War Storm
Page 124

The king of Norta himself has burnished red-and-silver armor, not to mention a gun on one hip and a gleaming sword buckled to the other. No cloak or cape drapes across his shoulders. It would only get in the way. Cal is barely a man, but he seems to have aged overnight. And not from the impending battle. He is no stranger to war or bloodshed. Something else hangs on his heart, something even an invasion can’t distract from. He raises his shadowed face, watching me as I approach.
“How long do we have?” I ask aloud, not bothering with pleasantries.
Cal is quick to answer. “The Air Fleet is on the wing,” he says, casting his gaze to the south. “There’s a storm out to sea, moving too quickly. I’d wager there’s a Lakelander armada inside it.”
It’s a tactic we used ourselves in the battle of Harbor Bay, but in far fewer numbers and with much less strength. I shudder to think of what a nymph-born assault might look like with the queen of the Lakelands herself leading the charge. As before, I picture myself swathed in my steel, sinking quickly through deep and dark water, never to surface again.
I try not to let that fear bleed into my voice. “Their objective?” It’s the best way to fight, and fight back. Identify what your opponent is trying to do, and calculate how best to stop them.
Behind Cal, his uncle shifts uncomfortably. He lowers his eyes, touching his nephew on the shoulder. “That would be you, my boy. They get to you, and all this is finished before we have even begun.”
My father remains silent, weighing the outcomes. What it means for him if Cal is captured or dies. We still aren’t married. The Kingdom of the Rift is not so irrevocably tied to Norta, just as we weren’t tied to Maven. The last time enemy forces attacked Archeon, House Samos was prepared, and we fled. Will he do the same again?
I grit my teeth, already feeling a headache form on top of everything else.
“Maven’s escape train is still in use,” Julian continues. In reply, Cal shifts smoothly out of his grasp. “We can get you out of the city, at least.”
The young king pales, his skin turning the color of old bone. The suggestion makes him sick. “And surrender the capital?”
Julian responds quickly. “Of course not. We’ll defend her, and you’ll be well out of danger, far beyond their grasp.”
Cal’s retort is just as quick, and twice as resolute. Not to mention predictable. “I’m not running.”
His uncle doesn’t seem surprised. Still, he tries to argue valiantly. And in vain. “Cal—”
“I’m not going to let others fight while I hide.”
The old queen is more forceful, seizing him by the wrist. I despair of this family bickering but have little recourse. Even as the clock ticks against us. “You’re not a prince anymore, or a general,” Anabel pleads. “You are the king, and your well-being is integral to—”
As with his uncle, Cal gently extricates himself from her grip, peeling off her fingers and removing her hand. His eyes smolder and burn. “If I abandon this city, I abandon any hope of ever being a king. Don’t let your fear blind you to that.”
Sick of this nonsense, I cluck my tongue and say the obvious, if only to save precious time. “The remaining High Houses will never swear to a king who flees.” I lift my chin, utilizing all my court training to project the image of strength I need. “And the ones who have will never respect him.”
“Thank you,” Cal says slowly.
I point one finger at the windows, toward the cliffs. “The river has changed course, and it’s rising. High enough to allow their largest ships to come this far upriver.”
Cal nods, grateful for the return to the subject. He shifts, putting some distance between himself and his relatives. Crossing to my side.
“They intend to split the city in two,” he says, looking between my still-silent father and his own grandmother. “I’ve already given orders to even the guards on either side of the city, and supplement with the soldiers still in our service.”
Ptolemus wrinkles his nose. “Wouldn’t it be better to gather our strength, fortify the Square and the palace? Keep our ourselves united?”
My brother is a warrior as much as Cal is, but no strategist. He is all brutal strength. And Cal is quick to point out his error.
“The Cygnet queens will feel out which side is weakest,” he says. “If both sides are balanced, they won’t find a weaker side to prey on. And we can pin them in the river.”
“Concentrate the Air Fleet over the city.” It isn’t a suggestion, but an order. And no one shoots me down. Despite our impending doom, I feel a surge of pride. “Use their weapons on the ships. If we can sink one downriver, we’ll slow their pace.” A dark grin plays on my lips. “Even nymphs can’t keep a ship full of holes afloat.”
There is no joy in Tiberias Calore when he speaks next, his eyes flickering with some inner torment. “Turn the river into a graveyard.”
A graveyard for both kinds of blood, Silver and Red. Lakelanders, soldiers of Piedmont. Enemies. That’s all they are. Faceless, nameless. Sent to kill us. It’s an easy equation to balance, with the people I love on one side. Still, my stomach turns a little, though I’ll never admit it to anyone. Not even Elane. What color will the river be when all this is over?
“We’ll be outnumbered on the ground.” Cal begins to pace, his words taking on a manic quality. He’s almost talking to himself, puzzling out a battle plan before our eyes. “And whatever their storms cook up will keep most of the Air Fleet busy.”
My father still hasn’t spoken a word.
“They’ll have Red soldiers among the Silvers,” Julian says. He sounds almost apologetic. Again my stomach churns, and Cal seems to feel the same trepidation. He falters a little in his steps.
Anabel merely scoffs. “That’s one advantage, at least. Their numbers are more vulnerable. And less dangerous.”
The rift between Cal’s closest advisers yawns like a canyon. Julian almost sneers at her, his usually calm manner fading a little. “That’s not what I meant.”
More vulnerable. Less dangerous. Anabel isn’t wrong, but not for the reason she thinks. “The Lakelands haven’t eased their treatment of Reds,” I say. “Norta has.”
The withered stare from the old queen is a thing of lethal beauty. “So?”
I speak slowly, like I’m explaining battle theory to a child. It rankles her delightfully. “So the Lakelander Reds might be less willing to fight. They might even want to surrender to a country where they’ll be given better treatment.”
Her eyes narrow. “As if we can rely on that.”
I shrug with a practiced smirk, raising the steel pauldrons on both shoulders. “They did in Harbor Bay. It’s worth keeping in mind.”
The bug-eyed looks of the Silvers around me are not difficult to interpret. Even Ptolemus is perplexed by what I’m saying. Only Cal and Julian seem open to the idea, their expressions measured but oddly thoughtful. My gaze lingers on Cal, and he meets my eyes firmly, inclining his head in a small, almost invisible nod.
He licks his lips, vaulting into another round of planning. “We don’t have any newblood teleporters, but if we can somehow get you two”—he gestures to Ptolemus and me—“onto the battleships again, neutralize their guns—”