Rachel Aaron - The Spirit Rebellion - The Legend of Eli Monpress - Book 2

As if to prove him right, at that moment every sword of the enemy army cut through its sheath and clattered to the ground, some of them going straight through the feet of their previous owners. A great cry of fear and surprise went up, and, sensing the chaos, the torches they carried chose that moment to erupt in great geysers of flame. Suddenly, fire was everywhere, and the army broke into a mob. Men in flames screamed and dove into the river, which pulled back at the last moment to let them land in the mud. Others ran away, disappearing down the alleys and leaving the wounded gripping their bleeding feet.

“That’s what I call a complete rout,” Eli said cheerily. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen an army defeated by its own swords before.”

Miranda grinned. “Come on,” she said, turning to swim for the far shore. “Let’s get your swordsman and my dog and we’ll finish the duke before he does something drastic.”

“Sounds marvelous,” Eli said, swimming beside her. “See, we can agree on occasion.”

“Don’t push it,” Miranda said, giving him a sideways look. “Swim faster; you’re dragging me down.”

“Yes, mistress,” Eli quipped, earning himself a baleful glare, which he ignored completely, swimming in long, easy strokes toward the shore.

High overhead, Othril watched the battle of the Great Spirits with a growing sense of terror. This was bad, very bad. He needed to warn the duke before things got completely out of hand. He spun around to start toward the Duke’s citadel, but as he turned, something inside him hitched, and he froze motionless in the air. For a moment, panic completely overwhelmed his mind. Had a wizard caught him? Was the duke angry? Then he felt a familiar cold breeze, and he realized what was wrong. He was blowing west.

“Othril.”

The voice blew through him, cold and salty and enormous as the western sea. Frozen in place, he could only tremble as he answered.

“All hail the West Wind.”

A laugh gusted past, and he felt other winds slide up beside him. Strong, powerful winds, and all blowing from the west.

“Othril,” the great voice of the West Wind chuckled. “Did you honestly think that allying yourself with a wizard who coerces Great Spirits would end well?”

“How are you even here?” Othril said with as much authority as he could muster. “Fellbro told you to get out! I don’t care how strong you think you are, you can’t ignore a direct dismissal. Winds are forbidden by the Shepherdess from interfering in the affairs of other Great Spirits within their own domains!”

“But Fellbro isn’t the Great Spirit anymore,” the wind said. “You were riding high as the duke’s right hand, weren’t you? Far more power than a spirit of your level would ever gain in the usual course. I can see how you were tempted, but your days of playing spy and weather-maker for the the duke are over.”

Othril began to dispute that, but clawed hands, airy but sharp and cold as iced iron, interrupted him, digging into the core of his spirit.

Panic sent him rigid. Being caught is the greatest fear of all winds, and Othril was no exception. It was how the duke had convinced him to serve in the first place.

A laughing breeze blew over him, but the words it whispered in his ear were as cold as the claws that held him. “It’s time to remember your true loyalty, little wind.”

Othril struggled one last time, and then he was gone, tumbling off to the west. The other winds watched until his spirit winked out of sight. Then, without a word, they spun up high into the cloud layer and began to carry out their lord’s commands.

Slowly, the sky grew dark and heavy with clouds. And then, in long sullen sheets, a night rain began to fall on Gaol for the first time in twenty years.

Duke Edward stood at the top of his citadel. The soft rain fell on him, trickling down his clenched jaw and trembling fists. He was staring at the river, its water shining silver in the night, and the last of his routed soldiers beside it. Behind him, his officers stood uncertainly, waiting for orders, but no orders came. The duke just stood there, staring at the river, growing paler and paler as his rage set in.

It was Hern who dared to speak first, stepping up to stand beside the duke.

“Edward,” he said, very softly. “That water spirit is Miranda’s. We still have her rings. That’s all the leverage we need on a girl like her. We still have control.”

“Control?” The duke’s voice was low and sharp. “What do you know about control?” His hand shot out, grabbing Hern’s collar with alarming strength, dragging the Spiritualist until they were an inch apart.

“I have devoted my entire life to shaping Gaol,” he whispered. “Every moment, from the first moment I heard a spirit’s voice, I knew that this was my purpose, to turn this ragged hash of spirits into a land of order, discipline, and prosperity. I did not work all those years to lose it now.”

“Edward!” Hern gasped against his grip. “I know what you’re thinking, but be reasonable. Sometimes controlled retreat is a victory. We still have-”

“There will be no retreat!” the duke roared, tossing Hern to the ground. “I rule Gaol! It is not a matter of that girl controlling the river, but of my spirits disobeying me!” As he spoke, his spirit surged through the words until Hern could barely hear them over its roar. “I rule here,” the duke said, turning back toward the river, “and disobedience will not be tolerated.”

“Edward!” Hern shouted, but it was too late. A massive wave of Enslavement rolled out of the duke. It hit Hern full force, and he toppled over, dragged down by his rings. The Enslavement surged up the connection he shared with his spirits until he was writhing on the ground. But even as the overwhelming pressure threatened to crack his mind, he reached up and began to pluck his rings one by one from his fingers. With each ring removed, the pressure grew less. He kept taking off rings until he could stand again, and then, using a leather pouch to grab them so the terrified spirits did not touch his skin and reopen the connection, Hern gathered his spirits and fled.

Edward had gone too far. Hern shook his head, making his way quickly down the shaking stairs. He wouldn’t help the duke Enslave his country. He was a Spiritualist still, and there were limits to what even he would do. Besides, if word ever got back to Zarin that he’d been involved in this in any way, no amount of politics could save him. So, with that, Hern vanished into the night, running for his tower as the city began to go mad around him.

Miranda pulled herself out of the river, grinning from ear to ear as she bent over to help extract Eli from the glowing water. Gin was waiting for them on the dock, looking as pleased as she was, which didn’t seem to be making the elder Monpress more comfortable. Gin’s toothy smiles were difficult to appreciate unless you knew him.

“I never thought that would work half as well as it did,” he said, lowering his head to help Miranda climb onto the dock. “The city literally leaped at the chance to look for a new master.”

“Anything would be better than the old one,” Miranda said, pulling herself up by the tough fur on his ruff. “Actually, I don’t see how things could have gone better, the duke’s control broken, Eli on a chain; all I need now is for Hern to come begging for mercy and I think I’ll have just about everything I could want in the world.”

“As pleased as I am to be included in such happiness,” Eli said, climbing up onto the dock behind her, “I would like to remind you-”

But he never got to finish. At that moment, an ear-splitting howl drowned out all other sound. Miranda, Gin, and Eli all shielded their ears, and even the elder Monpress looked up, startled. The cry went on and on, shaking and changing pitch, like it was being passed from one voice to another, full of terror and wailing and crushing despair.