“That level of power,” said Sicarion, his mismatched eyes reflecting the crystal's glow, “may well prove dangerous.”
“It does not matter,” said Andromache. “I need that kind of power if I am to claim the Tomb. Bring me another. Now.”
Sicarion bowed, and his men wrestled another captive onto the table.
Caina crept back into the kitchen, trying to ignore the rage and guilt that warred inside her heart. She should have gone back. She should have found a way to save those women, to defeat Andromache.
But she could do nothing.
And Nicolai had not been among Sicarion's captives.
Caina slipped into the alley, trying to decide what to do. She had to find Nicolai. Yet Andromache was as dangerous as Maglarion or Jadriga. How much more dangerous would she become once she claimed the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon?
Caina did not want to find out.
One last walk through the Great Market, she decided. Then she would find Halfdan and tell him what she had learned. No doubt he had withdrawn to the northern gate, to keep it open for the return of Lord Commander Hiram Palaegus and the Legions. Once Caina spoke with Halfdan, he could decide what to do about Andromache.
And then Caina would return and find Nicolai, no matter what it took.
She walked back into the Great Market.
###
Kylon blinked as the Istarish soldier in the black cloak returned.
And all at once he knew the source of his unease.
When that soldier had walked by earlier, Kylon had seen him...but he had not felt the man's emotional presence. At the time, he had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had not noticed. But his water sorcery meant he felt the emotional presence of anyone, often whether he wanted to or not. He should have felt the soldier's presence.
Unless the soldier was using a spell to block Kylon's senses.
He gathered his water sorcery and focused upon the black-cloaked Istarish soldier.
###
Caina took two steps into the Market and stopped, stunned.
Nicolai was there.
The boy sat huddled behind the half-destroyed stall of a merchant. That explained why she had not seen him earlier. The ruined stall had blocked her view. Nicolai sat motionless with his forehead on his knees, his arms wrapped around his head. But he was alive.
If would not have ruined her disguise, she would have fallen to her knees and offered thanksgiving to any gods that might be listening.
She need only walk up, cut the ropes, and carry off Nicolai. No one would question her – and if they did, she would claim that one of the Immortals wanted the boy.
And when she returned Nicolai to Ark and Tanya, Caina would find a way to stop Andromache.
And find a way to repay Rezir and Andromache and Kylon and all those who had brought this storm of blood upon Marsis.
She took one step toward Nicolai, and saw Kylon staring at her.
###
Kylon felt nothing from the black-cloaked Istarish soldier.
Nothing at all. It was like the man wasn't really there. But that was utterly impossible. All mortal men had emotions. Either that soldier was some kind of illusion, or...
Kylon's breath hissed through his teeth.
Or that man carried something that blocked Kylon's arcane senses.
Like a Ghost shadow-cloak.
The soldier looked at him, and Kylon saw the icy blue eyes in the pale, dirty face.
That wasn't an Istarish soldier. That wasn't even a man.
It was her.
###
Kylon's brown eyes met hers, and Caina felt the shock of recognition.
He knew it was her.
His sword came up, and she saw the freezing white mist swirl around the blade, felt the crawling tingle as Kylon gathered his arcane power.
She shot an agonized glance at Nicolai. She had been so close.
Kylon started toward her.
Caina turned and ran.
Chapter 17 - Sortie
Ark led his men from Foundry Square and saw the signs of battle.
Lightning bolts screamed out of the sky, landing near the Plaza of the Tower. He heard the distant cries of struggling men, heard the echoing clang of thousand of swords striking thousands of shields.
“A sharp fight,” said Korbulus, scratching his jaw.
“Aye,” said Ark. “But who is winning, I wonder?”
And as they encountered survivors, the story came out bit by bit.
The remaining cohorts of the Nineteenth Legion had gathered in the Plaza of the Tower. With their fortifications, they should have been able to stand against a much larger force, delaying until Lord Hiram returned. Yet the Kyracian storm witch had slain all the magi, and the Legionaries had no defense against sorcery. So the stormdancers carved their way through the ranks. No man could stand against the stormdancer with the sword of ice, or the more dangerous one with the sword of lightning.
“It was useless,” said one of the surviving Legionaries to Ark, leaning upon his shield. “We tried to fight, and we died. The stormdancers made sure to kill the centurions first. And the storm witch called down her lightning. So many died.” The man shook his head. “We ran. There was no choice. We disgraced our standards, but we could either stay or die.”
“No man can fight sorcery,” said Ark.
“Who are you?” said the Legionary. “You're not one of the centurions of the Nineteenth.”
“I am a blacksmith,” said Ark.
The Legionary wiped sweat from his brow. “A blacksmith?”
“Aye,” said Ark.
“And you're in command?”
“I'm not your centurion,” said Ark. “I cannot give you commands. But you have two choices. Run and hide until the Istarish kill you. Or come with me, and we'll see if we can take the fight to them.”
Something kindled in the Legionary's eyes. “Those Istarish and Kyracian bastards killed my brothers. I'll follow you.”
“Then take your place in line,” said Ark.
They encountered more fleeing survivors as they moved through the streets. Some chose to run and hide, or to escape through the gates. But most joined Ark's growing force.
He soon found himself in command of nine hundred Legionaries and veterans.
“This is more than I expected to find, sir,” said Tarver, looking at the men marching behind them. “With this many, perhaps we can hold the northern gate longer than I had hoped.”
“Aye,” said Ark. The Istarish and the Kyracians had ten thousand men between them. Enough to crush his little force. Yet fighting in a crowded city like Marsis, with its narrow streets and tangled alleys, was a deathtrap. Properly situated, nine hundred men could hold out against ten thousand for a long time.
That didn't take the stormdancers into account, though.
“We should march for the northern gate at once,” said Korbulus.
Ark nodded, still thinking. Delay. He needed to delay, to hold out until Lord Hiram arrived with the Twentieth and the Twenty-First. If he went to the gatehouse now, Rezir and the stormsinger would attack with everything they had.
Unless...he took a gamble and slowed them down first.
The most direct route from the Plaza of the Tower to North Gate Plaza was the Avenue of Champions. Broad and level, it had been built to handle the merchant traffic coming through the northern gate from Varia Province, and allowed a large number of troops to march quickly. Almost certainly Rezir and the stormsinger would move their forces along the Avenue of Champions. And they would be certain they had broken the back of the Nineteenth Legion.
They would not expect a fight until they reached the gate.
And confident men sometimes made mistakes.
“Sir?” said Tarver.
“Tarver, Korbulus,” said Ark. “You know your lads better than I do. Find me capable scouts. Also some fast runners to carry messages.” He managed a tight smile. “We're going to make some trouble.”
###
Ark's men waited in the shadow of the city's northern aqueduct for the scouts to return. No one had reported seeing any Istarish or Kyracian scouts for a while. The entirety of the enemy force had attacked the Plaza of the Tower, and Ark suspected they now marched to attack the northern gate.
He took a deep breath. If he made a botch of this, if the enemy took the northern gate, it was over.
But if this worked...
He kept his face impassive as Korbulus and Tarver conferred with their scouts. The men were watching him, and Ark had to look calm, controlled, in command of the situation. If the Legionaries saw him hesitate, this entire thing would fall apart. He had taken command of these men, but his command was based on nothing more than a bluff and a show of confidence.
He suppressed the urge to laugh. This flavor of mad audaciousness was the sort of thing Caina would have done. How she would laugh when he told her the story.
If he lived long enough to tell it, and she lived long enough to hear it.
Korbulus and Tarver jogged to his side.
“What news?” said Ark.
“You were right,” said Korbulus.
“The enemy marches for North Gate Plaza,” said Tarver. “In companies of one hundred each. I think they plan to form up at the Plaza, and take the northern gate in one massive attack.”
“Mostly Istarish footmen and Immortals so far,” said Korbulus. “The ashtairoi are coming up in the rear.”
Ark nodded. “Clever of the Kyracians. They can let the Istarish take the bulk of the casualties.” And good for the Legionaries, too. The ashtairoi were not as deadly as the Immortals, but they were better soldiers than the Istarish footmen. “How many have reached North Gate Plaza?”
“Several hundred, at least,” said Tarver. “Maybe as many as a thousand.”
“Radast!” said Ark.
Radast emerged from the massed soldiers, muttering numbers. He still wore his leather armor, and carried one of his black crossbows.
“Are you ready?” said Ark.
“I am,” said Radast. “Though calculating the trajectories with insufficient data should prove an interesting challenge.”
“Just don't hit our own men,” said Ark.
“That would be highly improbable.” Radast hurried off, still muttering numbers.
Tarver looked askance at the retreating locksmith. “Where is he going?”
“To climb a roof,” said Ark. “He has his task. We have ours.”
“What are your commands?” said Korbulus.
“Just as I said,” said Ark, lifting his shield. “We're going to make some trouble.”
###
A short time later Ark crouched in a side street branching off the Avenue of Champions. A hundred Legionaries waited around him, hiding behind barrels and stairs and inside doorways.
Perhaps twenty yards way, Istarish troops marched up the Avenue of Champions. Hundreds of them, moving in organized companies, the noon sun reflecting off their spiked helms and scaled armor. No Immortals, though – that was good. Ark touched the chain whip hanging from his belt, remembering the ghastly wounds those weapons inflicted. And he had encountered no further Istarish scouts. Apparently the enemy expected no resistance before reaching the northern gate.
It was time to prove them wrong.
“Sir?” whispered Tarver, crouched next to Ark.
Ark took a deep breath, offering up a silent prayer to Markoin, the god of the Legions.
“Do it,” said Ark.
Tarver nodded to one of his men. The Legionary lifted a trumpet to his lips and blew out a long note. The hiding Legionaries surged to their feet and sprinted toward the Avenue of Governors. And as they did, they came together in formation, forming a solid block of shields and swords. Ark took his place in the center of the formation, running with the other men.
They burst from the side street and crashed into the enemy companies.
The Istarish never saw it coming.
The massed Legionaries plunged into the side of the Istarish ranks. Ark smashed an Istarish footman with his shield, stabbed another with a quick thrust of his broadsword. Around him the other men did the same, keeping their formation intact. A shock went up and down the Istarish line, and in a moment Ark's hundred men had split the Istarish column in half.
“Reform!” yelled Ark. “Reform!”
The Legionaries wheeled, forming a double shield wall blocking the Avenue of Champions. The Istarish footmen began to recover themselves, and Ark heard their khalmirs yelling commands.
And then the remainder of Ark's men erupted from the side streets. Legionaries poured into the Avenue of Champions, striking into the Istarish footmen like armored fists. The attack sliced the Istarish column into segments, and the men in each of those segments found themselves trapped between walls of armored Legionaries.
The Istarish soldiers began to panic.
Ark saw a khalmir screaming commands, trying to get his men to reform. Then a black crossbow bolt sprouted from the khalmir’s throat, and the man collapsed into a pile, his soldiers breaking up in a panic. Ark glanced up, saw Radast perched on a rooftop overlooking the Avenue, reloading his crossbow. Radast raised his weapon and fired again, killing another khalmir.
The sudden attack had thrown the Istarish into disarray, and without their khalmirs to rally them, the footmen would have a harder time reorganizing. Ark killed another Istarish footman, and then another, blood running down the gray steel of his broadsword. The thunder of the battle filled his ears, and swinging his sword was like raising his hammer to work hot iron, only now it was flesh and blood he split, not metal...
And then there were no more Istarish left to kill.
Ark blinked. A few of his men lay dead upon the street, but more, far more Istarish soldiers lay dead. The remaining Istarish footmen fled in all directions, vanishing down the side streets.
“Sir,” said Tarver, blood dripping from his sword. “I think we've won.”
“The skirmish, not the battle,” said Ark. “Get the runners, and find out how the other centuries are faring.”
“Sir,” said Tarver, and shouted orders.
Ark hurried up the stairs to a house and heaved himself into a windowsill. From here he could see down the Avenue of Champions, all the way to the Plaza of the Tower.
His centuries had torn into the Istarish soldiers like steel teeth ripping into flesh. The column marching up the Avenue of Champions had collapsed, either slain in the fighting or fled into the side streets.
Ark dropped back to the street as Tarver and Korbulus hurried over.
“I can’t believe it,” said Korbulus. “The Istarish column has collapsed. From what the scouts can tell, the men we routed fled back to the Plaza of the Tower. The Istarish are in full flight.”
“What about the ashtairoi?” said Ark.
“Holding,” said Tarver. “They're in the Plaza. Waiting for orders, I would guess.”
“We should press on!” said Korbulus, his lined face taut with excitement. “Strike into the Plaza, and drive the Istarish and the Kyracians into the harbor!”
For a moment the idea seized Ark. He could take his men and drive the enemy before him. And once they were defeated, he could go to the Great Market and find Nicolai…
He shook the vision from his mind.
“No,” said Ark. “The Istarish might be in flight, but the ashtairoi are not. And sooner or later Rezir Shahan will regain control of his men, and the stormdancers will join the battle. If we go to the Plaza of the Tower, we'll be overwhelmed.”
“We should hold to the original plan,” said Tarver.
“Aye,” said Ark. “We make for the northern gate, and hold it until the other Legions return.” He clapped Korbulus on the shoulder. “Once Lord Commander Hiram arrives, we'll show the Istarish how men of the Empire fight.”
Korbulus grinned. “Seems we already have, blacksmith.”
Ark looked at the corpses carpeting the Ave
nue of Champions, most of them Istarish, and could not deny the argument.
“Whatever we do,” said Tarver, “we should do it at once, before the Istarish and the Kyracians recover.”
The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War Page 19
