The craft ripples under our touch, narrowing, fluting, the prow sharpening to a knife’s edge. Gaining speed. I flatten myself as much as I can. We angle at the wave, a bullet with passengers.
The water is a cold slap, and all I can do is keep my mouth shut as it blasts over us. We rocket through the wave, bursting into midair on the other side. Sailing up and over, toward the seawall.
“Brace!” Ptolemus roars as we hurtle for the stone at high speed.
I grit my teeth, fingers digging into the metal hull. Pulling, pushing. Hoping we don’t fall, hoping we don’t crash.
The gravitron gives us the extra bounce we need, keeping us airborne. We hit hard, hull against the seawall. Sliding up, against gravity.
Other crafts slam in alongside us, racing up in tangled formation.
Most of our assault made it.
Metal screams along stone, outpacing the waves below, even as they reach higher and higher, casting spray like rain. I spit seawater and blink, glad for my goggles as we push up and over.
Nymphs line the ramparts, marked by blue stripes on clouded gray or black uniforms. Trained Silver soldiers and guards. The garrison of Fort Patriot, bolstered by Lakelander uniforms.
We spill from our boats with little grace, sliding onto the walkway crowning the wall. I use my own armor to stop me from toppling over the edge, while Ptolemus shreds the boat with abandon, sending razor edges spiraling in all directions. The gravitrons fling enemy soldiers into the sea. Fog crawls over the walls and into the fort, obscuring our soldiers. Somewhere, a few of our storms break off. Their job is to call up thunder. Cultivate lightning. Shock and awe the garrison, send them running. Make them think Barrow is here.
Blooms of fire and smoke dot the walls. Oblivions weave, leaving burning corpses in their wake. One shrieks as he’s caught off guard and hurled over the wall into the angry waters.
Fort Patriot crawls with enemy strongarms. Blood of House Rhambos, or their Greco and Carros cousins. One of them, a woman muscled like a mountain, tears a Montfort storm apart before my eyes, ripping flesh and bone like paper.
I keep my head. I’ve seen worse. I think.
Gunfire peppers the air. Bullets and abilities are a deadly combination.
I raise an arm, fist clenched, shielding myself from the assault. Bullets bounce off my ability, flattened or sheered. I catch a few and send them hurtling back into the fog, hunting after the flashes of turret fire.
We have to open the gates. Win the fort.
Our objective, our job, is straightforward but not simple. Fort Patriot bisects the famed harbor of the city, dividing the waters into the civilian Aquarian Port and the War Port. Right now, I only care about one.
The low thunder of heavy guns, the kind found on battleships, beats like a drum. I try to trace the missiles, reaching across the distance to decipher their trajectory. It’s too far, but I can guess. I’m Silver. I know how we think.
“Form a shield!” I shout to the Samos magnetrons, pulling upon the metal from our boats and weapons.
Ptolemus follows my lead, knitting together a steel wall as quickly as he can. The whistle of artillery grows closer and I look up, squinting through the haze. With a snap, I rip the goggles off my face to see an arc of smoke looping overhead.
The first missile explodes fifty yards ahead, pulverizing a section of the seawall, turning friend and foe to gray or pink mist in equal measure. Only the oblivions survive, some naked, their armor and uniforms charred right off their bodies. We cower behind our steel, weathering the blast as it pulses forward.
The smoke stings, acrid and poisoned with bone dust.
We won’t survive a direct hit like that. Not with what we have here. We can deflect the missiles as best we can, but it’s only a matter of time before one of them catches us. “Get off the wall,” I force out, tasting blood. “Into the fort.”
All to plan.
Get the battleships to open up, pummel their own walls. Keep the heavy fire on the fort, not the city or the Air Fleet.
That’s what Cal said they would do, and somehow the idiots are doing it.
Another round hits, cracking stone, as we grapple down the seawall, our ranks bleeding into Patriot. I look back, counting as quickly as I can. Maybe sixty of us made it in, down from our original strike group of seventy-five souls. Seventy-five deadly Silvers and battle-hardened Reds, their guns lethal and precise.
But their fire is reserved for Silvers. I notice they don’t bother with the soldiers in rusty red uniforms, the many conscripted assigned to the Patriot garrison. Some of those Reds follow their officers, running out to fight our ranks as we push on. Fewer than expected, though. As General Farley assured us, the word went out through her channels. The Reds of the city have been warned. When the assault comes, turn. Run. Or fight with us if you can.
Many do, joining our train of death.
Thunderheads pulse above, turning the sky black. Their lightning is unpredictable, less powerful than Mare’s. But a symbol all the same.
Enemy soldiers look up as we approach, the Silvers eyeing what can only be the work of the lightning girl.
She isn’t here, you idiots, I sneer in my head. Cowards, afraid of a bit of flashing light.
The interior fort is an experiment in chaos. By now Cal will have begun his own assault, marching his battalion up and out of the tunnel system Harbor Bay is built on. It is an old city, well preserved through the ages, with deep and twisting roots. The Scarlet Guard knows them all.
We make it to the central byway of the fort, moving quickly and without pattern. Leading the battleship fire, letting it follow and destroy. Keeping the worst weaponry from the city itself. Cal is so preoccupied with protecting innocents, probably just to show Mare he can. Hanging me out to dry in the process.
I cut through another wave of combatants, using a combination of bullets and blades to level the men and women in front of me. Their faces are shadows to me, inhuman. Unworthy of memory. It’s the only way to do this properly.
The whine and thrum of artillery become a familiar rhythm. I duck for cover as easily as I fight, moving in time with the noise. Smoke and ash swirl with the fog, leaving everyone blind. The Patriot garrison is hopelessly adrift. They don’t have a plan for this kind of attack. We certainly do.
My first burst of fear comes when I realize Ptolemus is no longer at my side, hemmed in by our protective circle of cousins. I glance at each of them, searching familiar faces of pale skin and silver hair. He isn’t here.
“Tolly!” I hear myself scream as another missile blasts, closer this time.
I crouch and brace, letting the concussive wave pass over me. Rubble breaks against my armor, coating my left side with dust. Blinking, I stand before the rest, whirling around. On the hunt. Terror claws up my spine, leaving icy, open wounds.
“PTOLEMUS!”
Whatever focus I had before slips through my grasp and everything splinters. The world spins. Where is my brother, where is he, did we leave him behind, did he push on, is he hurt, is he dying, is he dead—
The pop of gunfire snaps too close, a grim reminder. I whirl against our tide of soldiers. One of them knocks into me, her shoulder slamming mine, and I stumble. Gasping, I throw out my senses, reaching with my ability. Trying to locate that disk of copper. That tiny nub of pale orange metal, a different weight, a different feel. I come back empty. Nothing.
I told him we would be safe, even on the front lines of battle. Father would not waste us. Father would not let us go anywhere that might jeopardize his legacy. I suck down a poisoned breath, still scanning the silhouettes around me as the ash falls like summer snow. It coats our uniforms, no matter the color. We all start to look the same.
Even if Father doesn’t love us the way he should, he still values us. He wouldn’t trade our lives like this. Wouldn’t let us die for his crown.
But here we are.
Tears prick my eyes. From the ash, I tell myself. The sting of smoke.
Suddenly the copper rings on the edge of my perception, so small I almost miss it. My neck snaps with force as I turn, hunting for my brother. Without thought, I shove a few soldiers out of my way, vaulting through the swarm of battle. I duck under the arm of an approaching strongarm, tossing a bullet his way as I go. I feel it punch through his neck, a clean through-and-through. He drops behind me, clawing at his open jugular.
Every step brings new shapes into focus. The streets of Fort Patriot, meticulously organized in a grid, are easy to navigate. I hang my closest right, a hound sniffing out a bone.
Above me, walkways connect the various buildings. Soldiers in rusty uniforms charge back and forth, guns at the ready. I raise my forearm, shielding myself from the accompanying volley of gunfire. Red soldiers all, attacking from a safe distance. I let the bullets drop, flattened and useless. No use wasting my energy trying to kill them.
Ptolemus comes into view around the corner, sprinting, blissfully whole. I almost drop in relief. Smoke spirals behind him, evidence of more artillery fire. Missiles whistle overhead again, before exploding with resounding rumbles.
“What were you doing, you idiot?” I shout, skidding to a halt.
“Don’t stop—run!” he screams, catching me under the arm. I’m almost yanked off my feet by the force.
I know better than to argue when my brother is so incredibly terrified. All I can do is get my feet under myself, reorient, and sprint as fast as I can, keeping pace at his side.
“The seawall,” he forces out between pants of exertion.
It isn’t difficult to connect the dots.
I make the terrible mistake of looking back over my shoulder. Through the smoke, the fog, the thunder breaking overhead. To the cracks in the wall as they spread, pieces of stone as they crumble. The wall of water forcing itself up and over and in.
Standing over it, poised on a balcony, is the person controlling it all, her arms wide, her armor so deeply blue it could be black.
Iris Cygnet watches us run.
A swoop of panic nearly roots me to the spot, but Tolly drags me on, his hand wrapped around my bicep in a painfully tight grip. We skid out, back into the main street, chasing after our battalion only to find the lower levels of the fort deserted. Our soldiers are forward, and the rest, the enemies—they are up. Climbing into the buildings, standing on rooftops, clinging to the high ground with their weapons ready. No use trying to get to high ground of our own. All there is now is to get out.
We charge through errant gunfire, coming from all directions. Most we can deflect easily enough. Some I throw back with force but no aim.
I curse through gritted teeth, blaming Cal, blaming Davidson, Farley, my father, even myself. Our plan accounted for nymphs, but not someone as powerful as Iris. I can’t think of anyone else besides a few nymph lords who could be strong enough to loose the ocean on the fort. And none of them would destroy Patriot so willingly. But Iris, a princess of another nation, a woman with no loyalty to Norta? She could rip this place apart and feel nothing. Still call it victory.
The seawall crashes behind us, echoing loudly even at a distance. Followed by the roar of pummeling waves as they break and swell, rushing through the streets, foaming around the buildings and walls of Fort Patriot. I imagine it in my head, a wall like blue fire, consuming everything in its path.
We sprint on, catching up to our battalion. Ptolemus barks at them to run, and they obey. Even the Montfort newbloods. There isn’t time for posturing.
The interior gates of Fort Patriot don’t open onto the city, but onto a long bridge crossing the harbor, connecting the artificial island of the fort to the mainland. Meaning we’ll have to run the half mile on a bridge over water, with enemy nymphs behind us, not to mention a rising ocean. Not exactly a winning combination if your goal is don’t drown.
Our oblivions make quick work of the first set of gates, blowing the massive doors out onto the bridge. Iron reinforcements go flying, splashing violently into the water. I barely hear it over the approaching roar of the flood. Iris must still be standing over it all, triumphant, smiling as she watches us scramble like rats caught in a rainstorm.
We hurry through the gate as the first swell hits, bringing with it a swirl of debris. Splintered wood, floating transports, guns, corpses. I run as fast as my legs will allow, wishing I were strong enough to lift us out of harm’s way. But neither of us has ever mastered the art of magnetron flight. Only Father can truly do that for any real amount of time.
The gravitrons guard our backs, using their abilities to push against the wave. They buy us time, but this swell is small. Barely higher than the arch of the gate.
Then the second wave, the true wave, hits, cresting over the walls themselves, smashing through the stone and concrete protecting the fort. The gravitrons are no use against such force and can only save themselves, flying up and over. At least one gets caught in the spray, tangled up in a swirl of water. He never resurfaces.
I don’t spare him another thought. I can’t.
The bridge is meant to be a defense for the fort, a long choke point to prevent any army from storming Patriot by land. It funnels us through a series of locks and gates, each slowing us down. The oblivions do what they can, leading us through a rhythm of explosions as we tear through one obstacle after another. Ptolemus and I split apart hinges and reinforcements, ripping steel and iron in our desperation.
We pass the halfway point, the city of Harbor Bay rising before our eyes, so close and yet so infinitely far. In a glance, I realize that the still, calm waters on either side of us are rising too. Bulging. Surging. Growing like the crashing wave still hunting after us with the inexorable force of a hurricane. Salty spray blasts across my vision, drenching my face, stinging my eyes. I reach blindly, clinging to the collar of Tolly’s armor. With a roar of frustration, I launch us both, using my ability to drag us up and over the next gate. Our battalion be damned. They’ll follow if they can. And if they can’t, they were bound to be left behind anyway.
How much does this armor weigh? a useless voice wonders in my head. Will I sink before I can shed it? End up at the bottom of the Bay?
Or worse, will I have to watch Ptolemus go into the waves and never come back up?
Water laps at my ankles. My boots slide over the paved bridge and I almost lose my footing. Only Ptolemus keeps me from plunging into the cloying depths, his arm now wrapped around my waist, holding me close. If we drown, we drown together.
I can almost feel Iris’s hunger as her waves pursue. She would love nothing more than to kill us. Kneecap the Rift, one more enemy to her people. Kill us the way our army killed her father.
I refuse to die like this.
But I see no plan, no attack I can make alone. The nymphs controlling the waves will kill us without even showing their faces. Unless we can somehow kill them first.
I need a gravitron.
I need a newblood.
I need Mare and her storms to light these bastards up.
Behind us, the thunder rumbles again, following the flash of random lightning. It isn’t enough.
All we can do is run, and hope that someone else will save us.
Such helplessness makes me sick.
Another wave crashes, from our right this time. Smaller than the tidal force at our backs, but still strong. It breaks Tolly’s grip on me, splitting us apart. My hands grasp at thin air and then stinging water as I fall headfirst, plunging into the port.
Some fire blooms on the surface, explosions. From oblivions or artillery fire, I can’t tell. All I can do is run my hands over myself, shedding armor before it drags me deeper. I try to keep my mental grip on Ptolemus’s copper as it moves, struggling through the water with me. He’s drowning too.
I kick furiously, trying to surface. As I do, another wave hits me head-on, sending me spiraling into the deep again without a single gasp of air.
The salt water stings my eyes and my lungs burn, but I try to swim, try to outrun the nymp
hs on the surface. The longer I stay down, the more dead I seem. The farther away I can get.
It’s Tolly’s turn to find me.
A fist closes on the scruff of my undershirt, dragging me along. Through the murky water, I see his silhouette alongside mine, his other hand clenching something metallic. Steel, shaped like a large bullet. Smooth. It drags us along, pushed by Tolly’s own ability. Like a motor.
Clenching my teeth, I grab hold. My lungs scream for relief until I can’t stand it any longer, letting loose a stream of bubbles. I gasp reflexively, choking down water.
With a mighty kick and another burst of strength, Tolly angles us to the surface even as my vision spots and darkens. He throws me forward, onto wet and shady sand.
On hands and knees, I sputter and choke, trying to spit up the water as quietly as possible. He thumps a fist on my back.
I can barely think, but I glance around anyway, eager to get my bearings. Even a second off guard could get us killed.
We’re under one of the docks of the Aquarian Port, in about six inches of lapping water. Boats hide us on either side, hemming us in with nothing but rotting seaweed, discarded rope, and barnacles.
Ptolemus looks beyond the dock into the few feet of space allowing us a prime view of the bridge and Fort Patriot beyond. The harbor is a surging cauldron, battered by dueling tides as the ocean itself rises and falls. Some wake crashes toward the shore, rapidly pushing water up to our necks. I sputter, grabbing at the rotted wood above my head, and for a moment I think we might find ourselves drowned onshore. But the water recedes, pulling back out again with unnatural force.
We move with it, clambering to the supports holding up the end of the dock. I only have my knives and bullets now, my armor discarded somewhere at the bottom of the port. Not that I care. I can find metal anywhere I want on land.
Ahead of us, waves assault the bridge again and again, tossing soldiers. Our battalion is a ruin, if not completely destroyed. House Samos will pay in blood today. The assault from the sea has failed.
War Storm Page 30
