Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts) (6 page)

The soldiers advanced, weapons raised, no trace of fear on their faces. They only saw two older men, a fat innkeeper, and a group of women. No threats.

They did not know that Ark had once been the first spear centurion of the Eighteenth Legion. A man did not rise to such a rank without the fighting prowess to back it up. Ark was older now, his joints stiffer, his reflexes slower. According to the old joke, you tell how long a Legionary had been retired by measuring the girth of his belly. Yet Ark had kept himself in fighting trim, knowing that one day he might have to fight and kill those who had taken his wife and son. 

Ark raised his heavy wooden shield over his left arm, and Halfdan drew his short sword. 

He had found his wife and son, but that was no excuse for complacency. 

One of the Istarish soldiers came at him, but Ark moved faster. He surged forward, shield leading, and beat aside the weak blow with such force that the soldier staggered. Ark  stabbed out and the man stumbled back with a scream, doubling over. Ark wheeled and brought his sword onto the back of the soldier’s exposed neck.

That made a mess. 

Ark spun, shield coming back up as the other soldiers reacted to the unexpected threat. They came at him in a rush, scimitars flashing, and Ark backed away, his shield shuddering beneath their blows. Yet their attacks were undisciplined, uncoordinated. A Legion of the Empire fought as a unit, with each man knowing his part and his duty. These Istarish fools knew no such discipline, and their attacks got in the way of each other. It was the easiest thing for Ark to lower his shield, his sword darting out to rip open a gash in an Istarish soldier’s forearm. 

Halfdan stepped behind one of the soldiers and buried his short sword to the hilt. The man toppled, and Ark stepped into the gap, stabbing. A third man perished, Ark’s heavy sword ripping through his shirt of steel scales to open his belly. The final man backed away, shield raised, and Ark hammered at him, wielding his sword like a smith pounding iron. 

It distracted the Istarish soldier long enough for Halfdan to stab him from behind. 

After Ark wiped down his blade on the cloak of a dead man. A Legionary never sheathed his sword with blood still on the blade. It made the steel rust, and worse, could make the weapon stick in its scabbard at an inopportune time. 

“A patrol,” said Ark. “Sent to scout out the streets to the Citadel.”

“It means Rezir Shahan has control of the Great Market and the docks,” said Halfdan. “And that means the Kyracians will land their troops, and the Istarish and the Kyracians will attack in force up the Avenue of Governors soon. We have to hurry.”

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 warships 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.”