His sword came down like a thunderbolt, cleaving through the first magus's helm and skull. The man fell dead to the street, blood and brains pooling around him. But the second magus came at Rykon, and he was stronger than the first, both physically and in the arcane sciences, and his swings felt like the blows of a mighty hammer. Rykon struck back, but his sword skidded off the magus’s armor, green sparks flying from the edges. Earth sorcery, then, infusing the armor with the solidity and strength of a granite wall. The magi of the Magisterium could not match a stormdancer’s command of air and water, but possessed far greater power over earth.
The magus took the offensive against Rykon, earth sorcery lending his blows the power of an avalanche.
Rykon fell back, dodging and parrying the mighty blows, drawing upon the power of air sorcery until his mind crackled with it. The magus whipped his sword up, raising it back for a final blow. Rykon caught the descending blade on the flat of his sword, and they strained against each other, sword locked against sword.
And Rykon released the power.
Fingers of blue-white lightning erupted along the length of his sword, clawing down the magus’s blade and shooting into the crimson armor. The magus arched back as the lightning crackled into him, arms and legs flailing.
It gave Rykon all the opportunity he needed to take the battle magus’s head off. Blood sprayed in an arc, staining the crimson armor a darker shade of red, and the magus crumpled besides his slain comrade. Rykon sagged for a moment, breathing hard, exhausted by the effort of summoning lightning. He was a stormdancer, not a stormsinger, and his arcane abilities lay in enhancing his battle prowess, not summoning storm and wind to strike down his foes.
But he had no time to rest. He raced through the burning docks, towards the ramp that led to the next circle of the city. Corpses in the armor and cloaks of the Archon’s guard lay among the dead, and at last Rykon found the Archon below the gate to the inner city.
He was almost too late.
The Archon, Lord Tyndaros, sat atop his horse, his robes bloodstained and torn, his sword dripping blood, his personal guard slain about him. Even as Rykon approached, another wave of Legionaries rushed the old man. Tyndaros threw out his arms and raised his face to the sky, his voice rolling in booming song. Lightning ripped down from the heavens, slaying the Legionaries on the spot, and a gale of wind flung others aside like dried leaves. But some survived to charge at the Archon, and Tyndaros tried to fight back with his sword. The old man was a stormsinger, not a stormdancer, and the Legionaries pressed him hard.
Rykon moved with the speed of a gale. He crashed into the knot of Legionaries clustered around the Archon’s horse, striking left and right. Men fell dead, armor clattering as they rolled down the ramp. Again Tyndaros sang, and a gale struck the remaining Legionaries which such force that they were flung into the air, screaming.
And for a moment, the ramp became an island of calm in the chaos of Kyrace’s fall.
“Lord Archon,” said Rykon.
“Rykon,” said Tyndaros, blinking sweat from his eyes. “You’re still alive.” He looked at the burning ruins of the docks, at the tide of Imperial soldiers rising from the harbor. “It is good to know that someone is still alive in all this ruin. Though with your skill, I am not surprised.”
“Lord Archon,” said Rykon, reaching to take the reins of the horse. “We must get you to the next circle of the city, quickly. The enemy will be upon us at any moment.”
“The city is lost,” whispered Tyndaros, gazing at the fires. “Kyrace is lost.”
“We must go,” said Rykon. “The guards will not close the inner gates until you arrive, and if the enemy reaches us first…”
Tyndaros straightened, and some resolution returned to his expression. “Yes. Yes. You are right.” He looked towards the upper city, to the ziggurats with their pools and gardens. “Yes. If Kyrace is to fall, then I will see to it that the Empire pays dearly. We…”
A thunderclap rang out, and the earth heaved. The horse reared back, screaming, and Tyndaros fell from the saddle to sprawl upon the ramp. Rykon caught his balance, drawing upon water sorcery to keep himself upright, and looked for their attacker.
A red-armored figure landed on the ramp a short distance away, black-trimmed cloak fluttering in the hot wind rising from the burning docks. But unlike the other battle magi, gold scrollwork adorned the armor, with a golden Imperial eagle spread across the cuirass. This man carried a heavy mace in lieu of a black sword, and arcane power rolled off him in snarling waves.
Rykon recognized him at once.
Corthios, Lord of the Empire and one of the high magi of the Magisterium, the man who had smashed the Kyracian army below the walls of Marsis, who had burned the Kyracian fleet in the harbor of Mors Naerius.
And the man who had slain a dozen stormdancers in single combat.
“Tyndaros, old friend!” said Corthios in accented Kyracian. “So good to see you again.” He smiled. “Perhaps we now can conclude the dispute between us?”
He strode forward, lifting the massive mace.
Rykon stepped before Tyndaros, sword raised, the sorcery of wind and storm filling him.
Corthios snorted. “Another one? Don’t you fools ever learn?”
He flicked his wrist.
And a crushing torrent of invisible force slammed into Rykon, hurling him from the ramp and towards the walls of the inner city. He drew on the power of air and wrenched free from the invisible fist, landing on the ramp, his sorcery-strengthened legs absorbing the impact.
Tyndaros thrust out a hand and sang, lightning ripping from the sky to strike at Corthios.
The high magus blocked the lightning with another flick of his wrist.
Again Tyndaros sang, and a freezing gale blew towards Corthios, the blood upon the ramp turning to brittle black ice. Corthios lifted his hand, and the gale dispersed into nothingness. He drew closer to the Archon, lifting his mace for a killing blow.
Rykon leapt into the air, drawing upon all his power. He swung his sword in a two-handed blow for Corthios’s back, a flood of water sorcery driving his arms. But earth sorcery strengthened Corthios’s armor, and the blade bounced away without leaving a scratch. Corthios stumbled a step and turned, scowling.
“Still alive?” he said, annoyed, and made a hooking gesture with his free hand.
The ground rocked, violently. Again Rykon drew upon water sorcery to keep his balance. The street below the ramp cracked and shuddered, a pit forming in the ground. More and more of the street collapsed into the pit, along with the stone walls of the surrounding buildings, and for a moment Rykon wondered if Corthios wanted to collapse the ramp into the pit.
And then an enormous figure rose from the earth, a human shape fashioned out of the broken stones and cracked flagstones. Golden flames blazed in its eyes, eyes that fixed upon Rykon with deadly intent.
An earth elemental. Corthios had pulled it into the mortal world, and the creature had fashioned a body for itself out of the very material of the city.
“Kill the stormdancer!” commanded Corthios, turning his attention back to the exhausted Tyndaros.
And for all its bulk, the earth elemental surged up the ramp with terrifying speed, hands of broken masonry reaching out. Rykon danced to the side, his sword striking out, but it only knocked a rain of sparks from the elemental's stone fingers. A boulder-sized fist slammed down to crush Rykon, but he dodged to the side, the elemental's massive blow tearing a chunk from the ramp.
No sword, no matter how skillful its wielder, could slay an elemental. It was a creature of sorcery, and it would take sorcery to fight it.
Rykon drew in a shaking breath, pulling in power with it. Again lightning flared around his sword, ribbons of blue-white light crackling around the blade. The elemental reached for him, stone fingers yawning wide. Rykon lashed out, his sword cutting a blue-white arc in the air.
Stone fingers fell to the earth, and the elemental bellowed in rage and pain.
Corthios advanced as Tyndaros backed away. The Archon sang in an exhausted voice, lightning hammering from the sky. But Corthios held up him palm, and the lightning bent away from him to ground itself upon the armor and weapons of the slain. Step by step he drew closer, like a man advancing into a gale, and Rykon moved to stop him.
Then the elemental loomed over the ramp, its rebuilt fist raised to smash Rykon to a pulp. He saw more stones and rubble breaking free from the street and the burning houses, flying to repair the earth elemental's damaged body. Even some of the armor and weapons scattered across the ground rose to join themselves to the elemental, ripping free from dead hands and heads and chests.
Tyndaros had the power to destroy the elemental, but he was exhausted, his waning strength holding off Corthios. And Rykon did not have the raw power to destroy an elemental, not on his own.
He watched as a cuirass ripped free from a dead Legionary to embed itself in the elemental's arm, and the idea came to him. Again he called lightning into his sword and leapt at the elemental, his sword blazing like a falling star. Again he severed the elemental's hand, and his blade carved great wounds in the creature's torso. A grinding bellow of rage came from the elemental, and it stormed onto the ramp, intent on crushing Rykon.
Debris and armor flew up to fill its wounds.
Rykon flung himself against Corthios, tackling the high magus. The older man's fist blurred with supernatural speed, knocking Rykon to the ground, but the High Magus stumbled back.
Close to the elemental.
With a hideous screech, Corthios's spell-forged armor ripped free from his torso, flying to embed itself against the elemental.
It was all the opening Rykon needed.
He sprang forward, plunging his sword into Corthios's chest. The high magus’s eyes bulged, and he stumbled to one knee, blood spilling from his mouth. Then his eyes rolled up and Corthios, Lord of the Empire and high magus of the Magisterium, died on Rykon's blade.
The elemental shuddered and collapsed into rubble, released from Corthios's spell.
Rykon sighed, kicked the dead High Magus from his blade, and hurried to the Archon. Lord Tyndaros struggled to his knees, blood seeping from a cut on his brow.
"You...defeated him," breathed Tyndaros. "That man has been a bane of our people for years, and you vanquished him. A great victory." He looked at the burning city, at the thousands of Imperial soldiers filling the docks. "Not that it matters, not any more."
"Lord Archon," said Rykon, "we must go." He took a shuddering breath. "Quickly. The enemy will be here any moment."
Tyndaros nodded, and Rykon helped the old man through the inner gates, into the next circle of Kyrace. The gate guards, Rykon noted sourly, had not come to help during the fight. The slaves pulled the massive gates shut, and they were safe.
Briefly.
"You have done well," said Tyndaros.
"Not well enough," said Rykon. "The city is lost."
Tyndaros closed his eyes and nodded. "Aye. The fault is mine. We have been betrayed."
"Then it is the betrayer's fault, not yours," said Rykon. "The traitor...is it Mathanius?"
"Almost certainly," said Tyndaros. "Someone led the Imperial fleet through the coral maze warding the harbor. You urged me to execute him, when he betrayed us at Mors Naerius. I should have listened to you."
"That is past," said Rykon, though he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "What do you command?"
"The Tower of Storm," said Tyndaros. "Take me there. Quickly!" His voice rose. "The rest of you, you have fought manfully, but it is over. You may leave your posts with honor. Those of you who are slaves, you are free from this moment. The ships wait at the hidden harbor, to escape. If you hasten, you might yet make it in time. Go!"
Some of the soldiers stayed at their posts. But most left, running into the higher circles of the city, to the secret tunnels that led to the hidden harbor, where ships waited to take the women and children to safety in New Kyre.
“If the gate is undefended,” said Rykon, “the city will fall all the faster.”
“The city has already fallen,” said Tyndaros. “It is only question of time. Better that they flee to the ships than die upon the walls. Now, hasten! To the Tower of Storm!”
Rykon led the Archon through the circles of the city, past the ziggurats with their terraces, rippling ponds, and lush gardens, past the temples to the gods of storm and sea and salt, along the broad streets that climbed ever higher up the slopes of the Broken Mountain.
Until they came to the Tower of Storm.
The massive ziggurat rose from the highest circle of the city, fifteen steep tiers of polished granite. Every tier had its own ponds and gardens, beautiful even in the glow of the burning lower city. From here the Archons had ruled over the scattered Kyracian people from Ril Kyrion in the far north to Kyrikos in the south.
Until today.
They entered the Tower’s courtyard. Nine massive statues, each carved from a single block of green dolomite, stood over a central reflecting pool. Each statue represented one of the great elementals that had been bound within the Broken Mountain, when the first Archon and his people had fled here from the mainland.
“Good,” said the Archon, breathing hard, “good. There is still time.”
“To do what?” said Rykon. “The city is lost, you said so yourself.”
“Aye,” said Tyndaros, looking at the Broken Mountain’s jagged peak. “Aye, the city is lost. But I swear to you, by the gods of sea and storm, that the Empire will never possess Kyrace. I swear to you that the Imperial eagle shall never fly over the Tower of Storm. And I swear to you that the Empire will pay a bitter price for having ever set foot in Kyrace.”
“How?” said Rykon.
“There is a secret,” said Tyndaros, “passed down from Archon to Archon from the beginning of Kyrace. These statues are not just symbols. They are…anchors, the linchpins of the mighty spells binding the great elemental spirits within the Broken Mountain. Without those elementals, this island would be uninhabitable.” He placed one hand upon the nearest statue and looked at Rykon. “And I shall break those spells.”
Rykon blinked. “What will happen?”
“I do not know,” said Tyndaros, and Rykon had the impression that the old man lied. “But it will not be good for the Imperial army. Or for anyone left upon the island, for that matter. You must go, Rykon.”
“My place is here,” said Rykon.
“I release you from your service,” said Tyndaros.
“Then my place is to die here,” said Rykon.
“Agia is here, Rykon,” said Tyndaros.
Rykon felt his heart skip a beat. “What?”
“She is in the Tower of Catechon,” said Tyndaros. “I sent her here after the fall of Marsis, to keep her safe from Mathanius, since he would almost certainly come for her. Go to her, now, and make for the hidden harbor. If you hurry, you should just be able to make it.”
“You arranged this, didn’t you?” said Rykon. “My duty is to die here. But you knew I would leave for Agia.”
Tyndaros’s smile looked like a rictus, a death-mask. “Yes. I have made many mistakes, Rykon. But you are a worthy man, and too many worthy men have died for my errors. Now, go. Before it is too late.”
Rykon hesitated, but nodded at last. “Farewell, my Lord Archon.”
“Farewell, stormdancer,” said Tyndaros, turning towards the first statue. “When you reach the fleet, tell the captains to keep to the south side of the island at all costs.”
“Why?” said Rykon. “You…know what releasing the elementals will do, don’t you?”
“It has been an honor, Rykon of House Kardamnos, st
ormdancer of Kyrace,” said Tyndaros, and he turned away.
He drew a dagger, slashed it across his palm, and let his blood fall upon the first of the massive statues. Then he began to sing in a quiet voice. The statue shuddered, and Rykon felt the stirrings of arcane power deep within the earth.
Massive amounts of arcane power, like a sleeping beast waking beneath his feet.
He left the courtyard, moving with sorcery-enhanced speed across the city's upper circle. The Tower of Catechon rose against the darker bulk of the Broken Mountain, looking like a smaller version of the Tower of Storm. Graceful statues rose from the Tower’s gardens, statues of stormdancers with their blades, or stormsingers with their hands raised to the heavens.
No doubt the gardens and the statues would soon burn with the rest of the city.
He hurried to the Tower’s top level and found Agia standing by a reflecting pool, watching the burning docks. She wore a long gown of green, black hair bound back from her slender neck by a silver circlet. The glare from the flames painted her face with hellish light, and he saw tears trickling down her cheeks.
“Agia,” he said.
She turned to face him, one hand flying to her mouth.
“Rykon,” she said, and collapsed into his arms.
For a moment he forgot the Imperial armies, the burning city, the ruin of Kyrace. But only for a moment.
“How did this happen?” she murmured. “How could they have gotten into the city?”
“We were betrayed,” said Rykon.
Agia looked up at him, eyes full of pain. “Mathanius?”
Rykon nodded. “The Archon thinks he led the Imperials through the coral maze. That’s how they got into the harbor without ruining their ships. And with the fleet away, and most of our forces scattered among the colonies…”
“He knew.” Her mouth thinned. “If only the Archon had listened to you…”
“Then none of this would have happened,” said Rykon. If Tyndaros had overruled Mathanius, and allowed Rykon to wed Agia, then Mathanius would have been humiliated. He would not have been bold enough to attempt to seize the Archon’s chair by force, and he would not have turned to the Empire of Nighmar for aid once treachery failed.
The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War Page 94
