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

By the time Eli realized that he was truly trapped, it was too late. The duke’s burning hand closed on his shoulder and tossed him to the ground with surprising strength. Eli hit the doorstep hard, crying out as the skin on his shoulder blistered from the duke’s burning grip. He started to get up again, but the duke’s boot slammed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Edward stood above him, a black silhouette against the burning night.

“Go on,” the duke whispered. “Call your lava spirit. It won’t do you any good. Your head will be off your shoulders before the words leave you.”

Eli swallowed, and the duke’s boot pressed harder on his chest, crushing the breath out of him.

“I’ve won, Monpress,” the duke said, raising his ax in a shining arc. “I always win.”

Eli couldn’t even think of an answer for that. He could only watch as the ax whistled through the air, flying straight for the exposed area between his collarbone and his neck.

A moment before it struck, something strange happened. The blow, which had been straight and true, turned sideways, landing not in Eli’s flesh, but deep in the wooden doorstep beside him. For a moment, both Eli and the duke just stared at the blade. Then Edward ripped it free with a roar of rage and raised the ax again, using both hands this time, the fire from his flame-wreathed fingers scorching the ax’s wooden handle. But as he swung again, Eli saw the ax blade flip in the duke’s hands. It flipped on its own, and Eli heard a small, terrified voice cry out in defiance, “Death to tyrants!”

With that cry, the metal head of the ax let go of its shaft. It flew into the house behind Eli, burying itself in the burning door. Edward, robbed of the ax’s weight, stumbled into his swing. He was still staring at the bladeless hilt in disbelief when another extraordinary thing happened. The wooden shop sign, its painted surface blistered and illegible from the fire’s heat, let go of its hinges. Nothing had broken, for the nails were still there, still strong. The wood simply had stopped holding on to them. The sign fell with a fearsome cry of vengeance and struck the duke square in the back.

“Go!” the sign shouted, bearing down on the duke with all its weight.

Eli went. He shot up, kicking the duke out of the way and running past him. But the duke was not done. With tremendous strength, he threw the sign off and made a grab for Eli as he passed, catching the thief’s leg and sending them both sprawling on the wet cobbles. Eli kicked, but Edward was too fast. He surged forward, his hands going for Eli’s neck, but just before he reached the thief, the ground beneath them began to rumble. At the corner of the square, the iron treasury door launched off its supports with a great, ringing cry. It rolled like a wheel, bouncing over the cobblestones that swiveled to guide it.

“For the cause!” it cried, its iron voice filled with decades of bottled anger. “Death to tyrants!”

The duke had just enough time to look up, his face pale and disbelieving, as the door flipped itself around and, with a final wordless cry of vengeance, fell flat-side down on top of him.

With a great, iron crash, the enslavement over Gaol vanished. The duke’s control winked out like a snuffed candle, and all at once spirits were everywhere, piling themselves on top of the door, which was ringing like a gong in triumph. Unfortunately, in their exuberance, they weren’t watching for Eli, who was still lying on his back where the duke had tripped him, staring in amazement. When the second hail of roofing tiles nearly took his leg off, he realized he’d better get out.

He rolled over with a groan, moving stiff and slow where the running and the falls had battered his poor bruises, looking for somewhere safe to lie. But everywhere he looked, spirits were rushing forward, trampling him under a wave of pent-up rage. Eli beat them back as best he could, but it was like fighting the tide, and he realized that he was going to be crushed to death under a riot of celebrating barrels, cobblestones, and roofing tile.

He had just enough time to appreciate the inglorious and ironic nature of such an end when a pair of strong arms burst through the jabbering spirits and grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him up and out in a single motion.

“You all right?” said a blessedly familiar gruff voice, and Eli nearly burst into tears. He’d never been so happy to hear Josef in his life.

“Better than the other guy,” he said, but the words turned into a choking cough. Even with the rain, the square was still black with smoke.

“He’s fine,” Josef said, slapping him on the back.

Somewhere behind them, Eli heard Giuseppe Monpress’s familiar sigh. “Glad I found you, then. If he’d died here, he’d have been too burned to turn in for the bounty.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Eli coughed out, slapping his chest to get his lungs clear. He was just thinking about maybe trying to stand on his own when he felt the courtyard rumble and looked up to see Karon coming.

“I’ve kept the fires confined as best I could,” the lava spirit rumbled. “But I think it’s time for me to go. The river seems to be taking matters into its own hands.”

As if to prove his point, a great crashing sound rose up in the distance, the sound of water washing over things it shouldn’t. Eli opened his arms and let Karon’s smoke pour into him again, wincing as the pain of the burn on his chest flashed like a fresh wound. But the pain faded quickly, and he pushed off of Josef just before a wave of white water burst into the square. It flooded up the street, surging over the burning houses in absurd, gravity-defying waves. Even the great pile of spirits marking where the duke had fallen was washed under, and everywhere the fire vanished beneath the cool, blue-white surge.

With the water came a stiff wind. It blew from the west, driving the stench of burned wood away. By this point, Eli and the rest had slogged through the water to the steps of the duke’s citadel, where they were out of the flood. The wind hit them head-on, chilling their wet clothes and filling the air with the smell of the cold, rocky shore. Then something landed with an enormous splash just around the corner. Eli jumped at the sound, and Josef’s hand went to the Heart, but he dropped his grip when the source of the sound came around the corner. It was a little old man, thin as whipcord and with a genteel, scholarly appearance that was only slightly ruined by the way he was wringing the water out of his billowing white robes.

He stopped when he reached the stairs, staring at the huddled group with trepidation as he settled his spectacles on his nose.

“Excuse me,” he said, leaning forward inquisitively. “Which of you is Eli Monpress?”

“That would be me,” Eli said, stepping forward. “Might I ask who’s asking?”

“My name is Lelbon,” the man said with a dry, polite smile. “I am a scholar and general errand runner for Illir, the West Wind.”

He paused, as if this should mean something to them, but Josef just stared at him, and the elder Monpress leaned back against the doors, keen to see where this would go. Eli, however, broke into a grin.

“The West Wind, you say?” Eli scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And what is the West Wind doing sending representatives here? Gaol certainly doesn’t count as the western coast.”

“My employer is interested in the well-being of all the lands he blows over,” Lelbon said stiffly. “We’ve been aware of the situation in Gaol for some time, but were unable to interfere due to the local Great Spirit’s refusal to allow outside aid. The Spiritualist Lyonette has been investigating for us and, as you can see, has rectified the situation.”