward in the direction of the sea gate.
We pass six water cannons, by my count. The massive metallic beasts are the city’s strongest fortification against incoming ships, sending out huge streams of pressurized spray over the bay—or so I read in Historical Battles of Hylios: Waging War from Behind the Walls, a sharp-tongued account Soren left on my bedside table for perusal several days ago.
The pages within detail all of the capital’s many unique methods of defense, from the sea gate to the beacon lights to the nearly invisible tidal shoals that ring the outskirts…
All solid protection measures in their own right, yet none half so effective as the water cannons.
They’ll take down anything in range, a boasting soldier told me just last night during my stroll atop the walls. Brigs, schooners, dinghies. Doesn’t matter the size. Our cannons can smash ’em to bits, simple as that. Keeps most marauders from even thinking to raid us.
I confess, I have been eager to see them in action.
To witness their hull-crushing capabilities firsthand.
But in this moment, as I watch teams of two working in tandem, using brute force to turn wheels wider than I am tall in order to pump streams of water up from the bay, my enthusiasm is tempered by reality.
The closer we get to the sea gate, the more crowded the battlements.
Armed soldiers are everywhere, strapping on bows and quivers, sharpening blades on whetstones, loading crossbows with sturdy bolts.
Everyone is in motion, climbing ladders up to the ramparts or down toward the canals, depending on their orders.
Overhead, the blaring of the beacons is a distant drone, warning civilians to take cover in their homes.
We reach the end of the passage where a thick spiral staircase leads up to the top of the walls.
Soren scales it quickly; I follow close behind.
He’s tense. I can see it in the lines of his broad shoulders just as I can feel it thrumming down the bond.
The fact that I can feel him at all is indicative of the situation’s severity.
For once, he is too preoccupied to bother blocking me out.
We burst into the hazy daylight, searing after the darkness.
I blink rapidly as my eyes strain to take in all that I am seeing.
The upper fortifications are lined with soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder.
They stare out at the horizon, looks of foreboding on their faces.
A similar pit of dread opens in my stomach as I follow their worried eyes out to sea.
Beyond the merchant vessels at anchor, and rapidly closing in, are more ships than I can count in a single glance.
Now that they are somewhat closer, it is hard to believe I ever mistook them for Alaric’s fleet.
These are clearly warships, not trading vessels.
Built for speed and stealth. Their distinctive curved bowsprits slice the waves like blades, gaining unnatural speed as the Frostlander rowers heave their oars in perfect unison.
“They’re after the anchorage,” Soren mutters, hands bracing on the parapet at our waists as his eyes scan the horizon. “Probably heard about the wedding and thought to help themselves to the cargo in those holds.”
My gaze flickers down to the dozens of vessels bobbing unprotected beyond the heavy stone of the sea gate. “Will they attack the city?”
“They have no interest in conquest. But they will pillage everything on those vessels, given the chance, before they set them aflame.” His tone pitches lower. “And they will slaughter every sailor and civilian on board to do it.”
I swallow harshly.
I have heard tales of Frostlander raids.
Their swiftness, their savageness. Their tendency to take no prisoners, wiping out whole villages in the span of a single night, hauling off everything of value, leaving none alive to tell the tale.
In the past, they’ve aimed such plundering pursuits across the North Sea, rather than at their neighbors.
But their strategies are changing. Only weeks ago, Cadogan called for reinforcements, fearing an imminent attack on Dyved.
I did not think Ll?r would face a similar threat—certainly not here in the capital. Not with Soren’s menacing presence to keep them at bay. The prospect of so many stocked ships, sitting ducks ripe for shooting, must have proved too difficult to turn down.
Over the drone of the beacons and the din of soldiers running to their battle stations, the clipped bark of a woman’s orders carries on the breeze. Soren takes off like a shot toward the source. I follow more sedately, a silent shadow trying not to lose him in the melee.
The line of soldiers continues all the way along the top of the sea gate, some fifty paces across.
At the midway point, straddling the seam of the two great doors, a female figure with a sleek silver bow strapped to her back is standing atop the waist-high balustrade, bellowing at everyone with a set of ears.
“I want those tower cannons firing the minute they’re in range!
” Arwen’s braids fly as her head swivels back and forth, surveying the scene.
Her flight goggles swing around her neck.
“Wheelmen, work in shifts. If you get tired, tap out and let someone else take over. Those pumps need constant pressure on the valves to be of any use to your gunners!”
To either side of the sea gate, perched on flat lookout platforms that protrude from the parapets, sit a pair of matching water cannons.
The Twins, as the soldiers so affectionately refer to them.
They are double the size of the ones we passed by inside the wall battlements.
Each requires a team of four men to manipulate the horizontal wheel that powers its pump.
“They will use the mooring field as cover!” Arwen flings a hand toward the bobbing ships behind her—prime targets for the raiding party. “You have to sink them before they make it into the anchorage or we’ll lose our chance!”
Soren slams to a stop just before his sister, head craned back to capture her gaze. “How many longships?”
“Fifty, maybe sixty.” Arwen’s tone is blunt. “About five hundred men.”
“How the bloody hell did they get here without detection?” Soren’s eyes flash to the incoming horde.
They are still quite a distance away, but making good headway.
The armada is fanning out, splitting into two distinct prongs with the clear aim to surround the temporary mooring field on all sides.
Like a noose tightening around a neck, they will close in all at once to take their bounty, then flee before the blood runs cold.
“They came around the back side of Prydain. Must’ve taken shelter on one of the islands off the coast overnight.” Arwen sounds more annoyed than angry. “If the Titans saw them hiding out, they did not feel inclined to warn us. I’ll be having words with Vaughn about that, trust me.”
“Vaughn is not solely responsible for all that transpires on Prydain, as you well know.” Soren shakes his head. “What of your scouts? Were they all asleep on their watches?”
Arwen scoffs, a biting sound. “Even if they were, it would not have mattered. You know how fast those ships are, brother. They can outrow even the swiftest ravens.”
“They still never should’ve made it this close to the city. They’re at our godsdamned gates.”
“For that, you can blame the bloody mist,” she seethes, eyes flashing over to me for a glacial instant. “The beacons cannot detect incoming threats if they are ensconced in constant cover.”
My stomach drops to my feet, a leaden ball of guilt. “I…I…”
“Do not speak,” Arwen hisses. “You have done quite enough here without adding your inane commentary to the mix.”
I recoil as though I’ve been struck.
Soren’s hand catches my arm before I make it more than a step, stilling me so I cannot retreat.
“Arwen,” he says with a frigidness that stuns me. “You embarrass only yourself when you act like a schoolyard bully instead of the leader I need you to be. Take your anger out on Rhya again and you will feel the brunt of mine.”
His cold chastisement snaps her focus back to the impending battle.
Her blue eyes narrow as her mind turns over a thousand warring thoughts.
“We need to cut them off before they reach the anchorage. The Twins alone will not keep them back. Not all of them. Not for long. We are already deploying soldiers to the exposed ships and evacuating the civilians, but…”
Her eyes drop down to the sea. Far below, several midsized rowing craft are making their way around the anchorage, letting off contingents of armed soldiers at each vessel, taking on the unarmed passengers in their stead.
“Where are the other Paexyrian?” Soren asks.
“Harpina and Thisobei traveled to Coldcross yesterday to confer with our Cimmerian scouts. They will not be back until this evening. Bretiax and Yara flew out to meet the Daggerpoint fleet at daybreak.”
“Any idea when Alaric is due to arrive?”
“It could be anytime now.” Her face ripples with a shadow of concern. “Let us hope it is sooner rather than later. We could use his artillery at our backs.”
Soren stares at his sister for a long beat before his eyes shift again out to sea.
The Frostlander longships are halfway across the bay, close enough that I can see the froth stirred up each time their oars dip into the swells, hear the rhythmic chants that carry across the water as hundreds of men grunt in concert.
Pull! Pull! Pull!
“We cannot count on timely arrivals to stave off this battle,” Soren says, voice low.
Arwen bristles. “I know that.”
“I never questioned otherwise.”
“They will strike here, at the anchorage, but I have deployed squadrons stretching all the way back to the beacons. The inner battlements are ready as well, though I doubt the longships will come close enough to make use of the smaller cannons. The Frostlanders may be shit for brains, but even they are wise enough to stay beyond the spray.”
“And the Twins?” He jerks his chin toward the colossal cannons perched to either side of the sea gate.
“I leave their oversight in your capable hands, brother.” A smile creeps over her face. “I plan to greet these visitors personally.”
Soren shakes his head. “You cannot mount an aerial assault without another rider on your wing, covering your blind spots.”
Her shrug is unconcerned as she fixes her goggles over her eyes. “I can sure as hell try.”
“Arwen—”
“Atyr and I have faced worse odds, as you well know.”
His frown is severe. “Do not put your life at risk to prove some asinine point.”
She stills. “And what point would that be, brother?”
His voice lowers a shade, so none of the nearby soldiers can hear. “That this marriage will not change you. That being in love has not softened you.”
She glares at him, not dignifying his observation with a response.
“We could use you here, flying around the perimeter,” Soren reasons. “Ensuring no one makes landing at Vintners’ Cove or by the sea organ or at the Kettle.”
“The Hylian Guard is well trained. They will cover our weak spots well enough without me.” Her grin widens. “Besides, if things go my way, the Frostlanders will never get close enough to toss their spears.”
“Arwen—”
But she has already turned away from her brother.
Bringing her hand to her lips, she lets out a sharp whistle.
Then, in a move that makes my heart seize inside my chest, she begins to run down the length of the balustrade, her feet nimble as they dance across the stone.
With no railing to shield her, one wrong footfall will send her plummeting straight down into the sea below.
A height so great no one—not even the strongest fae—seems likely to survive it.
“What is she doing?” I cry, horrified.
“Showing off,” Soren mutters. “As usual.”
There is a sudden gust of wind that makes every archer cover their eyes, such is its force. I think it will knock Arwen off-balance, but she does not fall. Instead, with a grin and a running start, she leaps—straight off the balustrade’s edge, into thin air.