Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts) (31 page)

“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, forming 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.

“Tarver,” said Ark. “Now.”

Tarver nodded and waved his torch overhead. 

The crossbowmen upon the city's walls raised their weapons and fired. The solid mass of Istarish soldiers presented an easy target, and a storm of quarrels slammed into the advancing infantry. Most of the bolts bounced from the upraised shields. But many plunged through gaps to sink into flesh, and screams rang over the Plaza. Ark saw men fall, wounded or dying, and the formation wavered. Yet the Immortals shouted commands, and the soldiers kept advancing.

The men on the walls began reloading their crossbows. 

“The engines, sir?” said Tarver.

“Wait a moment,” said Ark, watching the Istarish continue their advance. He remembered the fight in Foundry Square, how Radast's siege engine had sealed off the street with a wall of flame. 

This time, Ark intended something a little different. 

More soldiers came into the Plaza. Still no sign of the ashtairoi. Though Ark expected them at any moment.

“Sir?” said Tarver.

“Do it,” said Ark.

Tarver waved his torch over his head in a circle, and clanks and clangs echoed as the engines atop the gatehouse fired. Radast had spent the last several hours targeting them, muttering numbers to himself all the while. The man was half-mad, but he knew siege engines better than anyone.

As he proved when the bolts from the ballista slammed into the Istarish formation. Each massive iron bolt speared a dozen men, throwing them to the ground. Twin barrels of burning pitch from the gatehouse's catapults arced overhead, drawing a trail of fire over the darkening sky. They exploded against the end of the Avenue of Champions, sealing the street from the Plaza.

And trapping the mass of Istarish soldiers between the flames and the improvised fortifications.

Another volley of crossbow bolts hissed from the walls, sending a ripple through the Istarish ranks. 

“Now!” shouted Ark. “Advance!”

Tarver nodded to one of his men, who lifted a trumpet and sounded a long blast.

And with a great shout, the Legionaries raced forward, clambering over the earthworks and charging at the enemy. The Istarish soldiers were caught flat-footed. They had expected to assault a fortified position, not to face a charging enemy. The Legionaries flung their javelins as they ran. The heavy javelins pierced shield and armor alike, killing dozens of men. The Istarish lines grew even more ragged, even as the Legionaries plowed into the Istarish. The clash and crash of steel on steel rang over the Plaza, accompanied by the screams of wounded men. 

A third volley of crossbow bolts shot from the walls, arcing over the heads of the Legionaries to slam into the Istarish ranks.

Ark watched from atop of earthworks, sword in hand. The ballistae fired again, sending iron bolts plunging into the enemy. Radast did indeed know his deadly business. The Istarish soldiers began to flee, some running for the side streets, others desperately trying to find a way through the raging flames. Ark nodded to himself, thinking hard. A little while longer, and he would call the Legionaries back to their defensive works. The first Istarish attack had been blunted, and he doubted the Kyracians would attack without the Istarish to back them up. 

It would take the Istarish some time to reorganize for a second attack. Perhaps time enough for Hiram Palaegus to arrive with his Legions...

A flash of blue-white light caught Ark's eye. 

A man stood on the roof of a house overlooking the Plaza. His craggy features and his shaved head gave him the look of a weathered statue. He wore gray leather armor, and carried a sword in his right hand.

A sword with blue-white lightning dancing up and down the blade. 

One of the stormdancers.

“Tarver!” yelled Ark. “Call them back! Call them...”

The stormdancer moved. 

He jumped from the roof, soaring like one of Radast’s fireballs. It must have been a fall of a hundred feet, maybe more, but he landed unharmed in the midst of Ark's Legionaries. The Legionaries turned to face him in sudden alarm, shields raised, swords drawn back to stab.

For a moment silence fell over the battlefield. A smile spread over the stormdancer's harsh face.

Then the killing began. 

The stormdancer tore through the Legionaries like a gale, his sword a blur of snarling light. A dozen men fell dead in the time it took Ark to blink. The stormdancer did not even need to strike his enemies down. A single touch of his storm-wreathed blade sent lightning crawling up and down a Legionary's armor, throwing the soldier thrashing to the ground as his skin smoldered and his hair burned. 

The entire momentum of the counterattack collapsed. Some of the Legionaries retreated back to the earthworks. Ark could not blame them. In the Legions, the penalty for cowardice was death, but who could stand against sorcery and live? Caina would have thought of something clever, some cunning stratagem to overthrow the stormdancer, but Ark was only a blacksmith. 

He heard the blast of a trumpet sounding the retreat.

“No,” said Ark. 

If the Legionaries withdrew, the Istarish and the Kyracians would hold Marsis. 

The stormdancer killed another five Legionaries, moving faster than the wind.

Ark had failed. He had failed Halfdan. He had failed Tanya and Nicolai, just as he had failed them when the Moroaica had taken them captive.

And now he had failed them again. 

The Legionaries fell back toward the fortifications, even as the Istarish regained their courage and pressed the attack. The stormdancer drove toward the fortifications, killing another Legionary with every step that he took. 

Ark jumped from the earthworks and ran toward the stormdancer, sword in hand.

“Stormdancer!” he roared, brandishing his sword. “Stormdancer!”

The Legionaries looked at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had. But he did not care. He had failed Tanya and Nicolai once before. He would die before he failed them again. 

Then the stormdancer looked at him, and Ark saw his death in those hard green eyes.

“Stormdancer!” said Ark. “Face me!”

The stormdancer grinned and lifted his blade.

“Face me, craven!” said Ark.

The stormdancer froze. 

“What,” he said in accented Caerish, “did you call me?”

“I called you craven,” said Ark.

A dead silence fell over the Plaza. Part of Ark felt every eye in the Plaza fall upon him. He did not care. They were only watching to see the stormdancer squash the impudent fool like an insect.

“Have you grown weary of life?” said the stormdancer. “Run, fool, and perhaps you may yet escape my wrath.”

“I name you craven, in the hearing of every man here!” shouted Ark. “Your sorcery protects you from our weapons! You are not a warrior. You are a butcher! You walk among us and our weapons cannot touch you. Men need valor to face danger. You face no danger. What valor do you have?”

The stormdancer's eyes narrowed.

“Lay aside your sorcery,” said Ark, “and face me as man, not a sorcerer.”

The stormdancer laughed. “Lay aside the power of storm and wave? Does the falcon lay aside his flight so he might face the worm upon the earth? Does the lion pull his fangs so he can meet the challenge of a sheep? What is your name, worm?”

“Arcion,” said Ark, “of Caer Marist, once first spear of the Eighteenth Legion.” 

“I am Kleistheon of House Tericleos, a stormdancer of New Kyre.” He pointed his lightning-wreathed sword at Ark, the light throwing harsh shadows over his craggy face. “My ancestor Tericleos was among the founders of Old Kyrace. A son of House Tericleos sailed with every Kyracian war fleet, and ruled every sea that rings your feeble little Empire. And when Old Kyrace sank into the sea, my family was among the first to found the Assembly of New Kyre. My lineage is long and my ancestry proud. And who were your ancestors, first spear? Hmm? Of what proud deeds did they boast?” 

“My father was an innkeeper,” said Ark. Any moment Kleistheon would tire of the conversation and cut him down. But every moment he delayed gave Lord Hiram another moment to arrive, another chance for Nicolai and Tanya to gain their freedom. “My mother was a farmer's daughter.”

Kleistheon laughed. “Ah! An innkeeper! Such a noble bloodline. And you are retired? Did you become an innkeeper as well?”

“I am a blacksmith,” said Ark. 

“A blacksmith,” said Kleistheon, voice heavy with contempt. He waved his sword at the Legionaries. “An army of innkeepers and farmers' brats and blacksmiths! And you dare to contend with the blood of Old Kyrace? You think you can face one who commands the winds and the waves themselves?” He spat. “Your kind is fit only for the slave's collar!”

“And your kind,” said Ark, gripping his shield, “talks too much.”

Kleistheon attacked. 

He moved so fast that Ark could not see the movement. The lightning-wrapped sword smashed against Ark's shield and tore it to shreds. Ark staggered back a dozen steps and managed to catch his balance, the jagged remnants of his shield still strapped to his arm. 

Kleistheon strode toward forward, sword low, his stance and posture utterly unconcerned. Ark thrust, and Kleistheon's sword snapped up, blocking the strike. Fingers of lightning sprang from his sword and curled down Ark's blade. It would have continued up the sword and killed him, had Ark not possessed the foresight to wrap his sword's hilt in leather. Otherwise the lightning would have shot up his sword and torn into his chest, killing him.

Like a lightning rod aimed at his heart.

“So, mighty blacksmith,” said Kleistheon. “Take your sword and strike me down.”

Ark stabbed again, and Kleistheon beat aside the thrust, lighting snarling down the swords. 

A lightning rod...

The idea, the mad, impossible idea, filled Ark’s mind.

“Lie down and die,” said Kleistheon. “You are not fit even to be held as a slave.” 

With his left hand, Ark drew the Immortal's chain whip from his belt. The links slithered over the ground, clinking against the cobblestones. 

Again Kleistheon laughed. “An Immortal's whip? You cannot wield such a weapon, fool. Throw down your sword. I promise you a quick death, which is more than you deserve.”

Ark swung the whip, and Kleistheon raised his sword in a lazy block. The chain wound around the sword, the lightning crawling up the whip to lick against the elaborate leather-wrapped handle.  

“Is that the best you can do, blacksmith?” said Kleistheon.

“No,” said Ark, and threw the handle at Kleistheon's face.

Kleistheon's left arm blurred with supernatural speed to block the handle. The length of the chain whip coiled around his arm five or six times, the handle bumping against his shoulder.

And the lightning from his sword traveled down the chain and sank jagged fingers into his chest.

Kleistheon screamed, every muscle in his body contracting at once, the lightning wreathing him in a blue-white corona. The smell of burning flesh filled Ark's nostrils. Kleistheon toppled onto his back, twitching and writhing, smoke rising from his armor.

Ark hefted one of the shards of his ruined shield, a spike of wood two feet long.