Chapter Sixteen #2
Arwen is not battling alone for long. Panicked screams echo back to us across the water as rogue waves begin to swamp sections of the fleet.
I’ve momentarily lost sight of Soren amid the rolling swells, but he is out there somewhere, using his maegic to sink ships and drown every Frostlander in his path.
The bond between us is an open current of power, flowing straight to the center of my chest as he systematically sends his enemies to the bottom of the bay, one after another after another.
Still, it is not enough to stall them all.
The remaining ships advance. There are simply too many of them, even for Soren and Arwen attacking in tandem.
The breath catches in my lungs as the first of their curved bows row into range of the Twins.
Two streams of water are now all that separate them from the spoils of war.
As though they can taste it, their oars increase speed.
Pull!
Pull!
Pull!
But the tower gunners are ready for them.
More screams ring out as wood splinters and hulls are pummeled under the roaring surge. There is no resistance, no fighting back. A single sweep of each cannon can obliterate an entire line of longships. The soldiers around me cheer with each direct hit, filling the air with the song of victory.
For a moment, I allow my heart to brim over with hope. The second line of longships slows, oars pulling back to avoid the fatal spray. The front line is no more than driftwood, much of the crew no longer breathing. A smattering of survivors swim for rescue and are promptly hauled aboard.
“They’ll turn tail now,” a soldier close by says under her breath, leaning against the parapet. “Thieving cowards.”
I hope she’s right. The anchorage is not yet fully evacuated. Panicked civilians are crammed into lifeboats, rowing frantically for the safety of the city walls.
“Bet you fifty farthings we will not even need to nock arrows,” another soldier responds. “They’re no match for our—”
His words are buried by a shuddering wail that shakes the world into deafening silence.
We all turn as one toward the left Twin, collectively horrified by the sight of it hissing to a halt.
The thunderous hose of water shuts off; the team of four steps back as the wheel ceases its rotations.
Their expressions no doubt mirror the one on my own face.
Unguarded doom.
The loss is incalculable. The consequences unthinkable.
With the cannon down, our entire left flank is exposed.
Longships start to slip through the gap unchecked, rowing with renewed haste.
Though the still-functional right Twin attempts to cover the entire anchorage, it is impossible.
There are too many ships, all moving with lethal precision toward the exposed vessels.
Toward the innocent civilians in those lifeboats.
I watch Hylian soldiers stationed on the outermost ships unsheathing swords and raising crossbows as the enemy moves in. There is nothing more to keep them at bay.
We need that cannon back.
We need it now.
I move on wind-propelled heels, eyes on the left tower as I shove my way down the length of the sea gate, then sprint up the short set of stone steps.
There is not much room to move up here. The horizontal wheel-pump takes up most of the platform.
Elevated on a cramped dais behind it, its metallic swivel base soldered straight into the stone, the cannon is steaming faintly but otherwise deathly still.
“Hey!” one of the burly wheelmen barks at me. “You’re not meant to be up here!”
“Leave off, Erdin,” another voice cuts in. “She’s authorized to be anywhere she likes.”
I turn to the sound of the voice and see a familiar face stationed by the steps. It’s Roq, a guardswoman I’ve met several times on my evening strolls—the one who so enthusiastically explained the city’s fortifications. She winks at me when our eyes meet; I nod in thanks.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, turning back to the wheelmen. They are an intimidating crew—barrel-chested with bulging muscles and thickly corded necks—but I do not cower. “Why did you stop firing?”
“Oh, thought we’d take a little break,” one of them drawls sarcastically. “Gods, woman, are you blind? It’s broken down.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I look from him to the gunner on the dais.
The smaller man leans close to the levers, his face contorted in frustration as he attempts to repair whatever is broken. “Swivel mechanism is jammed,” he mutters morosely. “Can’t aim.”
“So…”
“So, we’re fucked.” The biggest of the men, the one called Erdin, grunts, shaking his beefy arms to dissipate the strain in his muscles. “Unless you have a mystical wrench up your sleeve, you’re not needed here.”
I ignore him. My eyes are on the cannon. I do not question myself as I hop up onto the dais, where the gunner is hunched, and elbow him aside.
“Move.”
His head jerks up. “Excuse me?”
“Move,” I repeat, less kindly.
“Look, you can’t just—”
“The rest of you, get that pump going,” I call, cutting him off. “Now.”
When nothing happens, I glance over my shoulder at the four wheelmen. They’re staring up at me, looking mystified. Except for Erdin. He looks more like he wants to tear my head from my shoulders for daring to give him orders.
“Woman, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”
“I am the Remnant of Air. You need aim? I will be your aim,” I hiss, infusing my voice with as much authority as I am able to summon. “Now, do you want to stand here debating with me or do you want to destroy those longships before they reach the anchorage and slaughter a harbor full of innocents?”
There are several long heartbeats of absolute silence as my words hang in the air. It is broken only by a constant refrain of Frostlander chants—Pull! Pull! Pull!—which grows louder as they near. Finally, Erdin clears his throat and reaches for the sedentary wheel.
“You heard her!” he barks, spurring the others into motion. “Let’s blast the godsforsaken bastards out of the water!”
Later, when I looked back, I would have no real idea what came over me; wherever I got the confidence to even attempt it.
And yet, in the moment, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind.
As the pump engages, water begins to cascade from the cannon with such ferocity, it vibrates the entire tower, shaking me to my very bones.
Ignoring the full-body rattle, I turn my focus inward as I call the wind. Soren may have teased me about lemon levitation, but I am grateful for all those hours I spent lifting objects with tendrils, flinging them with stinging gusts. For though the water is a soul-rending force…
So is my wind.
I shape it to my will, using drafts to point the lethal stream wherever I want.
Bending it with a downward gust until it pierces through an encroaching ship, I grin as I watch it explode to pieces, strangely apathetic about the entire crew I’ve just sent into the bay.
My Remnant burns cold as I wrench the water to the left with a huge gust that takes out three more ships, sweeping bodies overboard like leaves scattering across pavestones.
The manual swivel mechanism could not pivot half so fast as my maegic.
Someone shouts an oath of surprise from somewhere behind me. I think it is Roq, the friendly guard, but I don’t turn to look. My eyes are locked on the harbor.
Arwen and Soren are far out to sea, forcing a good chunk of the fleet into a swift retreat toward Prydain.
The other tower is keeping up a constant barrage, holding back the right flank.
With my cannon back in action, the Frostlanders finally sense the foolhardiness of their plan.
The remaining longships on the left flank turn tail, fleeing back in the direction from which they came.
All too soon, they will be completely out of range, slipping away into the mist to rape and pillage and plunder another city or township—one that, more than likely, will not have such strong defensive protections.
My blood boils at the thought.
The water roars in my ears, matching my roaring pulse, as I watch them retreat.
I could let them go.
I should let them go.
But I am caught up in the power that surges through me.
A limitless resource, fueled by pure fury.
Mine for the taking…if only I am brave enough to reach for it.
Before I consciously know what I am doing, I loose more wind, twisting ribbons of air along the torrent of water.
Elongating it farther than would be possible on its own power, until the spray reaches a distance the pump alone could never achieve.
There are more shouts of surprise behind me, which quickly morph into alarmed yells as the wheel spins faster and faster.
No longer in the control of the wheelmen, but under my command.
The men cry out, jumping back to keep from being battered as it begins to whirl independently.
I no longer need them anyway. My air is everywhere, all around me—driving up through the pipes from the harbor, lending more pressure to the already immense surge, carrying that blinding pressure outward.
More wind, more water.
More.
The fleeing ships stand no chance. I take them out one by one, relentless in my pursuit.
Smash.
Sink.
Smash.
Sink.
Smash.
Sink.
Over and over, until none remain.
As I do this, I feel nothing. Not a shred of remorse.
It’s as though that constant coldness centered at my Remnant has spread through me, an icy elixir in my veins, strong enough to block out any other emotions.
Strong enough to block out everything—the world around me, the people watching.
There is nothing in that moment but me and my maegic, a malevolent maelstrom unleashed upon the world.
It is not until I feel a disturbance in my wind that the ice encasing my mind cracks open.
There is a distinctive pump of wings gusting across the ramparts.
The following clatter of hooves as landing is made.
Two sets of boots dismounting. Footsteps crossing up onto the tower platform. And then, a voice.
“Skylark. You can stop now.”
He sounds close. He feels close. I blink, staring at the horizon.
There are no ships intact on the left flank.
Only indistinguishable flotsam and jetsam, drifting on the frothy surface in the distance.
Splintered oars, smashed hulls. Casks and crates, weapons and water jugs.
The detritus of a ruined fleet. And bodies.
So many bodies, floating face down. No longer swimming or kicking for shore. No longer doing anything at all.
Because they are dead.
They are all dead.
Gods, what have I done?
The cannon splutters to a stop as I release the wind.
I take a deep, tremulous breath as I turn slowly around.
Soren is there, hair tousled from the sea, body rigid with tension.
He is staring at me—as is every other living soul on the city walls.
The silence is deafening. A lump lodges in my throat as I meet his eyes.
They are fathomless, holding all the secrets of the deepest oceans.
Holding things I am not yet ready to see.
More evidently than anything, though…the distinct sheen of pity.
“It’s over,” he says with halting gentleness. “It’s done.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I want to put them through something. To beat them against a stone wall or a hardwood floor until they are torn and bleeding, a physical reflection of the invisible blood staining my hands.
I do not know what to say to him. How to explain what I am feeling. The guilt of it. The horror. Worse, the unquenched thrill that races, even now, through my veins.
What kind of monster am I becoming, to kill with such abandon? To take lives without even a beat of hesitation? What happened to that noble healer from Seahaven? She would be horrified to see me as I am now.
An object of utter destruction.
“Rhya,” Soren says. Soft as a blade sliding between two ribs, and equally lethal to my resolve.
He sounds poised on the knife’s edge of his own control.
It is my fault, for I am not shielding from him at all.
He can feel everything I’m feeling. The rawest self-loathing tangling with shameful chords of self-satisfaction.
“I’m fine,” I say in a hollow voice that sounds nothing like my own.
He continues to stare at me. He opens his mouth, as if to say something else, but it is Arwen’s booming voice I hear instead.
“Skies, why’s everyone so bloody quiet?”
Leaving Atyr on the rampart at the base of the steps, she strolls up to stand beside Soren on the platform.
Her eyes find mine and in their depths, for the first time ever, I see the shades of something like respect there, instead of unveiled disdain.
She says nothing to me, merely gives a shallow jerk of her chin, then turns to face the crowd.
“We won the battle, did we not?” Her voice carries far into the distance as she turns to look out over the sea of silent soldiers and lifts a fist in the air. “Tonight, we drink to Hylios!”
A cheer goes up from the crowd, undulating from the sea gate all around the walls, then spreading down into canals until it encompasses every stone of the city, and every soul therein.