Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(74)

The bombardment continued. Intensified, if anything. Hundreds of Greek fire bombs, all aimed at the giant figure of Poseidon. The blaze completely enveloped the automaton, as if it had combusted; where its legs met the waterline, steam erupted and billowed to create an eerie fog.

Not every bomb landed on target. Some sailed past to the docks. Some landed farther in on Alexandrian streets and buildings. Lives were being lost here, too.

The shutters began to close as a security precaution, but Murasaki made a notation in her Codex, and these shutters stopped their descent. “Archivist—,” Khalila began, but the older woman shook her head.

“I need to watch,” she said. “You may go if you wish.”

It was a risk, staying in front of this open window; a lucky ballista shot could sail inside, turn this entire room into a nightmare of flame. But if Murasaki stayed, Khalila would as well. She had to.

She heard running footsteps behind, and then they slowed. She whipped around, pulling the knife she kept at her waist for emergencies like this, and felt an immense rush of relief to see it was Dario. Just Dario, breathless and pale.

High Garda followed just a step behind. “What are you doing?” she snapped, not at Dario but at the soldiers. “Your job is to stop anyone who approaches the Archivist who isn’t on the approved list!”

“With respect, Scholar . . . he is on that list,” said one of them. “We were only escorting him. He just pulled ahead.”

“I added him,” Murasaki said. “Khalila, if you trust him, so must I.”

That was a shock. And a compliment. And a worry, too.

“My thanks, Archivist,” Dario said, and tried for a bow. He wasn’t steady enough for it to have as much grace as usual. “You should—”

“Shut the windows? Yes, young man, I’m aware what I should do,” Murasaki said, and there was unmistakable flatness to her voice that warned him off the subject. She leaned forward a bit, hands flat on the surface of the marble railing. “It’s moving.”

She was talking about Poseidon. Dario joined Khalila, and their hands twined together, but her attention was fully on the automaton.

It was walking. Lifting one burning leg out of the water and stepping over the harbor chain. Then the other. The burning giant strode forward, pushing tremendous waves ahead with every step.

It sank down to its thighs as the water deepened. Then to its waist. The Greek fire continued to burn underwater for long moments before it guttered out, but from the waist up, Poseidon was a flaming green torch. Terrifying and relentless, it advanced on the fleet. They were packed too close in waters shallow enough for it to stand above the surface, and as the ships began to break and try to move away, it grasped hold of one and simply crushed it. Khalila cried out. Murasaki’s hands tightened on the railing. Dario said nothing, but Khalila felt his grip on her fingers grow crushingly hard. She didn’t protest. Pain was something that kept her from weeping as she watched the metal god remorselessly slaughter every single ship it could reach. Hundreds dead with every single swing of its hand. Greek fire dripped from its burning arms and set other ships alight, too. It was a nightmare like nothing she could have imagined.

“No,” Dario said. “Stop it. You have to stop it!”

“I can’t,” Murasaki said flatly. “Heron put these commands in place. I can’t stop it from defending the city.”

It had torn its way through the British and Welsh ships. It was approaching ships flying the Spanish flag now, and they were fleeing but not quickly enough. Not nearly quickly enough.

“The Obscurist Magnus, then!” Dario demanded. “You can’t let this happen!”

“Eskander’s been injured in an attack at the Iron Tower. And as difficult as this is, should we stop it? Your kinsmen came here intending to take control of our city.”

“They’re trying to run!”

They were. It made Khalila sick to see it. The bombardment had ceased; the fleet wheeled like a flock of birds. The British and Welsh were virtually destroyed. The French had already broken off and sailed toward Tripoli. The Japanese were turning toward home.

The Spanish, the central bulk of the force, were trying to maneuver toward escape, but the seas were turbulent, and the god’s pursuit relentless. Waves broke over the chest of Poseidon, but it kept up its chase. Snatched up two more ships and crushed them. Dario let out a low cry. “Khalila, Morgan! Get Morgan!”

She fumbled for her Codex. Surely it was enough now. Surely this had to end. Morgan might not be able to help, but at least she could try . . .

And then, suddenly, Poseidon stopped moving. The automaton stood burning, just chest and head above the water, with one hand outstretched toward a fleeing Spanish ship . . . and it no longer moved. Waves slashed at it, washing away the Greek fire in guttering ribbons.

What was left was just a melted, unformed thing, with exposed, frozen clockworks and tubes. In time, it would rust earth brown, become a home for coral and fish. Become an island that no one remembered was once a god.

Poseidon would never rise again.

But it had done what it had been designed to do by Heron so long ago: it had destroyed an invading fleet. Protected the Great Library. At what cost? Khalila realized she was still shaking only as Dario put an arm around her shoulder. She tried to seem braver. Surely the Archivist would want that.

“Today is a day of mourning, not victory,” Murasaki said quietly. “I think I begin to understand the weight that these robes carry.”