Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts) (21 page)

Andromache directed him to fight her enemies, and he would strike them down.

That was as it should be.

“Javelins!” roared one of the centurions. “Javelins, now! Before they get any closer!”

The men standing atop the improvised walls reached for their javelins.

Kylon drew on his power, let the raging force of wind and water sorcery fill him, and felt Kleistheon do the same. Freezing white mist swirled around his sword, and crackling fingers of lightning sheathed Kleistheon's weapon.

The Legionaries drew back their arms to fling their javelins.

And Kylon moved. 

He shot forward, the sorcery of wind giving him the speed of a gale, and jumped. His leap carried him over the earthwork walls, over the wooden stakes, over the helmeted heads of the Legionaries. He landed behind them, his boots gripping the improvised ramparts.

The Legionaries whirled to face him, and the killing began. 

Kylon struck before the Legionaries could draw their swords, the sorcery of water lending his arms the strength of a tidal wave. His sword cracked through armor, and two Legionaries fell dead, no blood leaking from their frozen wounds. One of the Legionaries recovered enough to thrust his javelin at Kylon. He sidestepped, his spell-forged blade cutting the javelin's shaft in half, and drove his blade through the Legionary's face. A centurion bellowed commands, forming his men into a defensive square, and Kylon shot forward, his sword splitting the centurion's helmet and the skull beneath it.

He tore his way down the rampart, killing right and left. The Legionaries did their best to fight him, coming at him with sword and javelin, and they failed. Kylon cut down Legionary after Legionary, his sword trailing glittering droplets of frozen blood. When they closed around him, Kylon cut his way through them, or drew on the sorcery of air and jumped over their heads to land behind them. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the blood rushing through his veins. This was how it should be. A simple struggle. No lies, no games, no shadowy machinations.

No doubts.

Further down the rampart he saw Kleistheon driving back the Legionaries. The older stormdancer, Kylon had to admit, was a far more lethal fighter. A single touch from his sword sent arcs of lightning stabbing up and down the Legionaries' steel armor. The men then fell, stunned or even slain by the force of the lightning. The attack of the two stormdancers threw the Legionaries atop the ramparts into disarray, their formation shattered, even as the reserves behind the earthwork wall hastened into the fray.

A blast of trumpets rang out, and a shout rose from the Avenue of Governors. Kylon saw a mass of black-armored Immortals charging across the Plaza, blue light glimmering in the eyes of their skull-masked helms. Rezir Shahan himself led the charge, scimitar raised over his head, mouth open in a battle cry. Kylon would have thought the emir valiant, save for the necromantic ring on his hand. None of the Legionaries had any weapons that could harm Rezir. 

It was hardly valiant for a man to face weapons that could not hurt him.

Shouts rang out, and Legionaries surged toward the fortification's gates, moving to intercept Rezir's charge. Kylon twisted, gutted another Legionary, and raced to the edge of the rampart. He summoned more power, until his skin crackled with the strength of it, a whirlwind of white mist swirling around his sword.

Then he jumped from the rampart, sword angled down, aiming for the midst of the Legionaries.

Their centurion looked up, but a half-second too late. Kylon's sword slammed down through the centurion's armored chest, erupting through his back, and turned the man's blood to ice. Kylon spun, wrenching his glittering sword free, and faced the other Legionaries. The soldiers of the Empire were trained to fight as a unit, as a relentless machine, but once their formation and their discipline were broken, they fought like any other men. 

Bravely and fiercely, but Kylon had killed many brave and fierce men. 

The Legionaries were no better.

Kylon thundered through them. The Legionaries could not stand before him, and those that attacked him perished. More Legionaries crowded around him, and Kylon danced around their sword blades, parrying those that came to close. He killed and killed, but more attacked, and soon the press of numbers would crush him down...

Then the black mass of Immortals crashed into the Legionaries. 

Rezir Shahan led the charge, his scimitar a steely blur in his fist. A Legionary's sword gashed open his cheek, but Rezir did not even flinch. The ring on his hand pulsed with pale green light, Kylon felt the crawling surge of necromantic force, and the cut vanished. 

A heartbeat Rezir killed the Legionary that had marked him. 

The Legionaries were stout fighters, but they were disorganized and the Immortals were not. And the Alchemists' elixirs made the Immortals stronger and faster than the Legionaries. Between Kylon's attacks, the Immortals' assault, and Rezir's invincibility, the Legionaries crumpled, stumbling back toward the far end of the Plaza.

“After them!” yelled Rezir, pointing his dripping scimitar. “Drive them from the Plaza. Kill them all!” 

More Istarish soldiers flooded over the ramparts, sweeping over the Legionaries. A wave of ashtairoi followed, their shields and cuirasses flashing in the torchlight. Kylon saw Kleistheon leap from the ramparts, his sword a fan of snarling lightning, and strike down two Legionaries when he landed. 

A shout rang out, and Kylon saw Legionaries pouring out of the narrow streets nearby. A second wave of reserves. The battle hung at a critical balance. Even with the aid of the stormdancers, the sheer press of Legionaries might drive back the Istarish and the Kyracians...

A woman's voice thundered over the Plaza, and Kylon felt arcane power, tremendous arcane power, swirling through the air. 

The sky erupted with lightning.

Three blasts ripped into the massed Legionaries, tearing apart their formations, cooking men in their own armor. Another blast slammed into the Istarish footmen, killing at least a score of them, and still another bolt fell between the Legionaries and the ashtairoi, slaying a dozen on both sides. 

For a moment a stunned silence hung over the battle.

“Take them!” screamed Rezir, brandishing his sword. “Attack! Attack!”

The Kyracian and the Istarish hosts surged forward. 

The Legionaries, their fortifications overrun, their centurions slain by the lightning, their ranks in disarray, fought well.

But not well enough.

###

After the battle Kylon walked through the ruined Plaza of the Tower, past the bodies of the slain. Some ashtairoi, Istarish footmen, and Immortals lay upon the ground, but far more Legionaries had been killed. Most had been slain by sword and spear, but others lay dead with frost melting on their armor.

Kylon had killed so many of them.

He closed his eyes and shivered.

This should not have troubled him. His sister was High Seat of House Kardamnos and an Archon of the Assembly. She commanded, he fought. 

But he thought of the thousands of chained slaves in the Great Market.

He looked at the men lying dead at his feet. Perhaps they had been fighting to defend wives and children taken captive by the Istarish.

And he remembered that moment he had sensed necromantic force swirling around Andromache...

No. Impossible. He must have imagined it. He shook his head. This battle, this invasion, should have been simple. He should not have suffered these doubts.

But they refused to go away.

He walked in search of Andromache, and found Rezir Shahan on the verge of shouting at her.

His hand shot to his sword.

“Honored Archon,” said Rezir, voice icy, “perhaps you were mistaken? It seems that your spells slew some of my men.”

Andromache said nothing. She looked tired, her face drawn. The flickers of exhaustion in her emotional sense had grown sharper and more frequent. 

“Men die in war, my lord emir,” said Andromache. “They die often. I thought you would be accustomed to it by now.”

“Indeed I am,” said Rezir, taking another step closer. Kylon planted himself at Andromache's right, hand on the hilt of his sword. Rezir glanced at him, and his voice calmed somewhat. “But if my men are to die, they will do it at my command. Not because my ally cannot aim her spells correctly.”

Andromache shrugged. “Your men and the enemy were mixed together. It was impossible to separate them with any degree of accuracy, and the battle hung in the balance.” Her lip twisted with a hint of contempt. “Would you rather, my lord emir, that I have stayed my hand? Perhaps the Legions would have driven you from the Plaza, forcing you to launch a new assault, with a far greater cost in lives. Or perhaps you would have fallen into the hands of the Legions. That ring I gave you makes you immune to normal steel, so they couldn't have killed you. But they could do other things to you. I wonder how long that ring would keep you alive if they crucified you?”

Kylon blinked. Andromache had given Rezir that necromantic ring?

Kleistheon approached, his armor spotted with blood, a frown on his face.

“Is anything amiss, High Seat?” he said, looking at Rezir.

“No, nothing is amiss,” said Rezir with a forced smile. “The Archon and I were simply discussing our strategy.”

“Indeed,” said Andromache. “And our next step is clear.”

“Yes,” said Rezir. “We march north and seize the gates. The northern gate first, I think. We lured the Legions out of the city. When they return, they will try to enter through the northern gate.” 

“Indeed,” said Andromache, gazing at the dark bulk of the Citadel and Black Angel Tower overhead. “Proceed.”

“With your aid, Archon,” said Rezir, “we will take the gatehouse easily. After the losses the enemy suffered here,” he waved a hand at the Plaza of corpses, “they cannot have more than a hundred men guarding the gate, if that.”

Sicarion appeared out of the shadows and bowed before Andromache.

Kylon flinched, despite himself. He had not sensed the cloaked man's approach. Sicarion straightened up, drawing back his hood to reveal his scarred face. As before, his emotional sense was...strange, blurred. Like trying to read a book that had been soaked in water. 

Or blood.

“You've returned,” said Andromache. “Have you located the Moroaica?”

“No, my lady,” said Sicarion with another bow. “I fear I have not. Neither her nor the...imposter.” His thin lips twitched in something like a smile. “The shadow-cloak is most effective.”

Rezir scowled. “You set him to hunting this Ghost spy?”

“Yes,” said Andromache. “And a few other tasks, as well. Have you finished them?”

“I have,” said Sicarion. 

“Good,” said Andromache. “You'll recall, my lord emir, that you promised me some slaves?”

“I did,” said Rezir.

“Sicarion has gathered them for me,” said Andromache. “I will inspect them now.”

Rezir looked stunned. “You will...look over your slaves? Now? The city is almost ours!”

“Yes,” said Andromache. “You have more than enough men to seize the gates, and Kleistheon will aid you. I will return to you, once my task is complete. Walk with me, brother.”

Andromache turned and left, and Kylon had no choice but to follow.

Sicarion trailed after them at a discreet distance, followed by some of his hired thugs.

“You are troubled,” said Andromache as they began walking down the Avenue of Governors. 

“Yes,” said Kylon.

“I wish you would speak of it to me,” said Andromache. “You alone, brother, are the only man in trust in all the world. If I cannot rely upon you, then to whom shall I turn?”

Kylon looked at the ground, his emotions swirling through him. He, too, trusted Andromache, trusted her more than anyone. Yet there was Rezir's ring. The flickers of necromancy he had sensed from Andromache. The senseless slaughter of this battle.

“Rezir's ring,” said Kylon at last.

“You sensed it?” said Andromache. “It is an object of necromancy. The bloodcrystal in the ring stores a reservoir of life energy stolen from Rezir's victims. That same energy is fed back into him to heal his wounds and protect him from weapons.” 

“Where did he get such a thing?” said Kylon.

“I gave it to him,” said Andromache. 

“Did you make it?” said Kylon, shuddering. If Andromache had been practicing necromancy, the entire Assembly would turn against her.

“Of course not,” said Andromache. “The Moroaica made it and gave it to me. I had no use for it, so I in turn gave it to Rezir.” She smiled. “It helped seal our alliance.”

“The Moroaica made this thing of necromancy,” said Kylon, “and she was your teacher.”

“She was,” said Andromache.

“Gods of storm and wind,” said Kylon, looking away. That did no good – he only saw the corpses scattered on the broad Avenue of Governors, the smashed windows and the broken doors, the smoke rising from the occasional burned house. He closed his eyes for a moment, waited until he could speak with some semblance of calm. “Necromancy, sister? That is...that is madness, there is no other word for it.”