Rachel Aaron: The Spirit War

“These things are impossible to kill.”

Miranda glanced to see Gin beside her with Banage on his back. The Rector Spiritualis hopped down and moved to Miranda’s side, clutching the cloudy-gray gem that had been his stone spirit’s black ring.

“He’ll be fine with time,” he said before Miranda could ask. “Dunerik is nothing if not resilient.”

“None of us will be fine if we don’t find a way to make these things stay down,” Gin growled. “Even that pigheaded idiot’s still fighting.”

Miranda could only guess the dog was referring to Josef. She didn’t have a look to spare for the swordsman, but the constant clang of metal on stone from the walk in front of the tower told her everything she needed to know. If the Heart of War couldn’t carve these monsters… She clenched her teeth, forcing the thought from her head before it could finish. No point in going down that path. She’d do better to stay focused on the spirit in front of her.

The war spirit was burning full tilt now, and the heat pouring off it was enough to make Miranda’s hair crackle. It moved slowly backward, its three feet taking small, careful steps toward the pulverized remains of its head and fourth leg.

“It’s trying to put itself back together,” Miranda said, sending a pulse of power to Durn. “I want a pillar underneath it. Shoot it up, we’re going to knock the head and the leg into the bay.”

But as she gave the order, she realized something was wrong. The surge of power she’d sent down the thread that connected her stone’s spirit to her own had reached its destination, but Durn had not answered. A cold cringe of fear curled in her stomach, and Miranda looked to see Durn standing behind her, still as the ground under their feet.

“Durn,” she said again, adding a little force to her voice.

“I can’t,” the stone whispered, his voice full of fear. “We’re too late.”

“Too late?” Miranda asked, but even as the question left her lips, the wall of power crashed into her. Miranda gasped as the enormous weight forced her to her knees, and she wasn’t alone. Every one of her spirits had gone perfectly still. Even Gin was on the ground, facing the bay with his head on his paws, almost like he was bowing.

“Durn’s right,” her hound whined, pressing his nose into the dirt. “We took too long. She’s here.”

Miranda didn’t have to ask whom they meant. Straining against the power, she lifted her head just enough to see the palace ships. She didn’t know what she was looking for, what to expect, but she knew the Empress the moment she saw her.

She was smaller than Miranda would have thought, narrow boned and pale, her black hair piled in an elaborate knot on top of her head. Her golden armor shone brighter than her war spirits, but it was not the brightness that drew Miranda’s gaze, nor was it the fact that the woman was standing on a seemingly impossible line of wooden boards stretching out from the palace ship’s destroyed prow. What drew Miranda’s attention was the same thing that drew the attention of everything in the bay, large and small, awakened or asleep. It was power. Pure, unadulterated, undeniable power radiated from the woman like light from a lamp. Even as a blind human, Miranda could almost see it burning, and her heart began to sink.

“That’s it then?” she said, almost laughing at the absurdity. “We’ve lost.”

“We never had much chance to begin with,” Banage replied. “We set ourselves against a star, after all.”

Miranda did laugh then, a dry, humorless sound of utter disbelief. Across the bay, those palace ships that still had prows began to lower them. The moment the ramps hit the water, ships laden with troops began to pour out. Hundreds of ships, thousands, more ships than Miranda could count, all rowing toward the bay.

The Empress watched her ships with haughty pride. Miranda was too far to see her expression, but she didn’t have to. The woman radiated triumph as a fire gives off heat. With a great sweeping motion, the Empress swung her hand down and the wall Durn had raised across the bay tore itself apart. Trees and ship hulls flew in every direction as the seafloor rent itself to let the Empress’s boats pass.

For one endless moment, Miranda could only watch as the Empress, with one motion, undid all the ground they’d gained that day. Despair like she’d never felt filled her mind as the boats began to pour into the bay. Despair so thick, so overwhelming, she didn’t hear Mellinor the first time he spoke.

“I said let’s go,” he said again, his voice surging through her mind like a deep current.

“But she’s a star,” Miranda whispered. “She has the will of the Shepherdess. We can’t stand against her. Nothing in the world can. That’s what the Shaper Mountain said.”

“No,” Mellinor said. “Nothing in the world will. There’s a difference between can’t and won’t.” As he spoke, Mellinor’s voice shifted, and Miranda could hear the echo of the enormous sea who’d spoken to her in the dark throne room so long ago. “I am the Great Spirit of the inland sea,” he boomed in her mind. “I am still myself, with my own mind and my own soul, and I have no love for the stars or their White Lady. Any one of them could have freed me from Gregorn’s prison, but they didn’t. They left me to rot and madness in a pillar of salt for four hundred years.” Mellinor’s voice was racing with rage now, and Miranda could feel his power flowing through her, filling her.

“You have shown me more care and protection in the last year than my Shepherdess ever did,” Mellinor said finally. “If you’re not ready to roll over and give up like the rest, then I am with you, mistress.”

Miranda put her hands to her face to stop the tears flowing down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered. “If we can try, we must. But how?”

Mellinor told her, and Miranda fell still. It was dangerous, very dangerous. It also went against everything she stood for as a Spiritualist, sworn to keep her spirits from harm. But as she turned it over in her mind, something flinched inside her, snapped like a bone being set into place, and she knew what she had to do.

She turned on her heel and started to run. Gin, still bowing, didn’t follow. Banage called her name, but Miranda didn’t look back. She kept running, feet pounding across the ruined paving as she ran along the storm wall’s edge, straight toward Josef.

Josef clutched the Heart of War, blinking against the sweat that dripped into his eyes. In front of him, the metal-and-stone creature hovered over its two severed legs, still not dead. Josef lifted his wrist to his face, rubbing the sweat and dirt away as best he could. This was taking too long. Cutting the Empress’s war monster was easy, but keeping it down was another story, and he was getting tired.

Tired was, as Eli would say, the bedrock of understatement. He was exhausted. His fight with Adela, becoming king, sinking the ships, defending the beach, and—his mind grew dark—the death of his mother, it was all adding up. He’d been fighting in one way or another since midmorning, and now this. He watched as the war creature rolled back to a defensive position, its severed legs already crawling back toward its body. He had to finish this quickly and go help the Spiritualists with the others before the whole island was overrun. Assuming, of course, it wasn’t already.

He glanced up at the city. The mountain above him glowed like a sunset. Everywhere he looked things were burning and falling. Even at this distance he could hear the screams of the people, now his people, as they tried to fight the fiery monsters destroying their homes. Rage built up in his chest, but before he could give in to it, the Heart grew heavy, calling his attention back to the fight at hand. Josef obeyed, letting everything else fall aside as he focused on the war spirit, which was nearly finished pulling itself back together. The Heart’s hilt pressed against his sweaty palms, pulling him forward, urging him to finish it now, while they still could.