by Frank Morin
“Eww,” Verena and Shona said together.
Chuckling, Kilian said, “The rest of us will set the trap for when you arrive. Evander, Ivor, and I will attack with elemental powers, try to injure her and force her to consume her healing power faster.”
Hamish said, “And Verena and I will hit her from the air with every mechanical we can get our hands on.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Shona asked. “She can hit you from a distance, and your missiles and hornets aren’t likely to accomplish much.”
“But she’s afraid of something we can do,” Verena reminded her. “Maybe we can get her to reveal more of what that is.”
“I like it,” Kilian said. “We have to make sure we don’t tip our hand too early, so we can’t just set up a dozen hovering windriders packed with bombs.”
“Too bad. We have some good ones,” Hamish said. Then he suddenly cocked his head as if listening. A moment later he shouted, “Really? Perfect!”
Connor asked, “What?”
Hamish tapped the side of his helmet and grinned. “I’ve got some great news! Just what we needed for our distraction initiative.”
“Don’t tell me you actually created that giant fart bomb you’ve been talking about,” Verena said, looking suddenly nervous.
“Still working on perfecting the mix in that one,” Hamish said. “This is even better.” He pointed into the air and shouted, “I give you Ilse’s Revenge!”
Connor glanced north toward the pass and tapped a little quartzite to his eyes. His vision magnified tenfold, colors deepening and turning far more vibrant. In the distance he easily spotted a dozen oversized windriders approaching in a flying duck formation. Strapped to the flatbed cargo beds of each one was a Juggernaut sphere.
“I didn’t think it was finished,” Verena exclaimed.
“Jean just contacted me. Said Fyodor had teams working day and night to finish. Wanted to make it a surprise to send along with the rest of the sculpted stones from Gisela,” Hamish said, laughing with joy.
Everyone shared his enthusiasm. They had big plans for Ilse’s Revenge, and everyone started chattering excitedly about how best to utilize the mighty mechanical. For her part, Ilse looked very pleased that her namesake death mechanical would be deployed in time for the imminent battle.
As they waited for the flotilla to arrive, Rory said, “I’ve decided to include Tomas and Cameron as pilots for this fight.”
The two Fast Rollers whooped and punched each other. Connor loved their enthusiasm, but glancing up at the huge Juggernauts, he suddenly feared what they might do once unleashed driving those deadly mechanicals.
“All of the main pilots are available,” Verena protested, obviously sharing Connor’s concern.
“I’m aware of that, but I’m afraid I must insist,” Rory said calmly. “This battle might well determine the war, and Ilse’s Revenge will play an important role. I need pilots who know battle and who know how to work with all of us. Your other pilots are skilled, but inexperienced.”
Verena started to protest again, but Connor said, “I think Rory’s right. We can’t afford any delays or hesitation.”
She leaned closer to him and whispered, “But we’re talking about Tomas and Cameron, Connor!”
“I know. Have you ever known them to hesitate before leaping into the most insane fight?”
“No,” she admitted with a grimace.
“And fighting Queen Dreokt is about as insane as it gets. What if the other pilots hesitated?”
“They’d get slaughtered,” she admitted with a sigh. “You’re right, but I still don’t like it.”
Tomas gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Lady Verena. Cameron and I won’t let you down.”
“No, ma’am,” Cameron agreed, giving Verena a wide, gap-toothed smile. “In fact, I prepared some flowered prose for the day we got to pilot them beasties for real.”
His expression turned intense as he concentrated, but before he could launch into what would certainly be a terrible excuse for poetry, Verena said, “It’s all right, Cameron. I believe you. In fact, it might be better to save the flowered prose and share it with the other pilots.”
His eyes lit up and he grinned. “Brilliant.”
Tomas added, “Leave it to Builders to think the heavy thoughts.”
The two wandered off, betting which of them could get the best distance when they practiced using the ejection seats.
“That was smoothly done,” Kilian said with a wink.
The Juggernaut-bearing windriders landed nearby a few minutes later and Connor eagerly joined the others inspecting them. Half-constructed, they had looked intimidating, but the finished products emanated a sense of deadly power even when strapped to their transports. The shells of the ten-foot diameter spheres were constructed from alternating octagonal plates of polished steel and quickened granite. They had included some Alasdair White, but also several other strains. Connor recognized blue Clemens, dark gray Schmitten, and pink Walther, resulting in a colorful mix that only heightened the sense of deadly power surrounding the machines.
Many of the pilots were already in Merkland, but Hamish oversaw unloading several of the Juggernauts to test them out. Of course he took the first one. It was the same size as the Juggernaut he’d piloted against Harley, but should prove several times more powerful. Tomas and Cameron clambered into theirs. It was a tight fit for their burly frames, but they managed.
With a deep, throaty rumble, the engines that would power much of the Juggernaut came to life. Tomas and Cameron smoothly rolled theirs off their wagons and accelerated, the spheres barreling across the landscape with impressive speed. Hamish lifted his off the wagon with a blast of thrusters that cast it into the air. He set the sphere spinning so that when it landed it instantly accelerated after Tomas and Cameron.
They spent a few minutes racing around the group, testing thrusters and test-firing a few of their weapons. Missiles detonated against distant rocks, fire blasted out around the spheres, and Tomas charged a tall stone outcropping nearby. Just as he reached it, he unleashed the wide battering ram. It erupted out the front and exploded through the outcropping. Tomas plowed right through a second later, eliciting a cheer from the group.
“Excellent,” Ivor said as the three spheres slowed to a stop nearby. “Coupling them all together into Ilse’s Revenge will give even the queen pause, I reckon.”
In very good humor, they spent another hour fine-tuning the battle plan and drawing from Kilian’s long experience fighting his mother. They would hit her hard and fast and break down her healing power. In the moment when she realized her healing wasn’t working, they’d destroy her.
As the planning began winding down, Connor felt a growing sense of optimism. They could actually pull it off.
“One final point,” Kilian said seriously. “Should the battle go against us for any reason, we need a disengage signal.”
“You can’t be serious,” Hamish protested. “We’re going to beat her.”
“Hopefully, but I’ve experienced too many fights with my mother not to understand something could go wrong. Since Connor, Evander, and I expect to engage the closest, any of us have authority to trigger the flee command.”
“We should call it Burned Cookies,” Hamish suggested. “That’s always a bad sign.”
“Why not just say Disenage?” Verena asked.
“Because we don’t want her knowing what we’re doing until it’s too late,” Hamish said.
He had a good point, and his codeword was accepted. If anyone called out Burned Cookies, the rest of the team promised to immediately flee. Connor and those closest to the queen would seek to disengage and join them, but they would be on their own. Others coming in to help would just get killed too.
No one liked the idea, but everyone saw the need for it. No one had ever defeated Queen Dreokt. She’d been driven off before, but never defeated. If they lost, the ensuing battle against the queen’s armies might be
little more than a formality to finish crushing the revolution.
Connor held Verena close and silently vowed he would not run, not if there was any chance of winning, but he was glad Verena had agreed to follow the plan. He hoped he could stand as an equal against the queen now, but Verena would be destroyed. Or worse, mind-wiped and turned against him.
He shuddered to think of that horrible possibility.
“Connor, do you think we can really defeat her?” Verena asked in a small voice, her usual eternal confidence replaced by open worry.
“I don’t think we have a choice.” He forced confidence into his voice. That seemed to help reassure her.
He only hoped they weren’t all lying to themselves.
85
Nothing Motivates Like the Vomit Rocket
Connor slowed the underwater Slide to a halt in the Macantact river, just at the point where it reached the northern outskirts of Crann. He stood on the watery deck alone in a bubble of air forty feet below the surface. He’d chosen to use the boat-like construct of water for his solo incursion as a way to feel closer to his team. They’d used the Slide on the journey fleeing the Carraig, and again during the failed attempt to save Ivor’s fiancé, Alyth.
Even though he was immersed in the great river, his mouth felt dry and his pulse was racing. He tried to breathe deeply to calm himself as he checked the integrity of the shielding around the Slide for the hundredth time. It was secure, more secure than any shielding he had ever attempted with water.
Not only had he surrounded the entire underwater ship with the protective bubble of his water senses, but he had created three additional levels of shielding around that one, each about fifty yards out from the previous. The multi-layered defensive measures ensured he remained safely concealed from other Spitters monitoring the river.
They were there, of course. The queen’s vast army filled the great plain stretching north from Crann. It appeared General Aonghus had learned lessons from the battle of Merkland and Connor had sensed Petralists walking with earth and water for the last ten miles.
The queen had created hundreds of new Petralists, but most of them were still very new to their affinities and lacked the subtle control and deft touch that came with experience. Although their defenses were extensive, the majority of those on duty were clearly newer Petralists. As Connor gently swept his own water senses downriver, he picked them up like toddlers stomping around in the dark.
No doubt they considered the risk of an attack minimal, so it made sense to give the newer Petralists some experience rather than saddle the much smaller number of experienced Petralists with the chore. They still thought Connor and Ivor dead or captured, and chances of Kilian and Evander attacking alone were minimal. No one else posed enough of a threat to worry about, so although Connor had needed to slip past quite a few other Petralists in the river, he felt confident that none of them had sensed his passage.
Moving past another Petralist actively monitoring the waters was tricky, but similar to the concepts he learned in his first lessons about shielding with earth. The trick was in using subtle, gentle touches. None of the enemy Spitters were working very hard to conceal themselves, but instead had cast their influence wide across the waters. The Sentries were probably doing the same thing with the earth. So the challenge was to very subtly divert their will around his location and pass through among them like a hole in the water.
With his multi-layered approach he had adjusted his shields so that each layer split an enemy Petralist’s senses just a few degrees. That small gap would not register on anyone but the most skilled, actively focusing on the area. By the time all of his shields passed them, those tiny gaps added up to a hole large enough to slip the narrow deck of the underwater Slide through unseen.
On any other day the exercise would’ve been thrilling, but today it only served to ratchet up Connor’s nerves. He tried to calm himself and was tempted to transform part of the deck into a comfortable chair. If he really wanted calm, he’d break out a few smashpacked desserts, but after considering the idea, he rejected it. His nervous tension helped him focus.
The mission was as simple as diving off the cliff into Loch Sholto with fifty knives strapped all over his body, with the goal of not getting cut. He had to draw out the queen alone, without getting killed in the process. The rest of the team were deployed at the trap site, and everything was ready. All they needed was the queen to get the party started.
First step, infiltrate the greatest army assembled since the Tallan wars.
He had considered and discarded a score of ideas about how best to distract, enrage, and draw out the queen. Some of them were downright foolhardy, like knocking on the front gates and challenging her to a running battle. Others were far too likely to fail, like sending in another swarm of sculpted scones and then attacking all of the latrines when they filled with groaning Petralists.
Connor still didn’t like the idea of using stilling again, but hadn’t been able to come up with a better alternative. So as he hovered there near the city, he tapped basalt and reached for the outer-focused power of stilling. With the ability to now concentrate exclusively on the green energy source, he connected with it even more securely than he had during the first battle of Merkland.
That awesome memory of drawing life force from forty thousand people still made him shiver, but he ruthlessly forced down the sense of eager anticipation to feel that wondrous river of life again. He would do it, but he wouldn’t like it. He didn’t dare waiver for even a second.
Connor extended his senses out beyond the river and toward the army. He did not need to still the entire city of Crann, but hoped to influence as much of the army as possible. All of those lives burned in his mind like tens of thousands of candles on a vast, dark plain. Only ascended Petralists might be able to sense his stilling power creeping over the host. As far as Connor knew, only the generals were ascended, but he needed to proceed cautiously, just in case.
“Here we go,” he whispered to himself and gently released his power, like a soft breath, barely enough to make a candle flicker.
His senses sharpened, all of those lives snapping into greater clarity in his mind as he sent his influence creeping with deliberate care across the host. He suspected the queen was probably housed in the governor’s palace, but he could not dare take chances of alerting her too soon. So he kept his influence far from that sector.
When he had attempted to still Merkland, spreading his influence over the entire city had strained the limits of his strength, even reinforced with porphyry and driven by desperate need. So he was startled to realize that since his ascension his stilling ability had magnified many fold.
At first he sensed thousands of lives, then tens of thousands, then well over a hundred thousand. Many were indeed regulars, but a staggering percentage possessed at least one affinity. The flames of their life forces glowed brighter and drew stilling toward them like magnets. He pushed his stilling power across the entire camp, but left its heart for last. That’s where the brightest life forces glowed, the captains and generals, the most powerful and experienced Petralists.
Connor’s power wafted over the rest of the camp, like an invisible mist, gently touching each life force, but not yet drawing power from them. He connected to each of them, like a mosquito settling onto the skin but not yet plunging its needle into flesh. If anyone recognized what he was about to do, it would be the leaders, so he slipped his influence into the heart of camp with exquisite care.
No one struck at him or seemed to understand the silent danger creeping among them even as he reached into the central command tent and recognized the fiery glow of General Aonghus’ and General Rosslyn’s life forces.
That’s when Connor struck. Where his influence had rested weightless as a flaxen cord over those vibrant hearts, it transformed into steel bands that seized them and wrapped them in tightening bonds.
This time there was no lag before energy began pouring back along the condu
it to Connor like a reverse wave. It thundered into him with astonishing power, and he rose up onto his toes, arms outstretched, gasping. The energy from the souls he had stilled in Merkland had nearly eclipsed his ability to control it. The energy that poured into him now was several times stronger, but he managed somehow to hold it in. In fact, he could see that energy like an invisible glow pouring into him and fusing to his core.
He laughed with the unrivaled thrill of that much raw, pure energy. And he felt connected with all of those lives, somehow sensing their states of being. The regulars succumbed first, slowing to a halt, settling into chairs, lying down on the ground, or simply closing their eyes. The Petralists withstood the invisible assault a little longer, and Connor sensed the beginnings of alarm ringing through some of them. Only the strongest actually managed to shout a warning and tap their powers, questing out in vain for the invisible enemy draining their strength.
Connor clearly sensed General Aonghus’ rage, and the fear of General Rosslyn, seated across from him at their command table. For a moment Connor was tempted to snuff out Aonghus’ life. The queen had twisted him into a monster, and in Connor’s mind he again saw Jean blackened and bloody and on the cusp of death. Revenge was so tempting that he quivered with the need to strike, and only barely held back.
There might be many justifications for executing Aonghus, but he held his hand. Many had been corrupted by the queen, some willingly but most not. He still hoped somehow to help as many as possible regain their previous self-control. He did not hold out much hope for Aonghus, and was not sure what he would do if the general tried to change. But it was not Connor’s choice to make. In the battle that would surely come, Connor fully expected Hamish to track Aonghus down and deal out appropriate vengeance.
So instead he tapped inner limestone and struck Aonghus with sensory deprivation. Let the man panic, trapped in the burning inferno of his own mind.
The plan was to still the army just long enough to exhaust them, then release them. One of his greatest fears about this plan was to feel weak lives again snuffed out by his stilling. In Merkland so many had been young or weak or wounded, and their deaths at his hand still haunted him. Luckily the army he was stilling now was made up almost entirely of hale and hearty individuals. He could hold them for quite a while. Just as he had the last time he tried stilling a large population, he felt an enormous reluctance to release it and sever that incredible flow of energy.
