The Spirit Rebellion(121)

“Was that you?” Miranda said in awe.

“Partially.” Mellinor sounded extremely pleased with himself. “Most of it is the spirits.” He laughed. “Let’s just say they didn’t particularly like being under the good duke’s thumb, and now that I’m here to back them up, they’re not feeling particularly charitable toward his forces.”

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.





CHAPTER 20





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.