Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(41)

The harbor was closed. The chain would rip in half the hull of any ship that tried to ram it. By itself, the chain would have been enough, but now Poseidon stood with its trident raised above its shoulder, ready to bring it down on any who dared approach. Its feet were set wide, and its massive thighs blocked half the entrance. Between the god, the trident, and the chain, there was no possibility those ships would cross that boundary.

The leading ships in the fleet heeled sharply off their courses, and the entire invasion fleet began to turn like a flock of birds.

Defeated, for now. But that almost certainly wouldn’t last.

Morgan broke from her trance with a cry, and Poseidon froze in place. Waiting. Khalila could only see it from the back; she didn’t know if its eyes were still alight with that eerie glow she’d seen, but she hoped so. It would terrify the people on those ships even more.

Morgan fell backward into Khalila, and both of them went down. Khalila rolled weakly onto her side and just . . . breathed. She had never been so grateful to be alive. Her heartbeat was speeding fast, finally able to express her fear, but she treasured every panicked beat. I’m here.

They raised a god from the sea, and we’re all still here.

Thomas hadn’t quite collapsed, and he stumbled up and away from the edge of the dock before he suddenly went to his knees. He looked dazed, and altogether awestruck. He said something in German that her tired brain couldn’t quite grasp for a moment, and then it came clear. We have done it.

They certainly had. She heard the screams and shouts and cheers from the city. She heard the alarms sounding on the ships out at sea as they rocked in violent waves propagated by Poseidon himself.

The harbor was secure.

“Thomas? Are you all right?” Khalila asked. He nodded. He still seemed lost in a dream, but he crawled over to her and put his arm around her. When Morgan groaned and stirred, he pulled her up to hold her close, too. She looked shockingly bad, worse than Thomas. Worse even than Khalila felt.

And Morgan was weeping. She curled in on Thomas, holding to him and rocking in her misery. As awful as Khalila herself felt, she could not help but feel her heart go out to the other young woman; she could not fear someone in so much pain. With much effort, she rose to her feet, walked to Morgan, and sat beside her. Put her arm around Morgan’s trembling shoulders.

She and Thomas enclosed her in warmth, in love, in comfort, and Khalila thought, This is the straight path.

She stared out at the huge bronze automaton crafted so very long ago, and thought, Surely they cannot fight us now.

That was when the first volleys of Greek fire began from the Welsh ships.





EPHEMERA



Text of a late-period report by Heron of Alexandria (fragmentary) mentioning the city’s defenses in a communication to Pharaoh Ptolemy Djoser VI . . . Pharaoh’s wisdom in appointing a special class of guardian soldiers for . . . Archives of the Great Library . . . nothing certain. We have ever been under threat for our . . . next we may expect invasion.

To this end, I have crafted in the metalworks an automaton the rival of any since great Talos . . . harbor. For a mighty construction such as this, partnership with . . . Pharaoh’s priests and magicians . . . though I dislike . . . secret. A creature such as this could as easily be our destruction as our salvation.

. . . best hidden until it must be used. Instructions . . . Archivist’s hands. There it must remain until a threat to the very . . . Library.





CHAPTER SEVEN





SANTI

It was the first quiet moment he’d had to grab a cup of hot coffee and find some solitude, and so it transpired that Santi sat on the highest steps of the Serapeum, just a few feet below the golden capstone.

He watched the foreign navies clustered there. The Portuguese had chosen the northern side, as far from the Spanish fleet as it was possible to be; the English, Welsh, and Japanese fleets made up a solid bulwark in the middle, the Japanese a calming force between the two ancient enemies. A formidable assembly, certainly. And one his troops would have to face, sooner or later, unless a miracle occurred.

My troops. He hadn’t adjusted to it quite yet. He was comfortable as a captain, with knowing the names and faces and skills of every soldier in his command. But this? Lord Commander of the High Garda, responsible not just for taking orders but for giving them, not just for fighting the war, but for planning it. He did not feel ready. But he thought that every single Lord Commander in history—the good ones, at least—had felt the same on their first day.

Of course, they had not been forced to deal with the dethroning of an Archivist, a possible civil war within the Great Library, and a foreign invasion that could destroy Alexandria completely. It was rather a lot.

And he missed Wolfe’s bright, sharp presence. And he couldn’t allow himself that distraction. Not now. Not in this chaos.

Stay safe, my love, he thought, and he hoped Wolfe was sending the same back.

He’d just drained the last of his coffee and stood up to descend back to his strategy room when the water in the harbor began to roil and tumble, and he stopped to stare at it, barely daring to hope. From this height he couldn’t make out individual people below, but he imagined that one small form, far out toward one end of the crescent-shaped harbor, had bright blond hair. Thomas. Was this his doing?

He watched in disbelief as the automaton rose out of the harbor, shining dully in the sun. Vast. Magnificent. Dangerous. How could anyone control such a thing? This was enormous. As familiar as he was with the mechanicals in all their deadly forms, this . . . this felt vastly different.