The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [144]
“Darkness . . .” he mutters, still working to channel the winds toward Land’s end, realizing the truth of Klerris’s example all too well. Yes, he will have winds, but already he can tell that they will not arrive before the first two ships reach the pier. Perhaps not even then. His feet bear him downhill as his mind struggles with the elements and the winds.
A squad of Westwind guards races for the pier, and Creslin turns cold as he sees a flash of flame-red hair near the lead.
. . . show you, best-beloved . . .
His soul twists the skies, and he rips winds by their roots from their icy heights. Yet, as fast as the high winds speed, as quickly as the darkness builds to the west, the lead ships, and the boats filled with armed men, move more quickly, now nearly touching the pier.
As he hurries downhill, Creslin does not run, for even he knows that arriving at a dead sprint and exhausted will do no one any good, especially himself. But his heart pounds as he thinks of Megaera. He forces his thoughts elsewhere, coldly studying the scene unfolding below.
A second squad of Westwind guards and the duty detachment of the Montgren troopers have started downhill from the keep.
The third and fourth ships are sailing past the harbor and to the east, toward the flat beaches where boats may also land. Even if the guards can hold the harbor, they will soon face attack from behind, although it will not be instantly, since it will take some time for the beach-landing troops to cross the soft sand and climb the low but rocky hill that shelters the town.
Arrows have begun to fly from the inshore vessels, vessels that fly the orange sunburst of Hamor.
Creslin pushes and twists the great winds, those on which he had never called. They strike back, and he sprawls onto the dust of the road.
Thoirkel lifts him to his feet, the dark-haired man looking back toward the west. At least one Westwind guard lies flat on the pier stones, an arrow through her neck.
A gray haze covers the sun, and the darkness towers in the western skies as Creslin unsheathes his blade. He holds it loosely as he steps toward the storm of steel and shafts boiling up around the pier.
He continues downhill, his eyes on the harbor, his sense in the skies. Thoirkel is still there, with a blade that has appeared from somewhere.
. . . now . . . thrust . . .
By the time they are halfway to the fighting, boats are carrying troops onto the eastern beaches, and the end of the pier is held by the attackers.
“Aeeeiii . . .”
“Bitches . . .”
The sounds of swords and voices echo off the cots and rocks, and Creslin looks for the redness that is Megaera and sees none, but neither has he felt the pain he knows he will feel if she is injured.
Lightning forks from the sky and toward the seas, narrowly missing the tall ship that stands farthest seaward.
Arrows continue to arch into the air and sleet down upon those who struggle on the stones of the pier, but some now fly from the shoreward end of the pier onto the two Hamorian ships within the harbor.
RRhhhssttt . . .
. . . aeeeiiieeee . . .
Creslin staggers at the white flame that sears him as Megaera releases the firebolt. Fire sheets from the pier, and the foresails of the lead schooner burst into flames.
Creslin strides forward onto the pier, wrenching winds, wrenching at all he can grasp in the skies above.
Thurrummm . . . thrum . . . crackkk!
The tall ship shudders as lightnings flash upon it and the winds howl, and as the mist and swirling tempests solidify into a funnel of blackness.
“Ooofff . . .” Thoirkel pushes Creslin aside as a bronze-faced man appearing from nowhere swings an ax toward the regent. A pair of swords stops the Hamorian.
Though Megaera has said nothing, the white agony of her use of chaos burns Creslin as though he had stood in the flame himself. He staggers before he remembers that he has a blade and lets his body react, even as