“Let him fall,” she says, her eyes locked on the figure.
I don’t realize it’s a body until it lands on the deck a few yards in front of us, limbs mangled and skull split open like a melon, spewing silver and white across the deck. His mirrored armor shatters like his bones, some of it splintering into dust at the impact. The wrecked corpse is a tall man, older, judging by the remains of a beard beneath his crumpled face. A fold of his black cape splays over the rest of his body. The fabric is edged in silver.
Familiar colors.
Suddenly the battle seems far away, distant as a dream, and the world at the edge of my vision goes hazy. Everything narrows to this man, destroyed in front of us. No crown on his brow. He doesn’t even have a face anymore.
“So ends Volo Samos, and the Kingdom of the Rift,” Mother says, stepping neatly to stand over his broken bones. She toes aside his cape and turns the ruined remains of his skull without flinching.
I glance away, unable to look. My stomach flips queasily. “Queen Anabel’s trade is complete.”
Still examining the corpse, Mother tuts loudly. Her dark eyes run over the dead king, drinking him in. “She thinks this will save her city and her grandson.”
Steeling myself, I force my gaze back to Samos. I’m no stranger to blood. Another corpse shouldn’t frighten me. This man is the reason my father is dead, and our country is without its king, my mother without her husband. He deserves every inch of this ending. And what a brutal ending it was.
“Foolish woman,” I seethe, my thoughts turning to Anabel Lerolan and her weak attempt to stop an invasion. You will not succeed. The price is already paid.
Satisfied, Mother steps back over the body. She gestures with one hand, and two of our guards begin the gruesome process of removing Samos from the deck. Silver blood streaks like paint as they drag him away.
“We’re all fools for the people we love, dear,” Mother says airily, clasping her hands in front of her. Without breaking stride, she glances at one of our lieutenants. “Even concentration on both sides of the city, focused on the massing troops.”
With a nod, the officer ducks back into the command bridge, and her orders are relayed across the armada. Both Lakelander and Piedmontese ships respond in kind, their guns erupting with a volley of fire. Explosions and smoke crackle along the riverbanks, shearing off cliff rock as well as city structures. After a moment, our enemies on both sides return fire, but weakly. Most bullets ping off steel or sink in the water.
Mother watches with a grim smile. “Break their lines and we’ll have an easy way of it, once the river is high enough.” She’s thinking about the thousands of soldiers belowdecks, waiting to spring from our ships and overrun whoever waits above.
A harsh wind blows up, carrying with it the sound of jets screaming far overhead. I grit my teeth. The Nortan Air Fleet is their only measure of superiority, with Piedmont’s fleet diminished and our own sorely lacking in comparison. All we can do is hold them at bay with the storm, using our own meager jets to distract them from the armada. It seems to be working, for now, at least.
As for the Nortan soldiers Tiberias foolishly sent down among us, the deck troops aren’t having a difficult time holding them off. Even with strongarms and swifts leading the charge, the many nymphs of House Osanos use the river to their advantage. Our advantage.
Even now, I can see their numbers dwindling. “Teleporters,” I snarl, watching as the Montfort oddities blink in and out of existence. They snatch away the last of the Nortans, returning them to the relative safety of the city cliffs.
“They’re retreating from the ships.” I turn to Mother, torn between pride and disappointment. The Nortans fear us enough to run. “What’s left of them, at least.”
The queen of the Lakelands raises her chin, looking imperious and regal. “Recalling to make a last stand. Good.”
I’m quickly struck by the image of my mother striding boldly through Caesar’s Square, up the steps of the palace that was once my glorified prison, to sit the throne the Calores have finally lost. Will my mother be an empress when all this is done? Master of all between the lakes and the sea, from the frozen tundra to the radiated borders of the Wash? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Iris. The battle is not yet won.
I try to center myself in the moment. The sharp tang of smoke and Samos’s blood is a good anchor. I inhale sharply, letting the smell overwhelm my senses. It’s funny, I expected this anger inside me to waste away and die with the Samos king. But I still feel it, deep in my chest, gnawing at my heart. My father is dead, and no throne, no crown, can bring him back. No amount of vengeance paid can push away this pain.
I draw another breath, focusing on the waters below us. The envoy of our gods, it carries every blessing and curse. Normally, the sensation would calm me down. Being so close to such power has a way of humbling even me. Right now, I sense no gods that I recognize.
But I do sense something.
“Do you feel that?” I whirl to my mother. The armor all over my body seems to tighten, threatening to smother me as every one of my nerve endings lights up with fear. What is that—that thing in the water?
Mother blinks at me, reading my unease. Her eyes glaze for a moment as she reaches out with her own considerable ability, hunting through the waves for what has me so on edge. I watch, breathless, waiting for her to tell me it’s nothing. My imagination. Confusion. A mistake.
She sharpens, her eyes narrowing to slits, and the rain suddenly feels like icicles down my spine.
“Another current?” she hisses, snapping her fingers at one of the officers nearby. A Nortan betrayer, he is quick to oblige, his face drawn and pale. He still seems uncomfortable in the blue uniform of the Lakelands. “Osanos,” she barks at him, “are your nymphs pulling another tide—”
He shakes, bowing low. Osanos and his extended family aren’t as talented as us, but they’re formidable in their own right. Not to mention integral to our efforts. “Not by my orders, Your Majesty.”
I bite my lip, my sensation still edging around the gargantuan thing moving through the water. I try to push it off course, but the object is just too heavy. “A whale?” I mutter, hardly believing my own suggestion.
Mother shakes her head, teeth on edge. “Bigger, heavier,” she says. “And more than one.”
Behind us, the ship officers scramble in the command bridge, reacting to a sudden dozen blinking lights and alarms. The sound hits me like knives.
“Brace for impact!” one of them shouts, gesturing for us to take cover.
Mother grabs me, her arm sliding around my waist to hold me close. We watch in horror, feeling the currents below us as the many somethings move through the armada. They must be mechanical, weapons of war we have no knowledge of.
The first strike comes in the middle of the fleet, a battleship suddenly leaning with a groan of tearing metal. An explosion erupts below the waterline, blowing out in an arc of foam and shrapnel. A Piedmont ship catches fire, its powder magazine obliterating the front half of the hull. The blast of heat feels like a burn, but I can’t turn away, watching in horrified awe as the ship sinks in less than a minute, drowning gods know how many within its belly.
Our flagship shudders under us, clanking as something rams the hull beneath the surface.
“Push, Iris, push,” Mother commands, letting go of me to rush to the edge of the deck. She leans forward, arms outstretched, and the waters below obey her will, rushing backward in waves.