The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War

by Jonathan Moeller

  “This Scorikhon,” said Caina. “Do the histories ever mention that he was a student of the Moroaica from Szaldic legend? Or that she was his student?”

  “Some of the histories do,” said Nicorus, his broad shoulders rippling in a shrug. “In one account she was his teacher, and he was her apprentice. In another account, she was his student and lover.” Remembering Jadriga, Caina thought that unlikely. “But it's all nonsense. The Moroaica is a Szaldic legend, a myth the Szaldic peasants whisper in the dark.”

  “Truly,” said Caina.

  “Regardless of what Scorikhon did,” said Nicorus, “he has been dead for centuries, since the era of the Third Empire.” He shook his head. “And ever since, the Magisterium has tried to enter his Tomb.”

  “Why?” said Caina. “Was he buried with books or scrolls? Secrets to his necromantic powers?”

  “No one knows,” said Nicorus. “Every preceptor of the Marsis chapter has tried to break into the Tomb, and they have failed. Necromantic wards of surpassing skill and power shield the Tomb. At best, the preceptors only suffer a loss of pride when the wards repulse them. At worst, they are slain, or deformed, or suffer...other fates. None of them pleasant.”

  “That doesn't answer the question,” said Caina. “Why do you even want to enter it? Just to gaze upon Scorikhon's bones?”

  “Hardly,” said Nicorus. “He might have been buried with scrolls and books, true, in the fashion of the old Maatish necromancers. But that is chancy. There is great power within the Tomb, Ghost. Anyone with even a modicum of arcane talent can sense it.” He titled his head to the side, a cunning glitter in his beady black eyes. “You have the ability to sense sorcerous force. Have you not felt it?”

  “I have never been inside the Citadel,” said Caina. She had been in the vaults below Black Angel Tower, and felt the dark sorcery of the place. Had some of it come from the Tomb of Scorikhon in the Citadel? “And that's why the magi want to enter the Tomb. To claim that power, whatever it is, for themselves.”

  “Aye,” said Nicorus.

  “Fools,” said Caina. “If they claim that power, it might devour them. Perhaps the necromancers of the Red Circle sealed it away for a reason.”

  “Power belongs,” said Nicorus, “to those bold enough to seize it. To defy the risks and take what they desire.”

  “Yes,” said Caina, “you dared the risks to seize what you desired. Did it bring you joy when the First Magus ordered your…punishment?”

  Nicorus glared at her. “Go. I've told you what you wish. I don't want you here when that Kyracian stormsinger hunts you down.”

  “Assuming she doesn't hunt down rogue magi first,” said Caina, and left the stinking house behind.

  She crept back into the dark alleys of the dockside district. Usually the docks rang with raucous noise at night, the sounds of ships loading and unloading, the call of whores, the music and shouting from the sailors' taverns. Now silence hung over the city, the silence of people cowering in cellars and attics.

  Though far in the distance, Caina heard the sound of battle. From the base of the Citadel, she thought. Perhaps the Plaza of the Tower, or maybe Foundry Square.

  And if there was another battle going on, most of the Istarish and the Kyracian troops would be there. It was Caina's best chance to find Nicolai among the captives in the Great Market.

  Yet she had to find a way to stop Andromache. The stormsinger already wielded immense power. And if she claimed whatever power waited in the Tomb of Scorikhon, she would become far more dangerous. But first, Caina would rescue Nicolai. She owed Ark and Tanya that.

  She made her way north from the docks, drawing closer to the Great Market. Her mind worked through plan after plan.

  Yet a thought nagged at her.

  The Moroaica had lived in the vaults below Black Angel Tower for five years. Surely she must have known about the power in the Tomb.

  So why hadn’t Jadriga claimed the Tomb’s power for herself?

  Chapter 14 - First Spear

  “Get ready,” called Ark, standing before the doors of the foundry.

  Ark had put the veterans and the men of the Nineteenth to work. Torches on the roof of the foundry threw flickering light over Foundry Square. A barricade of crates and barrels sealed off the street leading into Square, leaving an opening only wide enough for one man. The foundry also stored dozens of carts, used to drag ore up from the river barges. Ark ordered them scattered across the Square, creating a very specific pattern that led from the street to the foundry's main doors.

  He had something particular in mind for that pattern.

  Or, at least, Radast did. Ark hoped the mad locksmith was right.

  “I hope you know what you're doing,” muttered Korbulus, low enough that only Ark could hear. The older man did not seem to resent that Ark had taken charge of the defense. If anything, he appeared relived that the burden of responsibility had been taken from his shoulders.

  “It will,” said Ark, with more confidence than he felt. A centurion never showed doubt before his troops.

  “And if it doesn't?” said Korbulus.

  “Then we'll probably all die,” said Ark. “If we're fortunate.”

  Korbulus snorted. “Ha! You were a centurion. You sound just like the old first spear in the Ninth.”

  “What happened to him?” said Ark.

  “An Immortal's chain whip took the head from his shoulders,” said Korbulus.

  “I shouldn't have asked,” said Ark.

  He touched the chain whip hanging from his belt. He had taken it from the corpse of the Immortal he had slain. Why he had kept it, he couldn't say. The thing was too unwieldy to make a good weapon, not without an Immortal's inhuman reflexes.

  A trophy, perhaps. To show the Legionaries and the veterans that a normal man without any sorcery could indeed slay the Padishah’s Immortals.

  Korbulus shrugged. “We can only hope to die like men.”

  Ark nodded, and heard the clank of armor. The Legionary he had punched hurried over.

  “Sir,” said the Legionary.

  “What did you find, Tarver?” said Ark. A short, lean man with hard black eyes, Tarver had fallen into the role of Ark's second, along with Korbulus. Ark suspected Tarver would make a capable lower-rank centurion.

  Assuming he survived the next few days.

  “There's heavy fighting in the Plaza of the Tower,” said Tarver. “Some of the surviving cohorts from the Nineteenth gathered to make a stand there.”

  “We should go to aid them at once,” said Korbulus.

  Tarver shook his head. “We do, we’re finished. The Istarish alone outnumber the cohorts five to one, and I think the Kyracians and their damned stormdancers are coming up.” The men of the Nineteenth had spoken of how the stormdancers had carved through their ranks. “And there's worse news. Two hundred Istarish soldiers are making for Foundry Square.”

  “Why the devil would they do that?” said Korbulus.

  “Because the survivors from the last attack reported back to Rezir Shahan,” said Ark. “That means he thinks there might be an organized force waiting for him behind the Citadel, one that will attack his flanks while he's fighting in the Plaza of the Tower.”

  “What do we do?” said Korbulus.

  “We give the Istarish a proper greeting,” said Ark.

  Tarver nodded. “Positions!” His voice boomed over the Square. “Battle positions. Now!” Korbulus shouted the same orders to his veterans, and the Square became a hive of activity. The Legionaries and the veterans arranged themselves into battle formation below the foundry, while Ark saw the women and the children scurrying across the rooftops.

  He hoped Radast was right.

  A moment later Ark saw the Istarish moving down the street towards the Square. At least two hundred strong, just as Tarver had described. No Immortals, though. That was good – in a straight fight, one Immortal could handle two or three Legionaries without too much trouble.

  Ark took his pla
ce in the line.

  “Hold until my command!” he shouted.

  The men obeyed.

  More and more Istarish soldiers poured through the barricaded entrance to the Square. Some made their way through the maze of parked wagons. Still others scrambled over the wagons, scimitars in their scabbards. Ark felt his lip curl in contempt. The idiots should have recognized the barricades for what they were. Istarinmul’s infantry had a poor reputation, one that Ark saw was deserved.

  He suspected the Immortals and the Kyracian ashtairoi would prove more formidable.

  At least a hundred and fifty soldiers had come through, Ark judged, with more crowding the street behind. Clearly, they did not expect a real fight, only a few porters and sailors desperately trying to defend their women and children. No real challenge.

  “Radast!” roared Ark. “Now!”

  A loud clanking noise came from the foundry’s roof. In additional to arms and armor, the foundry also built gears and levers for the Citadel's war engines. Working on Radast’s directions, Korbulus's men had managed to get one of the catapults assembled on the roof.

  And more importantly, targeted at the barricade sealing off the Square from the street.

  A burning barrel shot overhead and smashed against the barricade, spraying oil in all directions. A score of Istarish soldiers went up in flames, screaming horribly. All at once Ark remembering Rasadda, watching Ostros burn to death in the grip of Kalastus's pyromancy.

  He pushed aside the thought.

  “Crossbows!” he bellowed. Radast had also mounted dozens of crossbows along the rim of the foundry's roof, all of them aimed at the street. Most of the women and children crouched on the roof had never held a crossbow before, let alone fired one.

  But they knew how to pull a trigger.

  A storm of bolts flew from the rooftop, plunging into the frightened mass of Istarish soldiers. Most of the bolts missed, but a half-dozen men fell dead. The rest tried to take cover, hemmed in by the flames one side, and the danger from the crossbows on the other.

  “Advance!” said Ark.

  The Legionaries and veterans strode forward, shields raised, javelins ready in their hands. Bit by bit the panicked Istarish footmen became aware of their presence. The surviving khalmirs shouted commands, and the soldiers scrambled to form a semblance of a shield line.

  “Javelins!” said Ark.

  His men flung their javelins, unleashing a shower of iron points. The javelins crashed into the Istarish, killing more men, breaking their shield wall.

  “Swords!” said Ark.

  His men drew their swords and advanced, walking in lockstep, shields raised. Some of the Istarish fell back, attempting to cover themselves with their shields. Others turned and fled, trying to escape from the Square, only to find their path blocked by the dying flames.

  And most of them raised their scimitars and charged.

  Ark's men braced their shields, holding fast against the piecemeal Istarish attack, and then thrust their swords. Some scimitars found the flesh of the Legionaries or veterans, but more broadswords bit into the Istarish soldiers. The Istarish footmen fell, screaming, or found themselves pushed back by the Legionaries’ shields. One man, braver or more foolish than the others, seized the top of a shield and tried to pull himself over, screaming curses.

  Ark gutted him with a single quick thrust. The soldier fell, howling, and the Legionaries marched over him. One veteran silenced the wounded man's screams with a single stab of his sword. Ark's men continued their slow march, the shield wall holding fast.

  Finally the Istarish soldiers broke and fled, trying to claw their way over the smoldering barricade.

  What followed was more of a slaughter than a battle.

  ###

  Ark pulled off his helmet, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Two dead, five wounded,” said Korbulus. “But we sent at least a hundred and sixty of those Istarish bastards to grovel before their gods.”

  “More escaped than I would have liked,” said Tarver.

  “Aye,” said Ark, looking at the slain, the reek of blood and burned flesh filling his nostrils. He had been in fights since he had retired from the Legion. But nothing compared to a battle. The screams of rage and pain, the stink of sweat and hot steel...

  It was not the sort of thing a man forgot. Not ever. But Ark had managed to put it out of his mind.

  Now he was getting a reminder.

  He rubbed his head. There was one thing to be said for going bald – it was more comfortable than a head full of sweaty hair.

  Korbulus and Tarver watched him think.

  “So,” said Ark at last. “The survivors will return to Rezir Shahan and the Kyracians. The enemy will have their hands full with the Plaza of the Tower. But as soon as they take the Plaza, they'll come for us.”

  “Do we wait for them?” said Korbulus.

  “No. We move,” said Ark. “Between the Legionaries and Korbulus's veterans we have maybe four hundred and fifty men fit to fight. The Istarish and the Kyracians have thousands. If we stay here, they will overwhelm us.”

  “Then we march out to our deaths?” said Tarver.

  Ark shook his head. “No. We make for the northern gates and reinforce whatever garrison is still there.”

  “And what will that accomplish?” said Tarver. He never would have been so bold with his centurions in the Nineteenth. But Ark was not his centurion. Ark was a retired centurion and a merchant’s guard. Neither Tarver nor Korbulus nor any other man here had to obey him. If they were going to follow him, he would have to convince them.

  “The Twentieth and the Twenty-First are outside of the city,” said Ark, remembering Halfdan's plan “They were hunting down raiders along the coast. Probably a trick of the Kyracians, but no matter. The garrisons at the gates will have sent riders as soon as they saw the attack. Lord Commander Hiram will return with the Legions as soon as he can.”

  “And when he does,” said Tarver, understanding, “you want to have a gate open for him. Not a gate manned by Istarish soldiers and Kyracian stormdancers.”

  “You said much the same to me,” said Korbulus.

  Ark nodded. “You are both men of the Legions. You know how hard it is to take a defended gate. If Lord Hiram returns to find the Istarish holding the walls, he will never retake the city. I propose we march for the northern gate with all speed, and hold it until Lord Hiram arrives.”

  “And how are we to hold against the Istarish and the Kyracians there?” said Korbulus. “They'll be inside the walls.”

  “But we'll have an edge,” said Tarver, voice thoughtful. “The gatehouse is a fortress, and it can defend from an attack within the city just as easily as from one without.”

  “The Istarish will ascend to the ramparts,” said Korbulus, shaking his head, “and assault the gatehouse from the sides.”

  “The ramparts are only wide enough for three men to walk abreast,” said Tarver. "Plus the gatehouse's towers overlook the walls themselves, and we can rain missile fire onto any attackers. Yes, it can be done.”

  “What if that stormsinger comes after us?” said Korbulus. “Or the stormdancers?”

  “We will deal with them when they come,” said Ark. Though they would probably die when the stormsinger and the stormdancers attacked. A normal man, without the aid of sorcery, could not overcome a stormdancer.

  “And if the Istarish have already taken the northern gate by the time we get there?” said Korbulus.

  “Then we'll die,” said Ark. “But if we stay here and hold the foundry, then we will certainly die. We might fight off a few more attackers, but they’ll overwhelm us in the end. If we try to hold the gate, we might very well die. Or we may prevail, and hold long enough for Lord Hiram to return.”

  “His plan is sound,” said Tarver. “We might fail. But I'd rather die taking the fight to those Istarish bastards than waiting here for them to take us.”

  Korbulus sighed. “You're right. Gods, but I'm too old for
this. So be it. I will have my veterans march with you to the northern gate.” He looked at the foundry. “But what of the women and children?”

  “We’ll leave the wounded here to guard them,” said Ark, “along with the crossbows on the roof.”

  “That will be feeble protection,” said Korbulus.

  “Aye,” said Ark. “But if we do our jobs, the Istarish and the Kyracians will be too busy to bother with the foundry.”

  Korbulus closed his eyes. “We may as well cast the dice. I will do as you bid.”

  “I will gather the men of the Nineteenth,” said Tarver, “and we will follow you.”