Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  A chain whistled through the air.

  She jumped back as the Immortal's chain whip blurred through the air. Caina recovered and pivoted, intending to charge as the Immortal recovered his balance from the massive blow. But the Immortal did not leave himself open, and Caina backed away as the he came at her, whip snapping in a series of short, darting blows. She flung a knife, aiming for his exposed face, and the Immortal blocked the blade with a flick of his whip.

  He was too quick, and his whip gave him a far greater reach. Sooner or later his chain whip would land and tear out a chunk of her flesh, and then he would finish her.

  Unless she removed the advantage of the whip.

  Caina sprinted for the tenement stairs, the Immortal in pursuit. She dashed up the stairs, saw Nicolai still perched upon his step, staring at her with wide eyes.

  She would have one chance to do this right.

  Caina jumped and seized one of the beams of the narrow stairwell’s ceiling, spinning herself around so her feet pointed at the door. A heartbeat later the Immortal charged up the stairs, sword leading as Caina pulled herself back.

  Then she surged forward, her boots slamming into the Immortal’s face with enough force to shatter his jaw and nose. The Immortal fell with a cry of rage and pain, and Caina landed atop his legs, his armor scraping against her skirt.

  She yanked the curved dagger from her belt.

  The silver blade flashed in the dim light. Forged of rare ghostsilver, the dagger was proof against sorcery. The Immortal started to sit up, blood streaming from his face, but Caina was faster.

  She buried the dagger to the hilt in the Immortal’s right eye.

  He collapsed with a clatter of black armor, and Caina wrenched the blade free, breathing hard.

  Another rumble of thunder echoed overhead.

  Nicolai stared at her in silence.

  “Are you all right?” said Caina.

  Nicolai managed a nod.

  “Mother,” he whispered, “Mother said you were the Balarigar.”

  Caina grimaced and wiped her bloody dagger clean on the fallen Immortal’s cloak. “Then let’s get you back to her. Come on.”

  Nicolai hurried down the stairs, pressing close to the wall to avoid the dead Immortal. Caina led him into the courtyard, retrieved her throwing knives from the dead soldiers, and looked around. She still heard screams and fighting from the Great Market, accompanied by the occasional blast of a lightning bolt, but the courtyard was deserted. Good – she could circle through the alleys, avoid the Istarish soldiers, and get back to Zorgi’s Inn and Halfdan.

  And get Nicolai back to his mother and father.

  “This way,” said Caina.

  Again she felt the spike of sorcery, and a lightning bolt screamed out of the sky toward the Citadel.

  But this time Caina felt a second tingle, and the lightning bolt rebounded from the Citadel to smash into the city.

  The city's chapter of magi. They had begun to fight back.

  Another lightning blast rebounded from the walls of the Citadel.

  Only to crash into the wall of the tenement above Caina.

  For a moment the world went white.

  Caina smashed hard into something, realized that the force of the blast had flung her into the brick wall of a warehouse. She slumped to the ground, vision swimming in and out of focus, saw burning timbers raining around her, the tenement ripped in half by the ferocity of the stormsinger’s lightning.

  She heard Nicolai crying.

  Something dark and heavy fell in front of her, blocking her sight.

  Caina tried to rise, tried to stand, but her muscles had no strength to them.

  Cold numbness swallowed her.

  Time passed. She could not have said how much.

  Voices came to her ears, as if from a vast distance.

  They spoke Istarish.

  “What happened here?”

  “The Kyracian bitch’s lightning,” said a second man. “One of the Imperial magi must have deflected it.”

  “Bah!” said the first man. “We’ll find no merchandise here – wait! Grab that boy.”

  “He looks healthy enough,” said the second man. “His mother burned with that tenement, I’ll wager.”

  “Pity,” said the first man. “Fertile women fetch a fair enough price. Cheaper to breed your own slaves than to buy them. Take the boy. If he’s lucky, he’ll become a eunuch. If he’s not, he’ll end up in the mines.”

  Caina heard Nicolai shrieking. Panicked fury filled her, and she tried to stand once more.

  She failed, and sank into silent darkness.

  Chapter 4 - Retreat

  “Get dressed,” said Ark.

  Tanya did not hesitate. She hurried to pick up her clothes, even as Ark seized his trousers and pulled them on.

  “What’s happening?” said Tanya.

  “I don’t know,” said Ark. “Those are Istarish soldiers in the Great Market, and that’s a Kyracian fleet in the harbor.” He tugged on his tunic and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. His mail coat waited there, along with his scarred wooden shield.

  “What do they want?” said Tanya, pulling on her skirt over her shift.

  “What do armies always want?” said Ark, pulling on his mail coat and wrapping his sword belt around his waist. Memories flickered through his mind, most of them heavy with blood. “Conquest. Plunder. Slaves. Gods, the Kyracians and the Istarish have skirmished with the Empire for years. But for them to try something like this…” He shook his head and slung his shield over his back. “We have to find Halfdan, now.”

  “What about Nicolai?” said Tanya, fear in her voice.

  Ark froze.

  He had forgotten about Nicolai. Caina had taken him a few hours ago. His son had wanted to see the ships, and to see the ships, Caina would have to take him to the harbor.

  The harbor now filled with Kyracian warships.

  Ark made a fist, the muscles in his arm straining. Had he spent five years looking for Tanya and Nicolai, only to have his son fall into the hands of Istarish slavers?

  Could the gods be that cruel?

  “Caina,” said Tanya. “He is with Caina. She will keep him safe.”

  Ark managed to nod. If anyone could keep Nicolai safe, Caina Amalas could. Unless she was already slain. Or had been taken captive herself. Or…

  No. He could not think that way. If he panicked, he might as well fall on his sword and get it over with. Caina would keep Nicolai safe.

  She had to.

  “You’re right,” said Ark, hoping his voice carried none of his fear. “Let’s…”

  The door swung open, and Halfdan hurried into the room. He had shed the furred robe and velvet cap of a master merchant for the steel-studded leather armor of a caravan guard. A short sword and a quiver of bolts hung at his belt, and a crossbow from his back.

  “We’re idiots,” said Halfdan.

  Tanya frowned. “What is it? Why are the Istarish and the Kyracians attacking us?”

  “Because they can,” said Halfdan, shaking his head. “We were too focused on finding Naelon Icaraeus, and the Kyracians and the Istarish plotted this right under our noses. Aye, Caina saved the city from Jadriga, but she might have saved it for the Istarish to take it from us.”

  “But the Legions are the city,” said Tanya. “They cannot defeat three Legions.”

  “They can,” said Halfdan, voice quiet, “because the Legions are not in the city.”

  Ark felt a chill. “What?”

  “Cohorts of the Nineteenth Legion are garrisoned at the Citadel and the city’s gates,” said Halfdan. “But the Twentieth and the Twenty-First are out of the city with Lord Commander Hiram, scouting the coast for Kyracian raiders. Gods! Another feint. We are blind fools.”

  “If the Legions are out of the city,” said Ark, “and the Istarish and the Kyracians move fast enough, they can seize the walls and hold the city.”

  “And even if they don't,” said Halfdan, “the
Istarish will have ample time to carry off as many slaves as they want.”

  “What do we do?” said Ark.

  “We get to the northern gate,” said Halfdan. “The Twentieth and the Twenty-First are a day’s march north of the city, and the garrison at the gate will have sent a messenger by now. If the Legions can get back here, they will retake the city.”

  “And they need a gate open for them,” said Ark.

  “Aye,” said Halfdan. “Our task is to ensure the garrison holds that gate. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost. The northern gate must stay open.”

  “What about Nicolai?” said Tanya.

  Halfdan looked at her, and then at the window.

  “Caina hasn’t returned yet?” he said.

  Ark shook his head.

  “Damn it,” said Halfdan.

  “We have to find her,” said Tanya. “She has Nicolai. We have to find them before the soldiers do.”

  Halfdan shook his head. “Caina can take care of herself. We must get to the northern gate. Rezir Shahan will try to secure it, as soon as he gains control of the rest of the city.”

  Another lightning blast cracked overhead. The Kyracian stormsingers, Ark supposed.

  “Our son is out there!” said Tanya. “You can go to northern gate if you wish, Halfdan, but we must get our son back!”

  Ark hesitated. He had failed Tanya and Nicolai once before. He would not fail them again, he would not…

  “Ark,” said Halfdan, “if you go after your son, I won’t stop you. But you can’t fight an army by yourself. And if we don’t hold the northern gate, the Kyracians and the Istarish will keep Marsis. And if they do, your son will become a slave. Which means your best chance to see him alive and safe again is to…”

  “To hold the northern gate,” said Ark, voice quiet, “so the Legions can return.”

  Halfdan nodded. “It’s up to us. Corbould Maraeus is probably dead. There’s no one left to organize a defense. If we are to keep Marsis from falling, then we shall have to take action, immediately.”

  Ark looked at Tanya. Halfdan’s words made sense. Yet Ark had failed her, not Halfdan. If she told him to find Nicolai, then he would get his son back.

  Or die trying.

  “Damn you,” said Tanya, looking at Halfdan. “Why must you be right all the time?”

  Halfdan’s smile had no mirth to it. “You are wrong. I am a fool. If I was as clever as you think, I would have seen this attack coming. You can take this comfort, though. Nicolai is with Caina, and Caina has saved the lives of more men, women, and children than you and I could count. If anyone can keep Nicolai safe, it’s Caina. Do you have a weapon?”

  Tanya shook her head.

  “There’s a short sword in my trunk,” said Ark.

  “Take it,” said Halfdan to Tanya. “You may well need it.”

  ###

  Pandemonium reigned in the common room of Zorgi’s Inn. The maids and servants hovered near the hearth, speaking in frantic whispers. A dozen merchants and minor nobles waited near the doors, bellowing at each other. Zorgi stood before the merchants, trying to shout them down. His wife Katerine, a pale woman with a serious, worried face, stood at his side, along with his son Peter, a sober-looking boy of ten. Caina had rescued the boy from the dungeons below Black Angel Tower, along with Nicolai.

  “Master Basil,” said Zorgi, spotting Halfdan. “Please, remain calm. The Kyracians have launched a raid upon the harbor, and…”

  “It’s worse than that,” said Halfdan. “The Istarish have smuggled an army into the city’s walls, and the Kyracians are about to land a force. There aren’t enough troops in the city to stop them. Once they get organized, they’ll strike hard and fast for the northern gate. Your Inn is right in their path.”

  The blood drained out of Zorgi’s fact, and Katerine clutched his arm, but their faces remained resolute. The years of their son’s disappearance had put some steel in their spines.

  “What shall we do?” said Zorgi.

  “Leave,” said Halfdan. “Take all your people, and as much food as you can carry, and get out of the city. We’re making for the northern gate. If you can get out of the city, you’ll be safe until the Legions return to drive out the enemy.”

  “But our home is here,” said Katerine. “We shall lose everything.”

  “We will still have our lives, Mother,” said Peter.

  “You speak wisely, my son,” said Zorgi. “Go to our bedroom, and bring me the pouch in the hidden compartment under my bed. Wife, see to the maids. Have them bring as much food as they can.”

  Peter ran off, and Katerine hurried to the maids.

  “I have known you for many years, friend Basil,” said Zorgi, “and never have I seen you this grim. Are things truly this dire?”

  “Worse,” said Halfdan.

  The maids hurried out of the kitchen, carrying bundles of food. Peter hurried to his father’s side and handed over a leather pouch. Zorgi’s stash of gold and gems, no doubt.

  “Come,” said Halfdan, beckoning.

  He lowered his voice and turned to Ark. “We’ll make for the Plaza of the Tower and visit Radast’s workshop. If he and Jiri have realized what’s happened, they might have made for the northern gate already. If not, we’ll take them with us. We will need Radast’s cunning in the days ahead.”

  Ark remembered the ghostsilver-tipped quarrels hammering into Naelon Icaraeus and nodded.

  “See here!” One of the minor nobles stepped into Halfdan’s path, face indignant with outrage. “I demand to know what is happening, fellow! Tell me…”

  “Marsis is about to fall,” said Halfdan. “Run for your life. Or pick up a sword and fight. Or stay and spend the rest of your days toiling in an Istarish mine. Your choice is no concern of mine. Now get out of my way.”

  The noble swallowed and stood aside, and Halfdan led them outside. Black plumes of smoke rose from the dockside district and the Great Market, and Ark heard the distant roar of battle. A fireball arced overhead, launched by one of the catapults atop the Citadel’s towers. A heartbeat later a lightning bolt thundered out of the sky and tore the catapult to kindling.

  “This way,” said Halfdan. The streets surrounding the Plaza of the Tower were broad and smooth, lined with proud townhouses and prosperous shops. Some men and women stood in the street, gaping at the lightning overhead. Others hastened to load carts with furniture and valuables. The smarter ones ran from their homes, sprinting for the city’s gates. If they were fast enough, perhaps they would escape the Istarish.

  Halfdan turned a corner and walked right into the band of Istarish soldiers. Four men, all wearing scale armor and spiked helmets, scimitars in their right hands and shields on their left arms. They looked over Halfdan and Ark and Zorgi, at the women behind them, and wide grins split their faces.

  “Imperials!” said the leader in accented Caerish. “You are our captives now! Surrender to your new masters, and it will go better for you. Fight, and it will bring you pain.”

  Halfdan said something in Istarish, and the smiles turned to scowls.

  “What did you tell them?” said Ark.

  “Something impolite,” said Halfdan.

  “Kill the men!” bellowed the leader. “Take the women alive.”

  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.