So is my wind.
I shape it to my will, using drafts to point the lethal stream wherever I want. Bending it with a downward gust until it pierces through an encroaching ship, I grin as I watch it explode to pieces, strangely apathetic about the entire crew I’ve just sent into the bay. My Remnant burns cold as I wrench the water to the left with a huge gust that takes out three more ships, sweeping bodies overboard like leaves scattering across pavestones. The manual swivel mechanism could not pivot half so fast as my maegic.
Someone shouts an oath of surprise from somewhere behindme. I think it is Roq, the friendly guard, but I don’t turn to look. My eyes are locked on the harbor.
Arwen and Soren are far out to sea, forcing a good chunk of the fleet into a swift retreat toward Prydain. The other tower is keeping up a constant barrage, holding back the right flank. With my cannon back in action, the Frostlanders finally sense the foolhardiness of their plan. The remaining longships on the left flank turn tail, fleeing back in the direction from which they came. All too soon, they will be completely out of range, slipping away into the mist to rape and pillage and plunder another city or township—one that, more than likely, will not have such strong defensive protections.
My blood boils at the thought.
The water roars in my ears, matching my roaring pulse, as I watch them retreat.
I could let them go.
Ishouldlet them go.
But I am caught up in the power that surges through me. A limitless resource, fueled by pure fury. Mine for the taking…if only I am brave enough to reach for it. Before I consciously know what I am doing, I loose more wind, twisting ribbons of air along the torrent of water. Elongating it farther than would be possible on its own power, until the spray reaches a distance the pump alone could never achieve.
There are more shouts of surprise behind me, which quickly morph into alarmed yells as the wheel spins faster and faster. No longer in the control of the wheelmen, but under my command. The men cry out, jumping back to keep from being battered as it begins to whirl independently. I no longer need them anyway. My air is everywhere, all around me—driving up through the pipes from the harbor, lending more pressure to the already immense surge, carrying that blinding pressure outward.
More wind, more water.
More.
The fleeing ships stand no chance. I take them out one by one, relentless in my pursuit.
Smash.
Sink.
Smash.
Sink.
Smash.
Sink.
Over and over, until none remain.
As I do this, I feel nothing. Not a shred of remorse. It’s as though that constant coldness centered at my Remnant has spread through me, an icy elixir in my veins, strong enough to block out any other emotions. Strong enough to block out everything—the world around me, the people watching. There is nothing in that moment but me and my maegic, a malevolent maelstrom unleashed upon the world.
It is not until I feel a disturbance in my wind that the ice encasing my mind cracks open. There is a distinctive pump of wings gusting across the ramparts. The following clatter of hooves as landing is made. Two sets of boots dismounting. Footsteps crossing up onto the tower platform. And then, a voice.
“Skylark. You can stop now.”
He sounds close. He feels close. I blink, staring at the horizon. There are no ships intact on the left flank. Only indistinguishable flotsam and jetsam, drifting on the frothy surface in the distance. Splintered oars, smashed hulls. Casks and crates, weapons and water jugs. The detritus of a ruined fleet. And bodies. So many bodies, floating face down. No longer swimming or kicking for shore. No longer doing anything at all.
Because they are dead.
They are all dead.
Gods, what have I done?
The cannon splutters to a stop as I release the wind. I take a deep, tremulous breath as I turn slowly around. Soren is there, hair tousled from the sea, body rigid with tension. He is staring at me—as is every other living soul on the city walls. The silence is deafening. A lump lodges in my throat as I meet his eyes. They are fathomless, holding all the secrets of the deepest oceans. Holding things I am not yet ready to see. More evidently than anything, though…the distinct sheen of pity.
“It’s over,” he says with halting gentleness. “It’s done.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I want to put them through something. To beat them against a stone wall or a hardwood floor until they are torn and bleeding, a physical reflection of the invisible blood staining my hands.