Chapter Sixteen
Chapter
sixteen
A scream gathers in my throat as Arwen plunges toward the water. It never makes it past my lips. For her descent is halted by a winged white horse, rising up to meet her.
Atyr.
Arwen lands in the saddle with a practiced maneuver, fingers delving deep into the flowing white mane, heels slamming home into the stirrups.
She crows with pure delight as feathered wings pump her higher into the sky, sending gusts of air washing over everyone watching from the ramparts.
A cheer goes up as the magnificent Paexyri steed coasts straight out to sea, into the direct path of the longships.
I cheer, too. I can’t help it. When Soren hears my whoop, he casts an amused look my way.
I shrug sheepishly. “Her attitude leaves something to be desired, but even I can admit that was incredibly epic.”
“Skies, don’t tell her that. She needs more confidence like I need a Frostlander ice-arrow through the heart.”
My gaze tracks her for a moment, then moves beyond to the approaching armada. “Can’t you summon a tsunami?” I ask. “Take them all out at once before they can do any harm?”
He snorts softly. “Much as I appreciate the vote of confidence in my abilities, summoning a wave of that magnitude would require strength beyond even mine.”
I look at him, brows lifting. “But I watched you dispel one just last week.”
“Dispelling requires far less effort than conjuring. The ocean’s weight is…immense. Even for me. Still waters do not easily shift. Those already in motion are far more malleable.”
My lips purse.
Shaking his head, as though he finds my disappointment charming, Soren turns to stroll the length of the sea gate. He examines the soldiers as he goes, occasionally stopping to give a low order or point out an untied bootlace or clasp a shoulder in greeting.
It is clear the Hylian Guard has been drilled for this exact occasion.
There is no chaos, no confusion. They take up their posts and gather their weapons with an ease that speaks of long discipline.
Unlike in Dyved, which clings to more rigid gender roles, the Ll?rian ranks are a near even split of males and females.
When I look behind us, I see navy-clad forms of many shapes and statures lining the ramparts from our position all the way to the beacons halfway around the city.
Down at the inner harbor, a sparser secondary squadron is stationed along the docks, prepared to stop anything from advancing into the canals.
Not that anything will breach the sea gate. It is nearly as thick as the walls themselves. As large as it seems from harbor level, one cannot appreciate its true scope until you are standing upon it.
“Longbows, hold steady!” Soren calls, coming to a stop at the very center. His voice rises to a boom that carries into the distance. “Main cannons, engage!”
At his signal, the teams of four brawny men stationed at the Twins on the lookout towers brace their hands against the spokes of the giant wheels and begin to push in slow, backbreaking circles.
It is a punishing task, one that requires brute strength and total synchronicity.
I watch them make two full rotations, waiting breathlessly for something to happen.
Finally, there is a metallic groan, then a rumble that rattles the city’s foundations.
A ripple of awareness moves through the Hylian Guard, but no one even flinches as the water cannons begin to blast monumental streams out over the bay.
Even having read about it beforehand, it is an astounding sight.
The sheer volume of water that comes out, the stupendous force of the spray…
Like two horizontal waterfalls, they shoot well above even the tallest masts in the anchorage.
Where they strike down, the ocean turns to pure lather, stirred into a frenzy beneath the cannons’ might.
My gasp is audible.
“Impressed?”
I nod, not looking over at Soren. “However do they aim?”
“Swiveling bases beneath each cannon. You see that man—the stocky one with the gauntlets?” His shoulder brushes mine as he lifts his arm to point out the man taking up position on an elevated perch directly behind the cannon.
“We call him a gunner. He’s the cannon’s eyes.
There are two levers he can use to pivot the stream back and forth.
It’s not instantaneous, but it works well enough. Usually.”
Even as he speaks, I am watching it happen. The gunner on the tower to my left is turning his cannon, shifting the stream of water across the ocean’s surface. A moving barricade. It is a brilliant way to do damage from the safety of your defensive lines.
The Frostlanders are not yet within striking distance, but given their speed, they soon will be.
If the sight of the Twins pummeling their path forward intimidates them, it does not show.
Their rowing pace only seems to increase.
They are so close, their low chants can be heard even above the constant rumble of the pumps—a chorus of deep grunts, one for each oar pull.
Fearless, Arwen flies ever nearer, the silver glint of the sun catching on her bow as she swoops low over the water. Atyr’s coat is brilliant white beneath her hunched form.
“She shouldn’t be out there alone,” Soren says tightly, eyes on his sister. “She’s going to get herself killed.”
“Then go to her.”
He glances over at me, brows lifting. “She’ll be furious.”
“She’ll be alive,” I counter.
His eyes flare with warmth, there and gone in a flash. “And leave you up here alone?”
“Alone? Hardly. I am surrounded by scores of highly trained soldiers. I think I’ll be fine.” I roll my eyes. “If they get close enough, I’ll show off some of my new skills.”
His mouth twitches. “Beware the fearsome levitator of lemons.”
“Ha!” I shove his shoulder. “And here I was, actually worried you might die at the end of a Frostlander spear! That’s passed. Feel free to perish.”
He grins at me as he braces one hand against the top of the stone balustrade. “You’ll regret that when I’m no longer around to cook for you.”
I would miss the griddle cakes.
I do not tell him that. I make a sweeping gesture, indicating he should make haste. “Go on, then. Arwen has nearly reached the front of the fleet. It’s going to take you an awfully long time to catch up by skiff, so—”
Suddenly, Soren moves. He does it so fast, my eyes do not register it happening. Yet there he is, standing a handspan in front of me. My words cut off at the look on his face as it comes close to mine. Closer than it has ever been before, closer than I ever thought it would be.
Before I can brace for it, his lips hit the side of my neck, just below the fragile hinge of my jaw, where my pulse is pounding twice its normal speed. My mind blanks, every coherent thought sweeping straight out of my skull in the single heartbeat his mouth lingers against my skin.
It ends almost before it’s begun. Pulling back from me, he turns on a heel, plants his palms flat atop the balustrade, and heaves himself up onto it.
Frozen in place, I watch him straighten to full height.
I cannot seem to speak a single word. My throat is effectively sealed shut, preventing all airflow.
Soren glances down at me. His mouth is set in that sardonic grin I have come to know quite well. But beneath the playful guise, his eyes are swimming with emotions I have never encountered in all our time together.
“In case I really do die,” he says in a whisper meant for my ears alone. “I had to do that. At least once.”
Turning, he swan dives off the top of the sea gate.
My heart drops straight to the harbor as he vanishes from view. My blood runs cold as ice.
Is he utterly insane?
To jump from such a height…
Flying to the balustrade, I peer over just in time to see Soren’s tall form disappear below the surface like a hot knife cutting through butter. There is hardly even a splash as he disappears into the blue depths.
I do not breathe for the endless seconds it takes for him to resurface.
When he finally does, he is much farther out to sea than I expected—nearly halfway through the anchorage, his swift strokes carrying him with blinding speed into open water.
Around him, the swells surge, buoying him above the waves, rippling outward to rock the boats on their chains.
I let out a ragged breath, watching his form growing smaller and smaller as he heads toward danger. No hesitation, no fear. He and Arwen have that in common—two gallant hearts wrapped in sea urchin spines. I cannot decide which of the two is more reckless. Or more dauntless.
My fingers reach up to brush the hinge of my jaw, where I can still feel the shadow of a kiss. Below the skin, my pulse is a mad tattoo of anxiety and anticipation.
About the battle.
Nothing more.
I shove aside the storm of feelings swirling inside me as it begins in earnest. It is hardly a fair fight—one winged mount against sixty longships.
I, along with every soldier on the ramparts, watch with my heart in my throat as Arwen engages them.
Her bow twangs again and again, silver flashing in the sunlight, as she picks off Frostlanders.
It is difficult to make out precise details at such a distance.
Only the splashes of the corpses falling overboard indicate her arrows have found their marks as Atyr dips and banks in dizzying loops, pulling up to avoid the retaliatory spears that whiz toward the woman on his back.
Despite the casualties, the ships come ever closer.