War Storm
Page 128

The Air Fleet races among the clouds, still weaving through the sky, peppering the armada as best they can with all they can. They aren’t the only jets up there. The Lakelanders have aerial battalions of their own, as does Piedmont in fewer numbers. Between the thunder of the ships and the scream of the jets, I can barely hear myself think. And the Nortan guns only add to the chaotic din. The turrets up ahead spit sparks and hot iron, flashing with gunfire. They’re usually disguised as part of the walls around the Square, or supports to the Bridge, but not now. A few telkies stand at the turrets, using their abilities to fling explosives with deadly aim.
This city was built to survive, and that’s what it’s trying to do.
A wind picks up, probably born of our own windweavers. House Laris is still allied to Cal, and they use their ability to its full extent. A howling gale streaks over the Square, blowing from somewhere behind us. It knocks some of the shells and missiles off course, and a few land harmlessly in the river while others spiral off into the fog. I squint against the slapping wind, keeping Ptolemus and Wren in sight, but the hurricane force makes the soldiers tighten their ranks, squashing us in with them.
Gritting my teeth, I painstakingly shove my way through, slipping under arms, pressing past guns and torsos. Every step is an ordeal, made more difficult by the lashing wind, the rain, the press of the legion. The crowd tosses like the river below, now whitecapped with rising waves.
My hands close on Tolly’s wrist, his armor cold against my fingers. He heaves, pulling me to him over the last yard, until I’m tucked safely into his side. My brother holds Wren in the same manner, his arms braced across both our shoulders.
What now?
We have to get the edge of the crowd, but the walls and buildings of the Square keep the legion hemmed in, funneling all of us toward the Bridge. Even from a distance, I can see Cal elevated above the rest, his red armor like blood against the howling storm. He stands to the side of the open gates, perched on a stone turret.
Like some idiotic target.
A good sniper could pick him off from a thousand yards if they cared to try.
But he risks it for the morale of his troops, shouting encouragement as they charge onto the Bridge. More shells hurtle toward him, but he flicks a hand, exploding the rounds in midair before they can do any harm.
On the Bridge itself, Silver soldiers disappear into the fog. I can guess their destination. Even now, the rhythmic, haunting drum of the armada’s guns breaks its pattern. I try not to picture Nortan soldiers fighting on the ship decks, facing the full might of Queen Cenra’s and Prince Bracken’s forces.
If we can get you two onto the ships . . . Cal’s voice echoes in my head. I grit my teeth against the curl of shame licking through me. I’m not wading into this battle, not on another river. Not with them down there.
This is our chance, and we have to take it.
“Keep pushing!” I shout, hoping Tolly can hear me over the din. The Treasury is behind us now, the distance growing with every passing step. It’s suffocating, being shoved like this, prodded forward against my will.
I don’t have much armor left—my father stripped most of it away—but what little I have re-forms along my arm, flattening into a round shield. Ptolemus mirrors my action, creating a smooth disk over his arm. We use them like battering rams, pushing against the human tide with our abilities and our own strength. It works slowly but steadily, creating enough space for us to move.
Until red armor blocks our path, a fireball hovering over one hand.
Cal stares between us, and I expect accusation. His flame gutters against the rain, refusing to surrender. His soldiers form a protective cocoon around him.
Rainwater drips down his face, steaming on his exposed skin.
“How many are you taking with you?” he says, barely audible.
I blink water out of my eyes and gesture blankly at Wren and Ptolemus.
“Your father, Evangeline. How many will he manage to flee with?” Cal takes a long step forward, never breaking eye contact. “I need to know who I still have left.”
Something releases in my chest. I shake my head, slow at first, then faster and faster.
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur.
Cal’s expression doesn’t change, but for a moment I think the flame in his hand burns a bit brighter. Again his gaze bounds between my brother and me, weighing us both. I let it wash over me like the rain and the fog and the rising smoke. Tiberias Calore is not my future anymore.
Without another word, he stands aside, and his soldiers move with him. Clearing a path over the slick tiles of the Square.
As I move past him, I feel a ghost of warmth bleeding from his hand as it hovers near my arm. I think he almost hugs me. Cal has always been an odd sort, different from other Silvers. Strange and soft in his inclinations, while the rest of us were raised to razors and hard edges.
Instead of embracing him, I grab his arm, just for a moment. Pull him close enough for one last whisper, one last barb from Evangeline Samos before she disappears. Without her crown, without her house, without her colors. To become a new person entirely.
“If it isn’t too late for me, it isn’t too late for you.”
When we sit down on the train, its lights flickering and engine lumbering to life, only then do I dimly wonder where the tracks end.
It will be a long walk to Montfort.
THIRTY-THREE
Mare
I’m still not used to the purple hair.
It isn’t as garish as Ella’s, at least. I only let Gisa dye the gray ends, leaving the roots untouched. I twist a spare lock around my finger, staring at the odd color as I walk. Strange as it looks, it gives me a small burst of pride. I’m an electricon, and I’m not alone.
After the first attack on Archeon, Maven and his loyal advisers took up a campaign of collapsing or flooding the immense tunnel system beneath the city. They concentrated heavily on the southern edges, where the tunnels were more numerous, all of them leading to the ruins of Naercey at the mouth of the Capital River. Davidson originally suggested striking out from the abandoned city, but Farley and I knew better. Maven destroyed that too, rooting out the Scarlet Guard’s stronghold while obliterating whatever remained. He was inspired by the Guard as well, constructing tunnels of his own in addition to an escape train. I can’t be certain, not this deep or after this long underground, but I think we’ll link up with the train line eventually.
My inner compass spins, searching for true north in vain. We have to rely on Guard intelligence, what they know of the tunnels. And we have to rely on Maven. Stupid as it is, he is our best hope for getting as far into the city as we can. The combined force of Montfort and the Scarlet Guard is too big to simply strike from the air, or the river, or the ground. We have to do all three.
Of course I’m stuck scrabbling in the darkness, walking for hours beneath several tons of rock and soil.
Maven cuts a harsh silhouette, backlit by our lanterns. He’s still wearing the simple uniform the Montfortans gave him when they locked him up. Washed-out gray pants and shirt, the fabric too thin and the cut too big on his frame. It makes him look younger than he is, more gaunt and drawn than ever before.
I hang back, using Farley as a human shield between us. His own guards are close at hand as well, an even mix of Reds and newbloods. None of them falter, hands resting on their holstered guns. Tyton walks close by, never breaking his concentration on Maven. They’re prepared for the first sign of trouble.