War Storm
Page 70

We ride with the fog, hidden for now. Montfort’s storm soldiers are talented and powerful. I note ours at the corner of my eye, tall and willowy in her green uniform tightened by ballistic armor. She is helmeted too, only her hands bare, fingers splayed at her sides to drag the fog. No more coveralls or training outfits for anyone. This is real.
House Samos leads the assault from the water, pushing on our metal crafts at high speed. Father is willing to risk our house for victory. Three cousins form the diamond wedge of our frontal assault, their crafts slicing ahead of us. Behind me in my boat, Ptolemus stands firm, his body weighed down with mirrored armor and weaponry. Gun belts crisscross my hips, snug against my muscles. I have a pistol, though I prefer to throw the bullets myself if need be. My cousins of House Samos vary, carrying rifles as well as shard explosives. I picture the seawalls of Fort Patriot, high against the waves. Our first obstacle. My focus sharpens as we approach, narrowing to this place and our objective.
Win the city.
Survive.
Go home.
They will see us coming. Or at least they’ll see the fog rolling off the water. It’s early morning, though, when the air is still heavy and gray. A natural fog wouldn’t seem out of place. It could give us cover longer than anything else. And when Cal strikes from the land, and House Laris from the air, the city guards and the Patriot garrison won’t know where to turn. Which front to fight.
Everything is well coordinated, from the grander assault to each individual boat. Our ranks are well organized. Two magnetrons, one storm, one gravitron at least to each craft, supplemented by trained Red soldiers or other newbloods of Montfort. As well as a few healers sprinkled through each battalion.
Everyone has their job, and if we’re all going to survive, we’re going to do them well.
Fort Patriot looms, a hazy shadow darkening as our fog pushes on. The seawall rises from a breaking rush of white waves. No land below. No foothold. No matter.
For all my anger and rage, I wish my father were here. There is no safer place than his side.
My concentration breaks for a moment as my focus shifts to my brother. I can sense him behind me, and easily trace the shape of his armor. We each carry a small but solid disk of copper tucked into our belts. An odd metal for an attack. Easy to distinguish and feel. Easy to track. I hold on to the sensation of his and mine, memorizing it. If things go wrong, I want to be able to find Tolly as quickly as I can.
The fog outstrips us, easing against the fast-approaching seawall. Whatever clock ticks inside me grows louder, more insistent. It’s time.
Shivering, I turn with a jolt and wrap my arms around Tolly’s shoulders. The hug is quick, sharp, and not gentle. The clang of metal on metal as our armor meets is swallowed by the roaring waves and the rising thunder of my heartbeat.
“Stay alive,” he whispers. I can only nod as I turn back around.
No movement on the seawall, either above or below. Just the waves. Maybe the fog has worked.
“Ready?” I hiss over the din, looking to the barrel-chested Montfort gravitron.
He dips his chin in assertion before crouching against the boat, putting his hand to each side. His palms go flat. Ready to lift.
In the other boats, the other gravitons do the same.
The soldiers behind me kneel. The storm, our two oblivions of Lerolan, and Ptolemus brace for the leap. No Reds in my boat. I want to survive this, and do it without relying on the weakness of red blood, no matter how trained they might be.
I bend down with the rest, my muscles tensing, dreading the chance of impact, if the gravitron isn’t up to snuff. At this speed, I might not be able to stop the boat from slamming into the seawall.
Waves break along the base of the wall, steel gray beneath the fog. They lap high, higher than the crusted saltwater line worn against the wall. Higher than any high tide.
My heart drops in my chest.
“Nymph strike!” I manage to scream as another towering wave crashes—backward.
So begins the battle of Harbor Bay.
The sudden, furious wall of water tosses the lead boats like toys, spilling soldiers of the Rift and Montfort across the churning ocean break. Only the gravitons escape, bouncing up and out of the water’s grasp. I spot the Samos cousins utilizing control of their armor to stay afloat or skim the waves, but they’re weighed down, and not strong enough to pull themselves out of harm’s way. I don’t know about the rest.
We have nymphs of our own, Montfort-born Silvers. But far fewer and far weaker than whoever must be on the Patriot walls. Whatever we do to calm the boiling waves isn’t enough.
Another wave rises, half as high as the wall, blocking out the graying light, casting a shadow across our line of craft. It will flatten us, drown us, slam us against the seabed.
“Push through!” I command, clenching my fists on the prow of our boat. Pouring myself and my ability into the hull. I hope the gravitron can hear me. I know Ptolemus does.
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.