The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War

by Jonathan Moeller

  They walked along the street, Ark at Tanya’s side.

  “Those men,” she said. “You…”

  “What about them?” said Ark.

  “You killed them so easily,” she whispered.

  Ark shrugged. “You’ve seen me fight before.” The bandits on the road to Varia Province, for one. And she had seen him bury Caina’s ghostsilver dagger in Naelon Icaraeus.

  “It was so…quick,” said Tanya. She shook her head. “I have no stomach for war, Arcion.”

  “It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” said Ark, glancing in the direction of the Great Market. “But if I have to hack my way through half the Istarish army to find Nicolai, I will.”

  “Good,” Tanya said.

  Chapter 5 - Storm Dance

  Kylon of House Kardamnos jumped from the boat and onto the stone quay.

  Behind him the Kyracian fleet poured into the harbor. A few of the ships had burned beneath the Citadel’s catapult shots, but the lightning had taken care of that. Now waves of landing boats issued from the warships, laden with ashtairoi, the infantry of the Kyracian army. Every man carried sword, shield, and spear, and wore cloaks the color of the sea over their gleaming armor.

  Kylon wore light armor of gray leather.

  Heavy armor would only slow him down.

  Before him spread the city of Marsis, the docks filled with warehouses and taverns. Above he saw the Great Market, and heard the shouts and screams of fighting. Beyond rose the mansions and temples of the rich, the Citadel towering over them all, Black Angel Tower rising from its core like a pillar of darkness.

  Even from this distance, he felt the dark sorcery in tower.

  He wanted nothing to do with it.

  He felt a disturbance pressing upon his arcane senses, and realized he would soon have more immediate problems.

  Men in the steel plate of the Imperial Legions hastened toward the quays, their steel-banded shields held out before them. Six hundred men or so, Kylon guessed, almost an entire cohort. The Kyracians outnumbered them eight to one, but if the Imperials held the quays, they could keep the ashtairoi from landing.

  A powerful stormsinger could have called the lightning and blasted the Legionaries to ash. But Kylon’s sister had her hands full dealing with the Citadel’s siege engines and Marsis’s magi.

  Which meant Kylon would have to handle the Legionaries.

  He strode towards them, one man facing fifty. Behind him the landing boats with the ashtairoi drew closer. From here, the Legionaries could launch their javelins at the packed ashtairoi with ease.

  But their eyes remained fixed on Kylon, at the one man walking toward them.

  He drew the sword from his belt. It was longer and thinner than the Legionaries’ weapons, the blade the color of a stormy sky. The leather-wrapped hilt was long enough that Kylon could wield it in one hand or two.

  “Kill that fool!” shouted a Legionary in the crimson-plumed helmet of a centurion. “Then stand ready to hold the quay!”

  The Legionaries advanced in formation, intending to simply mow down Kylon and block the ashtairoi.

  Kylon took a long breath and lifted his sword in both hands.

  He saw the Legionaries advancing, the black smoke rising overhead.

  He heard the lap of the waves against the quay, the battle in the Great Market.

  He smelled the stink of the harbor, the sweat of the Legionaries, the smoke from the fires.

  And he felt the power raging inside him like a storm.

  Frost formed on his blade, a flickering halo of cold air surrounding the weapon. The centurion’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was clever enough to realize what Kylon really was.

  “Kill him!” bellowed the centurion. “Take him down!”

  The Legionaries broke ranks and charged.

  Kylon moved.

  The sorcery of air lent speed to his limbs, allowing him to move like the wind. The sorcery of water surged through him, giving him the strength of a striking wave. It let him sense the men around him, feel the blood pounding through their veins with rage or terror. For blood was life, and blood was only water, in the end.

  And Kylon was a stormdancer of New Kyre, and the sorcery of water and wind augmented his strength and speed.

  His sorcery-fueled leap carried him over the first rank of Legionaries. He landed behind their backs, his sword glittering. The Legionaries turned, but they were so slow compared to the wind raging through Kylon. He struck, his hands moving with the speed of the wind, his arms striking with the power of a waterfall. His sword smashed through the Legionaries’ armor, covering the torn plates in frost, and ripped through their flesh, turning their blood to ice. Three Legionaries fell dead in as many heartbeats, and Kylon wheeled, his sword trailing black droplets of frozen blood.

  The remaining Legionaries drew back in fear. For a moment Kylon thought they would retreat. But the centurion’s voice rang out, and the famed iron discipline of the Imperial Legions returned.

  “Take him! Javelins!”

  In one smooth motion the Legionaries reached over their shoulders and drew their javelins.

  Kylon moved faster, his sorcery propelling him into the Legionaries. His frost-rimed blade smashed through a Legionary’s shield, shattering it into frozen splinters, and an instant later his weapon took the man’s throat. The Legionaries turned, trying to track him, trying to strike with their javelins, but Kylon was too fast. He carved through the Legionaries, leaving a trail of frozen blood and frost-caked steel in his wake.

  Bit by bit their anger subsided, replaced by growing terror.

  The ashtairoi stormed ashore and charged the Legionaries. The disciplined men of the Imperial Legions were among the finest soldiers upon the face of the earth. But scattered, separated from their ability to fight as a unit, the Legionaries died just as easily as any other men.

  And Kylon’s assault left them scattered and panicked. The Kyracian ashtairoi attacked, their long swords rising and falling. Legionaries fell, their hot blood spilling upon the quay. And as the ashtairoi pushed back the Legionaries, Kylon carved through them like a reaper harvesting grain. He had trained with the blade since the age of seven, and his muscles had long ago memorized the fluid movements. The high thrust. The sweeping slash. The middle block, and the low sweep. Kylon danced through the Legionaries, killing, the roar of the battle matching the drum of his heartbeat, the thunder of the sorcery raging through him.

  There was no feeling to match it. Not wine, not the high seas on a sunlit day, not even making love to a woman. All of these were good things.

  But none of these matched the exhilaration of battle.

  And then the battle was over.

  Kylon blinked sweat from his eyes, his sword a brand of burning ice in his fist. Dozens of Legionaries lay scattered across the quay, most dead, some groaning in pain. The rest retreated into the maze of the dockside streets. Kylon frowned. He would have to send men to hunt them down, lest they cause trouble…

  “Lord stormdancer!”

  Kylon turned. A polemarch, an officer of the ashtairoi, hurried toward him and bowed. The man was in his early forties, at least fifteen years older than Kylon. Yet there was not a hint of disrespect in his tone or stance.

  Kylon was the youngest stormdancer of New Kyrace…and the officer had seen what he could do.

  “Speak,” said Kylon.

  “The docks have been secured,” said the polemarch.

  They had. The ashtairoi had seized most of the quays. A few pockets of resistance remained here and there, but even as he watched, they collapsed under the waves of Kyracian troops.

  He released his power, and the freezing mist sheathing his sword faded away.

  “Good,” said Kylon. “What else?”

  “We’re received word from the Great Market,” said the polemarch. “The Istarish footmen have secured the Market, and are forming up to strike into the heart of the city.”

  It was a risky gamble – the Kyracian w
arships carried five thousand ashtairoi, and Rezir Shahan had smuggled another five thousand of his men into Marsis. Ten thousand men might be able to seize a city the size of Marsis, but if anything went wrong…

  He shook his head. This attack was risky. But it was his duty to see that it succeeded.

  “What of Lord Corbould?” said Kylon. “Did the emir capture or kill him?” Old Lord Corbould had a ferocious reputation. If he had escaped, he might rally resistance.

  “The Istarish messenger did not say, my lord,” said the polemarch. “The High Seat sends word. She meets with the Istarish emir in the Great Market to discuss their strategy, and bids you to attend her.”

  “I shall come at once,” said Kylon.

  “This way, lord stormdancer,” said the polemarch. A squad of four ashtairoi fell in around Kylon, a guard of honor. Not that he needed it – in a fight, he would wind up defending them, rather than the other way around.

  The soldiers led him through the narrow alleys of Marsis’s dockside district. More ashtairoi poured into the streets, hunting down the remaining Legionaries. Another squad of four Kyracian soldiers approached Kylon’s group. With them marched a tall man in the gray leather of a stormdancer, a sheathed sword on his left hip. His weathered face and shaved head made him look like a craggy, rough-hewn statue. Yet Kylon had seen the older man move with terrifying speed, his sword crackling with blue-white arcs of lightning.

  The older stormdancer made a shallow bow. “Kylon of House Kardamnos.”

  Kylon bowed to the same degree. “Kleistheon of House Tericleos.”

  Kleistheon’s face remained impassive. Yet Kylon could sense the disdain there, even without using his arcane senses. Most of the Assembly thought Kylon had been raised to the rank of stormdancer only because of his sister’s influence. Yet mixed with the disdain was the faintest hint of wary respect. Kleistheon had seen Kylon fight.

  Kylon was only twenty-five, but no man who saw him fight would doubt that he had earned his rank.

  “You acquitted yourself well in the skirmish,” said Kleistheon, walking at Kylon’s side.

  “A sharp fight,” said Kylon.

  Kleistheon snorted. “A skirmish. Hardly worth the name. And these Imperials are not worthy foes.”

  “They fought well enough,” said Kylon, “but they could not hope to match our sorcery.”

  “The Legionaries are peasant dogs,” said Kleistheon without a hint of rancor. “Fit only to wear a slave’s collar and till the earth. We are the blood of the gods of storm and sea. Our Houses can trace their lineage to Old Kyrace and earlier. And what does the Empire send against us? Peasant boys dressed up in armor, as if mere training can replace the blood of a born warrior!” He shook his head. “Marsis will be ours, by right.”

  “We have not yet taken the city,” said Kylon.

  “But we shall,” said Kleistheon. “They cannot hold against us. I had my doubts when your sister proposed this attack, I will admit. But after watching these Legionaries crumple like paper, I am certain. Marsis will be ours.”

  “Taking a city of a quarter million with ten thousand men is a risky gamble,” said Kylon, “and may yet go ill.”

  Kleistheon frowned. “Do you doubt the High Seat?”

  No,” said Kylon.

  Did he have doubts about this mad attack? Yes, he did.

  But if anyone could take Marsis with only ten thousand men…his sister could do it.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way.

  Soon they reached the Great Market. Kylon had heard it described as a bustling bazaar, buying and selling goods from across the world. Now it was half-wrecked, the merchant stalls shattered by fighting or by errant bolts from the Citadel’s catapults. Kylon also saw thousands of captives, mostly women and children, sitting stunned in the Market. Rezir Shahan’s men had been taking slaves. If the Kyracians and Istarish were victorious, some of the slaves would toil on the new plantations the Istarish would create outside the city. Others would be shipped overseas, to be sold in the markets of New Kyre and Istarinmul and Anshan.

  Kylon knew that the gods had ordained an order to the world. Just as some animals were born wolves and others were born sheep, so were some men born warriors and others born slaves. One could do nothing to change the nature of the world.

  Yet looking at the captives still made him uneasy.

  He pushed aside the thoughts. He was a stormdancer, and his task was to make war upon the enemies of New Kyre.

  Thinking was his sister’s task.

  A half-burned tower, once the watchtower of a prosperous warehouse, stood at one end of the Market. A massive banner of crimson silk hung from its jagged crown, showing the crown-and-sword sigil of the Padishah of Istarinmul.

  Rezir Shahan, Emir of Istarinmul, awaited below that banner, surrounded by his bodyguard of black-armored Immortals.

  He was clad in elaborate gilded armor, a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders. Despite the richness of his armor, there was nothing soft about this man – his face was hard and fierce, and he had the balance of a master swordsman. Kylon drew upon the sorcery of water, and reached toward Rezir, intending to read the man’s emotions.

  The emir’s emotions were as cruel and prideful as his face. The aura of necromantic sorcery also hung around him like the smell rising from tainted meat. Necromancy was a vile practice, banned in New Kyre. It radiated from the black ring upon the third finger of Rezir’s right hand. Kylon suspected the ring would render the emir immune to normal steel. He wondered where Rezir had gotten such a thing.

  A short man in leather and wool stood near Rezir’s side, his face shadowed in the cowl of his cloak. What little Kylon saw of the man’s face was hideously scarred, almost as if it had been stitched together from old leather. A necromantic aura hung around him, as well. Perhaps he had created the ring for the emir.

  “Ah,” said Rezir, turning toward them. “My lords stormdancer.” He spoke Kyracian flawlessly, without a hint of an accent. “May I bid you welcome to Marsis? Your assault upon the docks was magnificent. For too long the Empire has failed to heed the emirs of Istarinmul and the princes of New Kyre. Today, we have taught them otherwise.”

  “You speak graciously, my lord emir,” said Kleistheon.

  “Thank you, lord stormdancer,” said Rezir, with every appearance of pleasure. Yet to Kylon sensed the emir’s emotions remained as hard and cold as a knife. “Is the Archon among you? I greatly desire to speak with her.”

  “The High Seat of House Kardamnos will join us presently,” said Kleistheon. “I fear the battle may have wearied her.”

  “Understandable,” said Rezir, and his emotions showed the briefest flicker of fear. “Her assault upon the engines of the Citadel was…astonishing. I have never seen anyone, not even the Master Alchemists of Istarinmul, wield sorcery with such potency and precision.”

  “The Archon and the High Seat,” said Kylon, voice quiet, “is the most powerful stormsinger in New Kyre. Perhaps one of the most powerful in the history of the Kyracian people. No one can stand against her.”

  Rezir regarded him for a moment, and Kylon felt the cold weight of the emir’s stare.

  “As you say,” Rezir said at last.

  A stir came from the southern end of the Great Market, and a guard of ashtairoi entered the plaza. In their midst strode a tall woman in a red gown with black sleeves, her long black hair bound in a thick braid. Her expression was serene, and her brown eyes betrayed not a flicker of emotion. The slaves shied away from her, and even the Istarish Immortals lowered their heads in respect as she passed.

  “My lord emir,” said Kleistheon, “I present to you the High Seat of House Kardamnos, one of the nine Archons of the Assembly of New Kyre, and a stormsinger of great power. The lady Andromache.”

  To Kylon’s arcane senses, Andromache was a tower of strength, a pillar of unyielding granite. Her emotions reflected nothing but steely resolve and relentless determination. Kylon remembered the day twenty year
s ago when their parents had been murdered, and House Kardamnos stood on the edge of ruin. Andromache, only fifteen, had come to him, and picked him up as he wept.

  “They will pay, brother,” she had said. “Those who slew our parents will pay. And I vow to you that House Kardamnos shall be strong again.”

  And she had kept her word.

  “My lady Andromache,” said Rezir, bowing over her hand. “It is good to see you again. Our alliance has born a rich harvest. The docks have fallen, and the Great Market is taken.”

  “A rich harvest indeed,” said Andromache, her voice strong, “but the choice crops have yet to be taken.” She glanced at the Citadel, at the siege engines burning upon its walls. “The Citadel has not yet fallen. And we have not claimed the city’s gates. Until we do, Marsis is not truly ours.”