“Tarver,” said Ark. “Now.”
Tarver nodded and waved his torch overhead.
The crossbowmen upon the city's walls raised their weapons and fired. The solid mass of Istarish soldiers presented an easy target, and a storm of quarrels slammed into the advancing infantry. Most of the bolts bounced from the upraised shields. But many plunged through gaps to sink into flesh, and screams rang over the Plaza. Ark saw men fall, wounded or dying, and the formation wavered. Yet the Immortals shouted commands, and the soldiers kept advancing.
The men on the walls began reloading their crossbows.
“The engines, sir?” said Tarver.
“Wait a moment,” said Ark, watching the Istarish continue their advance. He remembered the fight in Foundry Square, how Radast's siege engine had sealed off the street with a wall of flame.
This time, Ark intended something a little different.
More soldiers came into the Plaza. Still no sign of the ashtairoi. Though Ark expected them at any moment.
“Sir?” said Tarver.
“Do it,” said Ark.
Tarver waved his torch over his head in a circle, and clanks and clangs echoed as the engines atop the gatehouse fired. Radast had spent the last several hours targeting them, muttering numbers to himself all the while. The man was half-mad, but he knew siege engines better than anyone.
As he proved when the bolts from the ballista slammed into the Istarish formation. Each massive iron bolt speared a dozen men, throwing them to the ground. Twin barrels of burning pitch from the gatehouse's catapults arced overhead, drawing a trail of fire over the darkening sky. They exploded against the end of the Avenue of Champions, sealing the street from the Plaza.
And trapping the mass of Istarish soldiers between the flames and the improvised fortifications.
Another volley of crossbow bolts hissed from the walls, sending a ripple through the Istarish ranks.
“Now!” shouted Ark. “Advance!”
Tarver nodded to one of his men, who lifted a trumpet and sounded a long blast.
And with a great shout, the Legionaries raced forward, clambering over the earthworks and charging at the enemy. The Istarish soldiers were caught flat-footed. They had expected to assault a fortified position, not to face a charging enemy. The Legionaries flung their javelins as they ran. The heavy javelins pierced shield and armor alike, killing dozens of men. The Istarish lines grew even more ragged, even as the Legionaries plowed into the Istarish. The clash and crash of steel on steel rang over the Plaza, accompanied by the screams of wounded men.
A third volley of crossbow bolts shot from the walls, arcing over the heads of the Legionaries to slam into the Istarish ranks.
Ark watched from atop of earthworks, sword in hand. The ballistae fired again, sending iron bolts plunging into the enemy. Radast did indeed know his deadly business. The Istarish soldiers began to flee, some running for the side streets, others desperately trying to find a way through the raging flames. Ark nodded to himself, thinking hard. A little while longer, and he would call the Legionaries back to their defensive works. The first Istarish attack had been blunted, and he doubted the Kyracians would attack without the Istarish to back them up.
It would take the Istarish some time to reorganize for a second attack. Perhaps time enough for Hiram Palaegus to arrive with his Legions...
A flash of blue-white light caught Ark's eye.
A man stood on the roof of a house overlooking the Plaza. His craggy features and his shaved head gave him the look of a weathered statue. He wore gray leather armor, and carried a sword in his right hand.
A sword with blue-white lightning dancing up and down the blade.
One of the stormdancers.
“Tarver!” yelled Ark. “Call them back! Call them...”
The stormdancer moved.
He jumped from the roof, soaring like one of Radast’s fireballs. It must have been a fall of a hundred feet, maybe more, but he landed unharmed in the midst of Ark's Legionaries. The Legionaries turned to face him in sudden alarm, shields raised, swords drawn back to stab.
For a moment silence fell over the battlefield. A smile spread over the stormdancer's harsh face.
Then the killing began.
The stormdancer tore through the Legionaries like a gale, his sword a blur of snarling light. A dozen men fell dead in the time it took Ark to blink. The stormdancer did not even need to strike his enemies down. A single touch of his storm-wreathed blade sent lightning crawling up and down a Legionary's armor, throwing the soldier thrashing to the ground as his skin smoldered and his hair burned.
The entire momentum of the counterattack collapsed. Some of the Legionaries retreated back to the earthworks. Ark could not blame them. In the Legions, the penalty for cowardice was death, but who could stand against sorcery and live? Caina would have thought of something clever, some cunning stratagem to overthrow the stormdancer, but Ark was only a blacksmith.
He heard the blast of a trumpet sounding the retreat.
“No,” said Ark.
If the Legionaries withdrew, the Istarish and the Kyracians would hold Marsis.
The stormdancer killed another five Legionaries, moving faster than the wind.
Ark had failed. He had failed Halfdan. He had failed Tanya and Nicolai, just as he had failed them when the Moroaica had taken them captive.
And now he had failed them again.
The Legionaries fell back toward the fortifications, even as the Istarish regained their courage and pressed the attack. The stormdancer drove toward the fortifications, killing another Legionary with every step that he took.
Ark jumped from the earthworks and ran toward the stormdancer, sword in hand.
“Stormdancer!” he roared, brandishing his sword. “Stormdancer!”
The Legionaries looked at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had. But he did not care. He had failed Tanya and Nicolai once before. He would die before he failed them again.
Then the stormdancer looked at him, and Ark saw his death in those hard green eyes.
“Stormdancer!” said Ark. “Face me!”
The stormdancer grinned and lifted his blade.
“Face me, craven!” said Ark.
The stormdancer froze.
“What,” he said in accented Caerish, “did you call me?”
“I called you craven,” said Ark.
A dead silence fell over the Plaza. Part of Ark felt every eye in the Plaza fall upon him. He did not care. They were only watching to see the stormdancer squash the impudent fool like an insect.
“Have you grown weary of life?” said the stormdancer. “Run, fool, and perhaps you may yet escape my wrath.”
“I name you craven, in the hearing of every man here!” shouted Ark. “Your sorcery protects you from our weapons! You are not a warrior. You are a butcher! You walk among us and our weapons cannot touch you. Men need valor to face danger. You face no danger. What valor do you have?”
The stormdancer's eyes narrowed.
“Lay aside your sorcery,” said Ark, “and face me as man, not a sorcerer.”
The stormdancer laughed. “Lay aside the power of storm and wave? Does the falcon lay aside his flight so he might face the worm upon the earth? Does the lion pull his fangs so he can meet the challenge of a sheep? What is your name, worm?”
“Arcion,” said Ark, “of Caer Marist, once first spear of the Eighteenth Legion.”
“I am Kleistheon of House Tericleos, a stormdancer of New Kyre.” He pointed his lightning-wreathed sword at Ark, the light throwing harsh shadows over his craggy face. “My ancestor Tericleos was among the founders of Old Kyrace. A son of House Tericleos sailed with every Kyracian war fleet, and ruled every sea that rings your feeble little Empire. And when Old Kyrace sank into the sea, my family was among the first to found the Assembly of New Kyre. My lineage is long and my ancestry proud. And who were your ancestors, first spear? Hmm? Of what proud deeds did they boast?”
“My father was an in
nkeeper,” said Ark. Any moment Kleistheon would tire of the conversation and cut him down. But every moment he delayed gave Lord Hiram another moment to arrive, another chance for Nicolai and Tanya to gain their freedom. “My mother was a farmer's daughter.”
Kleistheon laughed. “Ah! An innkeeper! Such a noble bloodline. And you are retired? Did you become an innkeeper as well?”
“I am a blacksmith,” said Ark.
“A blacksmith,” said Kleistheon, voice heavy with contempt. He waved his sword at the Legionaries. “An army of innkeepers and farmers' brats and blacksmiths! And you dare to contend with the blood of Old Kyrace? You think you can face one who commands the winds and the waves themselves?” He spat. “Your kind is fit only for the slave's collar!”
“And your kind,” said Ark, gripping his shield, “talks too much.”
Kleistheon attacked.
He moved so fast that Ark could not see the movement. The lightning-wrapped sword smashed against Ark's shield and tore it to shreds. Ark staggered back a dozen steps and managed to catch his balance, the jagged remnants of his shield still strapped to his arm.
Kleistheon strode toward forward, sword low, his stance and posture utterly unconcerned. Ark thrust, and Kleistheon's sword snapped up, blocking the strike. Fingers of lightning sprang from his sword and curled down Ark's blade. It would have continued up the sword and killed him, had Ark not possessed the foresight to wrap his sword's hilt in leather. Otherwise the lightning would have shot up his sword and torn into his chest, killing him.
Like a lightning rod aimed at his heart.
“So, mighty blacksmith,” said Kleistheon. “Take your sword and strike me down.”
Ark stabbed again, and Kleistheon beat aside the thrust, lighting snarling down the swords.
A lightning rod...
The idea, the mad, impossible idea, filled Ark’s mind.
“Lie down and die,” said Kleistheon. “You are not fit even to be held as a slave.”
With his left hand, Ark drew the Immortal's chain whip from his belt. The links slithered over the ground, clinking against the cobblestones.
Again Kleistheon laughed. “An Immortal's whip? You cannot wield such a weapon, fool. Throw down your sword. I promise you a quick death, which is more than you deserve.”
Ark swung the whip, and Kleistheon raised his sword in a lazy block. The chain wound around the sword, the lightning crawling up the whip to lick against the elaborate leather-wrapped handle.
“Is that the best you can do, blacksmith?” said Kleistheon.
“No,” said Ark, and threw the handle at Kleistheon's face.
Kleistheon's left arm blurred with supernatural speed to block the handle. The length of the chain whip coiled around his arm five or six times, the handle bumping against his shoulder.
And the lightning from his sword traveled down the chain and sank jagged fingers into his chest.
Kleistheon screamed, every muscle in his body contracting at once, the lightning wreathing him in a blue-white corona. The smell of burning flesh filled Ark's nostrils. Kleistheon toppled onto his back, twitching and writhing, smoke rising from his armor.
Ark hefted one of the shards of his ruined shield, a spike of wood two feet long.
“I am only a blacksmith,” he said, slamming the shard into Kleistheon's throat, “but even I know how a damned lightning rod works.”
Kleistheon, preoccupied with drowning in his own blood, did not answer. After a moment his twitching stopped, and the lightning faded from his sword.
Ark let out a long breath.
Utter silence hung over North Gate Plaza. The Legionaries stared at Ark, faces slack with shock. The Istarish gazed at him, stunned. Ark wondered what the devil was wrong with them, and then realized that they had just seen him kill a stormdancer. A stormdancer who had carved his way through the Nineteenth Legion, invincible and deadly, a stormdancer who could have taken the northern gate on his own.
And Ark, a man without any sorcery, had just killed him.
He picked up Kleistheon's sword. The weapon felt marvelously light in his hand, and it looked sharp enough to use as a razor.
He pointed the sword at the Istarish.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Ark bellowed. “Take them!”
The stunned silence broke, and the Legionaries flung themselves upon the Istarish with a scream of fury. The Istarish lines shattered like glass beneath a hammer. The enemy had put too much trust in Kleistheon, Ark realized. They had expected the stormdancer to shatter the Legionaries' defenses, has had happened into the Plaza of the Tower. But now their invincible champion was dead. And with him perished the confidence of the Istarish soldiers. They fled, ignoring even the threats and the chain whips of the Immortals.
A shuddering clang came from the gatehouse, and fireballs soared overhead. For a black instant Ark wondered if the fireballs would crash into the struggling Legionaries, but Radast had adjusted his aim. The fireballs landed into the Avenue of Champions, striking the Istarish soldiers massed there. The entire Istarish force fled, scrambling back down the Avenue of Champions.
Ark felt a surge of wild exultation. Perhaps they could drive the Istarish all the way to the Plaza of the Tower, even into the harbor. No, the Legionaries were still outnumbered. He ought to withdraw the men back to the earthworks and hold until Lord Hiram could arrive.
Right about then the ashtairoi attacked.
###
“Stand, you craven dogs!” roared Rezir, pointing with his scimitar. “Stand and fight!”
His men did not heed him, instead continuing to flee back to the Plaza of the Tower. Rezir's fury redoubled. These useless peasant cravens! Why did they not obey their lord and master? If they fell in battle, so be it! They ought to be honored to give their lives in their emir's service.
Instead they kept running.
“I told you to stand!” shouted Rezir, spurring his horse forward. “I will execute the lot of you for cowardice!” His scimitar blurred, sent a fleeing soldier's head rolling across the Avenue of Champions. None of the running men paid any heed. Rezir's bodyguard of Immortals formed up around him, and still the soldiers kept running, trampling each other in their haste to get away.
How had things gone so wrong? His plan had worked so well. All that had been left was to claim the northern gate, a simple task, a trifling detail. And once that was done he would be the emir of Marsis. How the other emirs would have bowed and scraped before him, the conqueror of the western Empire. Even the Padishah would have been forced to acknowledge Rezir's power.
And somehow it had fallen apart.
He must have been betrayed.
“Andromache,” spat Rezir.
The Kyracian storm witch had abandoned him for her precious meditations. Had she been here, her lightning could have ripped apart the Legionaries' lines. Or her brother could have watched Kleistheon's back, keeping that centurion from killing him.
The fool. How could he have fallen to a blacksmith?
Rezir yanked on his reins, turning the black horse around.
“We make for the Great Market,” he told his Immortals. “At once!”
He would find Andromache and force her to see reason. If she lent her aid to the battle, they could yet claim the city's walls.
And if she refused to listen to him...
Rezir scowled, spurring his horse to greater speed, the Immortals jogging after him.
If she refused to listen, he would abandon both her and her brother. It would be easy enough to steal one of the Kyracian warships from the harbor and make his escape. True, he would lose his chance to claim Marsis. But he would still have his life.
Which was more than Andromache would be able to say.
Chapter 23 - Balarigar
The sun went down.
Caina took a deep breath, left her hiding place, and headed for the Great Market.
Night had fallen over Marsis, but silence had not. From the north, Caina heard the distant sound
of steel on steel, the clash of swords against shields. The Istarish and the Kyracians had launched their final push to seize the gates. If they succeeded, the Empire would never regain the city.
If Caina didn't find Nicolai soon, she would be trapped within Marsis.
Later. She could figure out what to do later, after she rescued Nicolai.
Caina reached the edge of the Great Market.
She stopped, staring.
“Damn it,” she said at last.
Once again chaos had broken out in the Great Market.
Bands of Istarish soldiers hurried down the Avenue of Governors. Most had dropped their shields, and had the hunted look of defeated men. Others carried sacks over their shoulders, and seemed intent on getting away with as much plunder as they could carry. The battle must not have gone well for the Istarish. Though Caina did not see any Kyracians among the soldiers. Perhaps the ashtairoi still fought…
Later. She could worry about the battle after she found Nicolai.
She saw the ruined merchant stall fifty yards away. She hoped that Nicolai was still inside, that one of the Immortals hadn't carried him away or killed him out of cruelty. But the chaos in the Market could work to her advantage. If she ran in and out…
A troop of Immortals marched into the Market, surrounding a man in golden armor atop a black horse.
Rezir Shahan himself.
He reined up at the edge of the Plaza, his Immortals forming a square around him. The Istarish soldiers looked at him with sullen, resentful eyes, while the slaves cringed, hoping to avoid his gaze.
“Where is Andromache?” shouted Rezir.
No one answered him.
“Where is Andromache?” bellowed Rezir, standing up in his stirrups. “Answer me, damn you! Where is the Kyracian witch?”
“Probably hiding from the battle,” shouted one of the soldiers. “Just like you!”
Rezir's expression darkened further. Good. If the Istarish fell to fighting among themselves, that would make it all the easier for Caina to grab Nicolai.
Then a ragged band of Istarish soldiers moved closer to Rezir, blocking Caina's path to the ruined merchant stall. She cursed under her breath. Her shadow-cloak made it easier to remain unseen, but it would not let her move unnoticed through a crowd of Istarish footmen.
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