“Kill them, you fools!” shouted the master magus, raising an enormous mace. “Kill the stormdancers and the day is ours!”
The three magi attacked, psychokinetic force driving them forward with terrific speed. Cimon raced to Kylon’s side, and the furious duel began. Kylon’s sorcery gave him the speed of the wind and the strength of a waterfall, but the magi used bursts of psychokinetic force to drive their blows. Sword rang against sword, and Kylon dodged the shattering blows of the master magus’s mace. Cimon slapped his sword against the black armor of the magi, but the magi had warded themselves against his lightning.
But they had not warded themselves against the cold.
So many stormdancers and stormsingers made the same error. They trusted too much in the power of lightning and ignored the sorcery of frost and ice.
Kylon knew better.
He faced off against one of the magi, his storm-forged steel meeting the magus’s black blade. Time and time again Kylon’s sword struck the magus’s sword arm, rebounding from the plates of black steel.
“Pitiful, Kyracian dog,” growled the magus, driving a spell-enhanced blow at Kylon’s face. “Pitiful! Lie down and die.”
But a layer of frost covered the magus’s sword arm.
Kylon forced his will and power into his sword, a vortex of freezing white mist swirling around his blade, and struck once more at the magus’s sword arm.
The battle magus sneered and drew back his blade for a killing blow.
And as he did, the armor plates covering his arm stuck together, bound by the frost.
It did not slow him for long. Not for more than a half-second. But that was more than enough for Kylon to plunge his frost-wreathed sword home. The battle magus stiffened and collapsed to the deck with a clatter of black armor.
Kylon saw that Cimon had dispatched the other remaining magus, and now faced off against the master magus in the purple-trimmed black cloak. Cimon was getting the worst of the fight, and his leather armor had been torn by a glancing blow from the master magus’s mace. Cimon had slowed, and the master magus drove him back step by step.
Kylon charged forward, darting through the struggling ashtairoi and auxiliaries, his legs moving with the speed of the storm.
The master magus was faster. The older man spun, the mace a black blur. Kylon jerked back, the steel head whipping past his face, and drove his blade for the magus’s neck, but the mace came back and blocked his thrust. Cimon drew back his lightning-sheathed blade for a strike, and the master magus thrust out his hand.
Psychokinetic force blasted in all directions, the deck creaking, the sorcery flinging both auxiliaries and ashtairoi to the planks. Kylon drew on the power of water and held his ground, but the blast flung Cimon to the deck. The magus loomed over him, mace raised for the killing blow.
Kylon sprang forward, but once again the master magus reacted with greater speed. The huge mace snapped up and deflected his swing, and the black-armored figure pursued him. Kylon dodged and ducked under the magus’s swings. He did not dare to block the blows. The mace would snap his sword in two like a twig.
His mind flashed back to the fighting in Marsis, to pursuing the blue-eyed Ghost through the dockside district’s alleys. She had outwitted him, and almost killed him. One spy, one woman without sorcery, had almost killed a stormdancer of New Kyre.
She had turned his strength against him.
Perhaps Kylon could do the same to the master magus.
The mace came around in a sideways blow, and Kylon dodged, letting the edge of his blade tap the mace. The sheer force of the blow knocked him off balance, almost ripping the sword from his fingers, and Kylon let himself fall. The magus sneered and stepped forward, his cloak billowing as he raised the mace for a massive overhand blow.
Kylon drew on his power, and the mace’s black head shot towards him like a falling mountain.
At the last moment he threw himself to the side. The mace missed him by a few inches and slammed into the deck. The planks shattered…including the plank resting beneath the magus’s armored left boot.
The master magus fell to one knee with a grunt of surprise. He raised his mace, but it was too late. Kylon surged to his feet, all his strength and sorcery driving his blade in a two-handed swing.
The master magus’s head jumped off his head and rolled across the deck, black icicles of frozen blood jutting from the stump of his neck. The armored body fell to the splintered deck with a clang. Kylon stepped back, breathing hard, seeking for additional foes.
But the fighting was over.
Most of the auxiliaries had been killed, and the survivors had shed their armor and jumped into the water, hoping to escape to the other Nighmarian ships. The Imperial flagship belonged to the Kyracians.
But the rest of the quinqueremes had turned to face them.
Cimon got to his feet with groan. “I thank you, lord thalarchon. That magus had the better of me.”
“New Kyre has too few stormdancers to lose even one,” said Kylon. “Lord High Seat?”
“The ship is ours,” said Alcios, blood dripping from his ashtair, his round shield dented. “But little good it will do us.” He pointed his blade over the railing. “The enemy moves to meet us. I suggest we withdraw to the trireme and sink this vessel. Otherwise we shall be overrun.”
Kylon looked up, felt the stirring power in the air. “We will withdraw to the trireme and sink this ship. But there’s no need to flee.”
“Why?” said Alcios.
“Because,” said Kylon. “The day is ours.”
Even as he spoke, the remaining squadrons of the seventh fleet crashed into the line of Imperial ships. Without the magi to disrupt their spells, the stormsingers summoned wind to fill the triremes’ sails, driving them faster than the oarsmen could row unaided. The smaller, faster Kyracian ships avoided the catapults and ballistae of the quinqueremes and rammed into them, their prows tearing gaping holes in the Nighmarian ships.
One by one, the Imperial warships sank or burned.
###
The battle was over by afternoon.
Kylon stood at the bow, watching his ships maneuver back into formation. Here and there one of the quinqueremes still burned, the hulks slipping below the waves. Other triremes circled through the floating wreckage, looking for loot and picking up survivors. The Imperial sailors and auxiliaries who survived the hundreds of frenzied sharks swimming through the waters would be sold as slaves in New Kyre.
Kylon remembered how the blue-eyed Ghost burned with rage against slavers. Would she try to kill him now, if she saw what his men did?
Of course she would. She was a servant of the Emperor…and he had just destroyed the Emperor’s fleet.
“A great victory, my lord thalarchon,” said Alcios. There was more respect in his voice now. “An utterly crushing victory. The Empire of Nighmar has a handful of warships left in the western sea. We can launch raids into the Cyrican Sea with impunity, perhaps even to the harbor of Malarae itself.”
“Yes,” said Kylon. “A great victory.”
Thousands of men dead, and all because Andromache had launched a useless war at the Moroaica’s bidding.
“A great victory,” said Kylon, “but futile.”
Both Cimon and Alcios frowned. “Lord thalarchon?”
“We have destroyed the fleet, aye,” said Kylon, “but we cannot conquer the Empire. The Nighmarian Empire is vast, and New Kyre is but one city and a dozen colonies. We could destroy a dozen fleets and it would not matter. Commerce is New Kyre’s lifeblood…and the Empire will slowly strangle us.”
“They cannot stop our ships,” said Alcios.
“No,” said Kylon. “But they can deny our merchants entrance to their harbors, and they can persuade others to do the same. The Assembly of New Kyre cannot wage war if there are no funds to pay the oarsmen and the ashtairoi.”
New Kyre needed peace. The Istarish had proven to be useless allies, and now the Empire and New Kyre were stalemate
d, like two men with death grips on each other. This war was a waste.
But for the defense of his city and the honor of House Kardamnos, Kylon would wage it.
“We will return to New Kyre,” said Kylon. “The fleet must be resupplied, the prisoners sold, and the men have earned some rest. We shall see what new commands the Archons and the Assembly have for us.”
###
Six days later the seventh fleet returned to New Kyre.
Kylon stood upon the prow and gazed at his home. The city rose at the edge of the water, its fortified walls guarding one of the best natural harbors in the world. Twin colossal statues of armored ashtairoi stood atop towers at either side of the entrance to the harbor, catapults and ballistae waiting at their feet. Past the harbor rose great ziggurats of gleaming stone, home to the noble Kyracian Houses, and beyond them the stone slopes of the Pyramid of the Storm, where the Assembly and the Archons met to govern the Kyracian people. At the feet of the ziggurats and the Pyramid stood the dwellings of low-born Kyracians, of merchants and tradesmen and foreigners.
New Kyre housed half a million people within its walls, and was the richest city in the world, its vessels trading in every port and nation, its navy the most powerful upon the seas. Yet that wealth and strength were fragile. The city did not control enough farmland to feed itself, and if the Empire convinced the Anshani and the petty lords of the free cities not to sell their grain to the Kyracians, the Empire could strangle New Kyre within a year.
He wished Andromache were here. She had led House Kardamnos for years, and she would have the foresight and wisdom to find a way out of this trap.
But her folly had created the trap in the first place.
“Put us into the harbor,” said Kylon. “The men have liberty for three days. The Assembly will have new commands for us by then.”
“My lord thalarchon,” said Alcios, and relayed the commands.
The trireme pulled alongside one of the great stone quays in the harbor, and Kylon strode ashore. A young slave in the livery of the Assembly itself waited for him on one knee.
“Lord Kylon,” said the slave, “High Seat of House Kardamnos and thalarchon of the seventh fleet?”
“I am,” said Kylon.
“The Assembly commands your presence at once,” said the slave.
“Good,” said Alcios. “They will congratulate you on your triumph.”
Or the Assembly would execute him. Throughout the history of the city the Assembly had sometimes executed successful generals, lest they try to make themselves tyrants. But Kylon lacked Andromache’s political skill, and he had neither the ability nor the desire to overthrow the Assembly. Most likely the Assembly intended him to return to battle with the seventh fleet.
“Lead the way,” said Kylon.
###
As the sun set, Kylon left the Pyramid of the Storm and strode into the Agora of the Archons. The temples to the gods of Old Kyrace, the gods of storm and sea, lined the Plaza. Few people came here, save during the ceremonies of the nobles and Archons. Most of the city’s population conducted business in the sprawling Agora of Merchants, or amused themselves watching the trials of combat in the gladiatorial rings, a barbarous custom imported from the Fourth Empire.
Cimon and Alcios waited him at the foot of the Pyramid.
“It seems,” said Kylon, “the Assembly has chosen us for a new task.”
“Battle against the Empire?” said Alcios.
“No,” said Kylon. “I am now New Kyre’s Lord Ambassador to the city of Catekharon. And you, my lord High Seat, will accompany me as the High Seat of one of the oldest Kyracian noble houses.”
Alcios scowled. “A Lord Ambassador? Why? We crushed the Imperial fleet! What have we done to merit such a…a useless sinecure?”
“It seems,” said Kylon, voice quiet, “that it is not so useless. The Masked Ones of Catekharon claim to have created a weapon of sorcery so potent that its bearer will have dominion over the entire world.”
Alcios’s scowl deepened. “And the Masked Ones expect us to grovel?”
“No,” said Kylon. “They expect us to bid. Apparently they are offering this weapon for sale to the highest bidder…and they have sent emissaries making the same offer to every kingdom and realm upon the earth. Including the Empire of Nighmar.”
“This is madness,” said Cimon. “If the Masked Ones have such a weapon, why sell it? Why not use it to rule the world themselves?”
“I don’t know,” said Kylon. “But if the Empire claims the weapon, they will use it to destroy us at once. The Assembly has charged us to keep that weapon from the Empire, regardless of what we must do. Even if it means war with Catekharon.”
Alcios shook his head. “That would be folly. Old Kyrace tried to conquer Catekharon, and our ancestors were utterly defeated.”
“I know,” said Kylon. “But the Empire cannot have that weapon.”
And Kylon would make sure of that. Andromache had started this war…and unless Kylon took action, the war would destroy New Kyre. If the Empire gained the Masked Ones’ weapon of sorcery, if it really existed, the Emperor would certainly destroy New Kyre.
But what would happen if Kylon brought that weapon back to New Kyre?
He remembered how Andromache had sought the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon, power that had destroyed her. Would the Masked Ones’ weapon destroy whoever wielded it?
“Come,” said Kylon. “The embassy leaves tomorrow.”
Chapter 5 - Caravan
The embassy of Lord Titus Iconias left Cyrioch and traveled southwest.
Caina had not expected the embassy to include so many men.
Titus Iconias, a stout, scowling man in his forties, rode an impressive-looking stallion at the head of the column. A steady stream of pages followed him, leading remounts for Titus and his entourage. Lord Titus’s personal guards, hard-eyed men in chain mail, surrounded him. Behind them rode Titus’s scribes, seneschals, and a petulant noblewoman Caina suspected served as Lord Titus’s mistress.
After them marched an entire cohort of the Imperial Guard, men clad in black plate armor and purple cloaks. As an ambassador of the Emperor, Lord Titus was entitled to protection from the Emperor’s own Guard. So the six hundred black-armored soldiers marched in orderly precision around Lord Titus’s men, and the tribune in command sent mounted patrols ranging seeking for any bandits foolish enough to assault the Emperor’s ambassador.
Hangers-on followed the Imperial Guard. Merchants on their way to Anshan, New Kyre, or the free cities. Other merchants who hoped to sell their goods to the men of the Imperial Guard. And Halfdan, disguised as the master merchant Basil Callenius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. Caina traveled with him as his daughter Anna Callenius, while Corvalis took the name of Cormark, acting as a mercenary Basil hired to protect his merchandise and his daughters.
That Caina fully intended to share a blanket with Corvalis during the journey only added verisimilitude to the disguise. It was not uncommon for a master merchant’s guard to seduce the master merchant’s daughter.
She smiled at the thought.
Claudia took the name of Irene Callenius, Basil’s older daughter. She played the part of the spoiled merchant’s daughter very well, clad in a rich green gown chosen to match her eyes and ordering anyone in her path with arrogant hauteur.
“She is better,” murmured Corvalis to Caina, “at playing a part than I thought she would be.”
“Aye,” said Caina, though she wondered how much of it was a masquerade. Claudia had been a magus. Surely she was accustomed to giving orders. Sometimes Caina wondered if Corvalis’s opinion of Claudia was correct, or if the years of pain spent trying to rescue her had caused him to idealize her.
But that was Halfdan’s concern, not hers.
Halfdan himself drove a wagon laden with goods and supplies, surrounded by a ring of thirty grim Sarbian mercenaries in their sand-colored robes. Their leader, a towering man named Saddiq, was a Ghost. He was one o
f Marzhod’s lieutenants, and Caina admired his level head.
Of course, Caina had rescued him after Nicasia and the Defender had turned him to stone, so Saddiq admired her, too.
In the end, over a thousand men marched south towards the low mountains dividing the fertile coastlands of Cyrica from the harsh land of the Sarbian desert. They passed hundreds of plantations growing wheat and tea and rice on land owned by Lord Khosrau Asurius or another powerful Cyrican noble. Caina saw countless slaves toiling among the crops, men from Caeria and the Szaldic provinces and Istarinmul and Anshan and Alqaarin, men kidnapped from every nation under the sun.
Gods, but Caina hated slavers.
“So many of them,” said Claudia. They sat in Halfdan’s wagon, Corvalis striding alongside them. Caina would have preferred to walk, but the haughty daughter of a wealthy merchant would not walk. Later, she could find an excuse to stretch her legs.
“Aye,” said Caina. “It was part of the treaty that ended the War of the Fourth Empire. The Cyricans wanted to keep their slaves in exchange for rejoining the Empire. The Emperor was in no position to refuse, so he accepted. And this was allowed to continue.”
“I see why you oppose it so strongly,” said Claudia, staring at a Szaldic man naked but for an orange kilt wrapped around his waist. The layers of whip scars covering his back flexed as he walked. “This is vile. Men should not be chained and driven as beasts.”
“It is the way of the world,” said Corvalis. “The strong do as they like, and the weak suffer as they must. Or are turned into weapons to serve the strong.” He looked utterly weary as he said it, and Caina wanted to take his hands. But it would not do for Master Basil’s daughter to show affection to Master Basil’s guards.
“Nevertheless, it is still wrong,” said Claudia. “It ought to be stopped.”
Caina felt her opinion of Claudia rise a notch.
Claudia sighed. “I only wish the high magi of the Magisterium could be made to see reason. They could take the nobles in hand and force them to end these corrupt practices. The magi could do so much good for the Empire.”
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge Page 5