Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Our scouts report,” said Rezir, “that the remaining men of the Nineteenth, led by this enterprising centurion, have fortified themselves in North Gate Plaza. Digging them out will be a difficult challenge.”

  “A flanking attack,” said Kleistheon. “Your men can lead the main attack up the Avenue of Champions. The ashtairoi will attack from the side streets and the ramparts themselves.”

  “And what of this clever centurion?” said Kylon, voice quiet. “I'm sure he'll have made preparations.”

  Kleistheon snorted. “I will find the man and kill him myself. Once he is dead, his soldiers will flee. Men lose faith when their commanders are slain, and the Legionaries know they cannot stand against a stormdancer. Once I kill this centurion, his men will break.”

  Kylon nodded. The plan made sense. He had seen firsthand how a capable commander could snatch victory from the face of defeat. And with their commander slain, the remaining Legionaries could not stand.

  “And what of you, honored Archon?” said Rezir. “Will you deign to participate in our attack?”

  “I need not,” said Andromache. “Nor shall my brother.”

  Kylon blinked in surprise.

  “You will not?” said Rezir, his anger burning against Kylon's senses.

  “I have not yet recovered my powers,” said Andromache, her voice brisk. “My meditations were almost complete when the uproar in the Market disturbed me. I require my brother to guard me while I meditate. You will make do with the valor of your men and Kleistheon’s skill.”

  Kylon shifted. Abandoning the Istarish was one thing, though it did not sit well with him. But to abandon Kleistheon and five thousand ashtairoi was worse. True, Kylon did not like Kleistheon, and the older man had no regard for him. But Kleistheon was still a stormdancer of New Kyre.

  And Andromache was lying. His sister was at full strength. Whatever she had done in the tavern had filled her with arcane power.

  “Craven harlot,” sneered Rezir. He spat at Andromache's feet. “You have a woman's weak heart. I ought to...”

  Kylon's sword blurred from its sheath, the point coming to rest against Rezir's throat.

  “I don't know if that vile ring upon your finger will protect you from a stormdancer's blade or not,” said Kylon. “But if you take that tone with the High Seat again, I will find out.”

  Rezir smirked. “And what if the ring does protect me, boy?”

  “Then,” said Kylon, “I will beat you to death with my bare hands.”

  “Brother,” said Andromache.

  Kylon lowered his blade, eyes fixed on Rezir.

  “Ingratitude, my lord emir,” said Andromache, “does not befit one whose ancestors have sat upon the Padishah's throne. Or is your memory so short? I proposed this plan to you. It was the merchant ships of House Kardamnos that smuggled your men into Marsis, month after month. It was I who summoned the wind that carried my fleet into the harbor. It was my lightning that tore the siege engines from the walls of the Citadel. And I defeated the magi of Marsis, my lord emir. Had I not done so, their sciences would have torn your men apart.” She lifted her chin. “And now, at the very end, with only a few hundred soldiers remaining to defeat...you are left unmanned? Are all the nobles of Istarinmul so timorous? Little wonder the Padishah has never defeated the Empire.”

  Rezir's sense trembled with fury, but his face remained calm.

  “Very well, honored Archon,” said Rezir. “I am...grateful for your aid. I suppose it would be churlish of me to demand more.”

  “It would,” said Andromache. “And the nobility of Istarinmul is well known for their exquisite courtesy, no?”

  Rezir said nothing.

  “You needn't fret,” said Andromache. “You will have Kleistheon's aid, and he is a doughty warrior.”

  Again Kleistheon bowed. “We shall claim the northern gate, High Seat, and drive the remnants of the Empire from the city once and for all.”

  “Good,” said Andromache. She looked at Rezir and Kleistheon. “I have confidence that you shall be victorious.”

  ###

  A short time later Kylon stood with Andromache atop the ruined earthworks, watching the ashtairoi and the Istarish soldiers march from the Plaza.

  “They may fail,” murmured Andromache.

  Kylon looked at his sister. “But you said they would prevail.”

  “I lied,” said Andromache.

  Kylon kept staring at his sister, remembering what the Ghost woman had said about necromancers.

  How they deceived people and used them as tools.

  “I told you we might have to abandon the emir,” said Andromache. “The fool had more than enough opportunity to seize the gates by now, had he acted with alacrity. Instead he squandered time capturing fresh slaves to bolster his prestige – as if Istarinmul were not already choked in slaves! And then he let himself be taken unawares in the Avenue of Champions.” She shook her head, her braid sliding against her crimson gown. “No, Rezir Shahan has served his purpose.”

  “But what of Kleistheon and the ashtairoi?” said Kylon. “They are our countrymen. We cannot simply abandon them.”

  Andromache smiled. “Kleistheon is of House Tericleos. The ashtairoi are lowborn citizens who joined the militia of New Kyre.”

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “Our countrymen.”

  “Our rivals and enemies,” said Andromache, shaking her head. “You were young, brother, when our parents were murdered.” Her eyes grew distant. “I know you suffered, as I did, but you were too young to understand everything. Our rival Houses circled around us. They would have destroyed us, Kylon, had I permitted it. They would have seen our proud House cast into the mud, the Tower of Kardamnos turned into a stable, and you and I sold into slavery, had I not fought them tooth and nail. Had the Moroaica not taught me to wield the power necessary for us to survive.”

  “But the ashtairoi,” said Kylon.

  “The ashtairoi are sworn to the Assembly of New Kyre,” said Andromache. “If Assembly commanded it, they would butcher us both in a heartbeat. No, brother. We owe Kleistheon and the ashtairoi nothing.” Her hand, thin and hard, rested on his forearm. “We can only trust each other, Kylon.”

  Kylon bowed his head, saying nothing for a long time.

  “You're not really going to meditate in the Great Market,” said Kylon. “Are you?”

  “That was another lie,” said Andromache. “I did not wish Kleistheon or Rezir to interfere with my true plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “I am going to take the Citadel and claim the Tomb of Scorikhon.”

  Kylon felt his eyebrows rise. “By yourself?”

  “With your aid. And the aid of Sicarion and his mercenaries,” said Andromache. “But we shall rely mostly upon my power. I have already destroyed the Citadel's siege engines, and only a small garrison mans the fortress. I can overcome them with ease, especially if you and Sicarion guard my back.” She looked at the massive stone bulk of the Citadel, Black Angel Tower rising like a dark spear from its heart. “And then I shall open the Tomb of Scorikhon.”

  “I thought you needed the Moroaica to unbind the wards around the Tomb,” said Kylon.

  “It would have been easier,” said Andromache. “But she showed me how to unbind the wards myself, though the effort will be taxing. And once I have the power within the Tomb, the effort will be worth it.”

  “Will it?” said Kylon, looking at the corpses strewn over the Plaza. “All this death, sister. Will it truly be worth it?”

  “Kylon.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “You have a generous heart. That does you credit. You have not...you have not been forced to do the horrible things I have been forced to do, to keep House Kardamnos alive. But it all will be worth it. Once I have the power from the Tomb of Scorikhon, I will be stronger than every stormsinger and stormdancer in New Kyre put together. I will possibly be the strongest wielder of arcane force in the world, not just New Kyre. No one will ever threaten House Kardamnos again. A
nd when you wed and father children, Kylon, no one will ever harm them. No one will dare, for fear of the retribution I would bring upon them.” Her eyes glinted in the light of the setting sun. “To keep our family safe, I would kill every man, woman, and child in Marsis.”

  Kylon remembered the sheer loathing, the contemptuous hatred, in the Ghost's blue eyes as she spoke of sorcerers. No one had ever looked at him like that before. He could only imagine what she would say to Andromache. “Is such power truly worth the price?”

  “I know you have doubts,” said Andromache. A faint smile appeared on her lips. “I have known you all your life, brother. You cannot hide your feelings from me. I ask only that you trust me, as you have always trusted me. Just a little while longer. And then,” she took a deep breath, “and then no one will ever harm House Kardamnos again.”

  Kylon looked over the ruined Plaza, at the distant glow of burning houses in the dockside district. Perhaps the warehouse where the Ghost had almost killed him still burned. He saw the dead lying across the Plaza.

  He remembered the terrible day his parents had been killed. He remembered Andromache's arms cradling him as he sobbed, promising that their enemies would pay, vowing that no one would ever hurt him.

  And she had kept her word.

  “All right,” said Kylon. “We will go to the Tomb of Scorikhon.”

  Andromache smiled. “Good.”

  She led him from the damaged earthworks. The ashtairoi marched by in neat ranks, saluting Andromache as they passed. She acknowledged their salutes with solemn nods, but Kylon could not bring himself to look the men in the eye. Perhaps they would be victorious – the Nineteenth had suffered tremendous losses, and Kleistheon was a stormdancer of great power. Perhaps they would return from the Tomb of Scorikhon to find the northern gate taken, the banners of Istarinmul and New Kyre flying from its towers.

  Or perhaps he would return to find the ashtairoi slain to a man, sacrificed on the altar of Andromache's lust for power.

  No. It wasn't a lust for power. She needed the power to protect her family. That justified everything that had happened.

  Didn't it?

  Sicarion awaited them at the Avenue of Governors.

  The scarred man's mismatched eyes glinted beneath his hood. The twisted maze of scars over his face made him look almost like a predatory insect. Or an inhuman thing, a thing that wore a mask made from the shredded faces of his victims. The man's twisted, tainted aura pulsed against Kylon's senses as he approached, like stepping into a wind that reeked of carrion.

  Twelve of Sicarion's mercenaries waited nearby, silent in their chain mail and cloaks. They, too, felt...unclean against Kylon's senses. Tainted and corrupted.

  And as Kylon drew closer, he realized that some of the men were dead.

  He drew his sword. Several of Sicarion's men were not breathing. Yet they stood. He felt the necromantic power surrounding them, like chains forged of rotten flesh.

  “Sister,” said Kylon, “stay away from those things.”

  “Calm yourself, Kylon,” said Andromache. “Sicarion's grotesque little...pets are no threat to us.”

  “Forgive me, young master,” said Sicarion, bowing in Kylon's direction. “But when I hire a man to do a job, he finishes the job. Whether or not he is still alive...well, that is immaterial.” He turned to Andromache. “You are ready, mistress?”

  “Yes,” said Andromache. “It is time to claim the Tomb of Scorikhon.”

  “Good,” said Sicarion, his orange eye glinting. “The Moroaica promised it to you, and the Moroaica keeps her promises.”

  “Unlike you, it seems,” said Andromache. “You have not located her?”

  “Not yet,” said Sicarion. “But I will. She will have to take off that shadow-cloak sooner or later.”

  “That Ghost imposter,” said Andromache, “is not the Moroaica.”

  Kylon remembered his conversation with the Ghost, and his theory that part of the Moroaica's power had lodged in her.

  But he said nothing.

  “We shall see, mistress,” said Sicarion. “We shall see.”

  “Take us to the Citadel,” said Andromache. She smiled. “It is said that the Citadel of Marsis has never fallen to force, only to treachery. Today, we shall make history.”

  Sicarion led the way, and Kylon and Andromache followed, Sicarion's living and dead mercenaries screening them. Kylon kept his hand on his sword hilt. For love of his sister, he would see this through to the end.

  No matter what his doubts said.

  Chapter 22 - I Am A Blacksmith

  The setting sun threw long black shadows over North Gate Plaza.

  Ark and Lord Corbould stood behind the improvised wall thrown across the Plaza. Centuries of the Nineteenth and groups of Korbulus's veterans stood on either side of him, javelins waiting in their hands. Behind them waited the reserve centuries. On the ramparts of Marsis’s walls stood lines of Legionaries and veterans, loaded crossbows in their hands. Atop the gatehouse’s towers waited the siege engines, ballistae and catapults both.

  They were ready. Now they needed only to wait for the enemy.

  And to judge from the clank of armor echoing up the Avenue of Champions, they need not wait much longer.

  A few scouts in Legionary armor sprinted to the gate in the earthwork rampart.

  “The enemy comes,” said one of the scouts, panting. “The Istarish march north along the Avenue of Champions. The Kyracian ashtairoi are heading along the side streets. I think they intend to flank us as we fight the Istarish.”

  “Just as well we sealed off the side streets, then,” said Ark. He had ordered the impromptu earthworks extended to block every street but the Avenue of Governors, which would keep the Kyracians from simply rolling into the Plaza. Yet it would take men to defend those ramparts, drawing defenders away from the main thrust of the Istarish...

  “Indeed,” said Corbould. “Speak with me.”

  Ark followed Corbould a short distance away. He understood the gesture. This made it look as if Corbould were in command of the defense, that Ark was receiving his final orders from the Lord Governor.

  “You've done better than I expected,” said Corbould. “You've made the Plaza as defensible as can be managed, under the circumstances. I see your position as first spear of the Eighteenth was not a mistake.” He glanced at the ramparts of the gatehouse. “I will withdraw to the gate and oversee the battle. The gods know I'm too old to be of any use in a battle line.”

  Ark nodded.

  “But I warn you,” said Corbould. “When the battle goes against us, I will order the withdrawal. I will not sacrifice men uselessly against the stormdancers for the sake of my pride. Lord Hiram has battle magi with his Legions to deal with the stormdancers, and we will need every man available to retake Marsis.”

  “It might not come to that,” said Ark.

  “Oh, perhaps not,” said Corbould. “You may be able to hold the gate until Lord Hiram arrives. Stranger things have happened in war. I agreed to this because it is worth the effort – even if we fail, it will make matters easier when the Twentieth and the Twenty-First return. But we will almost certainly fail.”

  Ark said nothing, the veins in his temples throbbing. Save for finding Nicolai, he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. And everything Lord Corbould said made a great deal of sense. But he had to hold this gate. If he did not, the city would fall to the Istarish, and Tanya would become a slave again.

  And he would never find Nicolai.

  “You should go to the ramparts, my lord,” said Ark. “The enemy will be upon us shortly.”

  Corbould nodded. “May the gods of war give you their favor, blacksmith. For we shall surely need it.”

  He strode to the stairs, his black armor clanking.

  Ark watched the first Istarish companies march into the Plaza. They did not come quickly, and kept their shields raised. No doubt the skirmish upon the Avenue of Champions had taught them fear. But still they came, form
ing themselves into a broad front. Ark suspected they would launch themselves in a massive charge at the earthwork ramparts, holding the attention of the Legionaries, while the ashtairoi struck from the flanks.

  Korbulus and Tarver hurried to his side. Tarver carried a torch, the flames bright in the growing gloom.

  “Orders, sir?” said Tarver.

  “Stay with me and take command of the front line,” said Ark. “Korbulus, take command of the reserves. We'll need you soon enough, I think.”

  Korbulus nodded. “The bows and the engines?”

  “Not yet,” said Ark. “But soon.”

  Korbulus ran to the reserves waiting in the shadow of the gate. Ark watched the Istarish soldiers pour into the Plaza. More and more of them, until at least a thousand had formed up on the other end of the Plaza, their shields interlocked.

  A hoarse voice let out a yell, and the Istarish footmen advanced toward the earthworks.