Rachel Aaron - The Spirit War

“What is that?”

“I should think you’d recognize it,” Sara said, picking up the next orb. “I got the idea from your report.”

“No,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “It can’t be.”

“Of course it can,” Sara said as she lovingly loaded the glassy black ball into the waiting catapult. “Clever idea, actually, compressing a sandstorm. So much power and destruction at your fingertips.” She shook her head. “Only problem was the deadline. It’s not like I can just make storms. What you see here is my entire stock. Now do you understand why I didn’t want to risk them on a nonawakened launcher?”

Miranda was barely listening anymore. “You copied Renaud’s glass storm?” she screamed. “Are you out of your mind?”

Sara gave her a sideways look. “It was very effective.”

“It was Enslavement!” Miranda roared.

Sara winced. “Not so loud, if you don’t mind.” She turned to the catapult. “Next shot will take out the second-to-last ship on the left.”

“Yes, Sara,” the catapult said, dutifully turning itself.

“Hold that order!” Miranda shouted, grabbing the catapult with both hands. It stopped, confused, and Sara gave Miranda a cutting look.

Miranda was too angry to care. “Did you Enslave this storm?” she said, jabbing her finger at the ball loaded on the catapult’s arm.

“No,” Sara answered. “If I had, I could have gotten it down to the marble size you wrote about. The smaller size would have been more difficult to aim, however, so it wasn’t necessary.”

Miranda blinked in disbelief. “You didn’t Enslave it because you were worried about size?”

“That and Enslaved spirits are far too unstable,” Sara said. “Would you let go of my catapult?”

Miranda tightened her grip. “If you didn’t Enslave these sandstorms, how did they get like this?”

Sara heaved an enormous sigh. “I understand this is difficult for a Spiritualist to comprehend, but there are more ways of being a wizard than servants and Enslavement. Sandstorms are nothing but sand and air spirits whipped together, a roving spirit brawl without any real kind of mind. All I had to do was lean on them a little, give them some firm direction. Stupid spirits take a strong hand.”

“If all you did was lean on them, how did they end up as glass?” Miranda said hotly.

Sara shrugged. “I can lean fairly heavily, and they might have been a bit upset about it, but it’s a sandstorm’s nature to be upset. I only concentrated that anger, pressed them together into something a little more effective, and now I’m giving them an outlet.” She shook her head at Miranda’s furious expression. “Honestly, you’re as bad as Etmon. There’s no real harm done.”

“No real harm?” Miranda roared. “You took an innocent spirit and pressed it so hard you changed its substance! It was a sandstorm, not a glass storm.”

“An improvement,” Sara snapped, but before she could say more, a crash echoed over even the sand’s screaming, and they both looked up to see Banage barreling out of the tower. Relief rushed over Miranda like a cool wave. Banage’s face was strangely drawn, his eyes red and sunken, almost like he’d been crying, though that couldn’t be. But whatever had caused him to look that way was gone now, burned away by pure, unadulterated rage.

“Sara!” he bellowed, breaking into a run.

Sara rolled her eyes. “Here we go again,” she said with a sigh. “Fire.”

Pain exploded through Miranda’s hand as the catapult obeyed, launching the next black orb into the night. Miranda followed it as long as she could, clutching her injured hand to her chest as the orb exploded and a new, equally horrible scream joined the first as the released glass storm enveloped the next palace ship.

That was when Banage reached them. He grabbed Sara by the jacket, nearly lifting her off her feet as he brought her up to face him. But before he could do more than sputter, he froze. After a second of confusion, Miranda saw why. Sparrow was standing right behind him, a long, slender knife pressed into the back of Banage’s neck.

“Unhand the lady.”

Miranda’s hand moved in a flash, rings lighting up like lanterns as Gin snarled, but Banage moved first. He dropped Sara and stepped back. Sparrow lowered his knife and moved to Sara’s side as she straightened her collar.

“That was very unlike you, Etmon,” she said coldly.

Banage took a deep breath. “I find it hard to control my temper when I see the head of the Council wizards using Enslavement. I will see you hanged for this.”

“I very much doubt that,” Sara said. “We are at war, and my spirits are the only thing holding the line at the moment. But maybe you should ask the Oserans? I’m sure they’d love to die with you to save a few idiot storms.”

“War or not, there are rules that cannot be broken!” Banage shouted. “Morals are not flexible. They don’t change to fit your convenience. You never understood that, Sara.” His arm shot out, finger stabbing at the cartful of orbs. “You will stop this at once, or so help me—”

“Or what?” Sara said. “You’ll leave? Fine, go ahead. You’re already a traitor to your country. What’s one more?” She grabbed Miranda’s shoulder, pushing her into Banage. “Run away,” Sara said. “And take your little parrot with you. There’s no room for idealists in war. I’d have thought you’d learned that years ago.”

Banage didn’t answer. Instead, he clenched his fist. As he did, Miranda caught a flash from the large, black stone on his ring finger, and the ground began to rumble. Sara’s eyes widened, but even she didn’t have time to react as an enormous stone hand exploded from the ground below the awakened catapult. The stone fingers, eight in all, closed over the wagon, crushing it instantly with a crash of splintering wood and a soft cry from the catapult as its launching arm snapped in two. Banage opened his palm, and the stone hand retreated back into the ground, leaving the whimpering catapult crooning over its broken arm.

For a moment Sara just stood there, mouth open, and then she turned on Banage with a cold fury that could have killed a weaker man. “That was bald treason.”

“That was my duty as a Spiritualist,” Banage said, setting his hands at his side.

Miranda stood beside him, grinning so hard her face hurt. But the joy was short lived. The screaming glass clouds on the palace ships were still going, but those ships without mad sandstorms were regrouping. On their decks, circles of wizards were moving in unison, and the decks of the ships began to glow. Miranda stepped back, swallowing against the fear that clenched her throat.

The palace ships’ decks were full, absolutely full, of war spirits. They glowed like bonfires, waiting their turn as the wizards moved from spirit to spirit, launching them one after another until the sky was full of bright burning dots.

Their light was so bright Miranda could see the annoyance on Sara’s face clearly.

“Well,” she said, sticking her pipe between her teeth. “You’ve certainly done it now.”

Banage ignored her and turned to Miranda, his face terrifying in the strange red light.

“Every spirit,” he said softly. “Bring out every spirit you have.”

Miranda nodded and closed her eyes, sinking immediately into the well of her soul. Her spirit opened with a roar. Beside her, she felt a wave of pressure as Banage’s spirit opened as well. It was intense, but unlike an Enslaver’s, Banage’s spirit didn’t press down on the connection she shared with her spirits. Instead, it buoyed them, power feeding on power as they stood together, spirits ready as the bright burning amalgams hurtled down.