Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  ###

  A moment later, Caina donned her shadow-cloak and mask and climbed to the top of the tower, something dangling from her right hand.

  Armor clanged and clattered as the Immortals climbed over the dying whiskey fire.

  She perched on the tower's ruined top, her shadow-cloak billowing behind her. She saw the ruined Great Market beneath her, the slaves fleeing in all directions, the Istarish soldiers moving about uncertainly.

  “Behold!” thundered Caina, using the stage voice Theodosia had taught her.

  She felt the sudden weight of thousands of eyes turned in her direction, and she lifted the head of Rezir Shahan upward.

  “Rezir Shahan is slain!” she shouted, and flung the head.

  Theodosia and Halfdan both had taught her the value of a dramatic gesture.

  The head landed in the midst of a group of Istarish soldiers, and they recoiled in horror. The panic spread to the other Istarish soldiers. They had been on the edge of mutiny before, but with Rezir dead, there was nothing left to fight for, and they fled toward the harbor.

  Caina heard bellowed curses as the Immortals found their emir's headless corpse. She looped the rope she had taken from the block and tackle around one of the jagged stones jutting from the tower, threw the rest of rope over the side, and scrambled down the wall. Her boots struck the ground, and she sprinted into the Market.

  And no one noticed her in the seething chaos of the Market. By the time the Immortals reached the top of the watchtower, Caina had vanished into the press. A few people called out “Balarigar” as she passed, but Caina kept running.

  She reached the ruined merchant stall, her heart in her throat. If one of the fleeing slaves had taken Nicolai. Or if one of the Immortals claimed him. Or if one of the soldiers had killed him out of sheer cruelty...

  Nicolai was there. Still curled into a little ball, still tied to the post.

  Caina knelt beside him. “Nicolai.”

  Nicolai looked up, blinked bloodshot eyes. “Balarigar?”

  Caina nodded.

  He was still alive, and unhurt as far as Caina could tell. She thanked whatever gods might be listening.

  “I knew you would come,” whispered Nicolai.

  She cut the ropes binding his wrists and neck.

  “Will you take me back to my mother now?” said Nicolai.

  “Yes,” said Caina.

  A blast of thunder rang over the Market. Caina looked up and saw another bolt of lightning fall out of the cloudless sky over the Citadel. Another three lightning bolts slammed against the Citadel’s walls, thunder rolling over the city.

  Andromache.

  She was already so powerful. And what would she do with the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon?

  Unless someone stopped her.

  There was no one else. There was only Caina.

  “Let's go,” she said, scooping Nicolai into her arms.

  The boy buried his face against her neck. She could try taking him back to Tanya and Ark now. But with Rezir Shahan dead, the Istarish force would break up into panicked bands, all trying to cut their way free from the city. Running into one while carrying Nicolai would be fatal. And the gods only knew what the Kyracian ashtairoi were doing.

  For that matter, Ark and Tanya might already be dead.

  No. Caina would not think about that.

  But it was too dangerous to take Nicolai across the city with her, and she had to find some way to stop Andromache before it was too late.

  A potter’s shop selling amphorae came into sight, and Caina had an idea. Marauding soldiers would loot wine shops, taverns, and anything valuable. They would not trouble themselves with a shop selling jars.

  She pushed open the door. Inside the narrow shop had rows of amphorae perched upon the shelf, with a wooden counter dividing the room in half.

  “Here,” said Caina, setting Nicolai behind the counter. “Stay here until I come back.” She squinted into the back room. “There’s a loaf of bread and some water there, and I have some sausages." She handed them over. "You can eat and drink. If anyone comes into the shop, hide until they go away.”

  Nicolai sniffled. “You'll...you'll come back for me? Like you did with the Moroaica?”

  “I will,” said Caina.

  If Andromache did not kill her.

  Nicolai nodded. “I will hide. No one will see me.”

  “Good,” said Caina. “I will return for you, I promise.”

  It wrenched at her heart to leave him here. But carrying him into the city now would be madness. And Andromache had to be stopped.

  Caina only hoped she could keep her promise to return.

  Nicolai gave a feeble nod.

  Caina took a deep breath and left the shop behind.

  Chapter 24 - Last Stand

  Ark killed a Kyracian ashtairoi, the man collapsing to the cobblestones.

  Two more took his place.

  Fighting raged all along the ramparts, the improvised earthworks growing wet with blood. Unlike the Istarish footmen, the ashtairoi advanced in good order, their rounds shields interlocked to form a protective wall, their spears extended to form a bristling hedge of steel.

  The massed ashtairoi would have provided a perfect target for the crossbowmen upon the wall.

  Except the Kyracians had planned for that.

  Whoever commanded the Kyracians had sent companies of ashtairoi to scale the city’s wall and attack the crossbowmen, forcing them to take up their swords and shields. So far the crossbowmen had held. But sooner or later they would buckle, and the Kyracians would seize the towers of the gatehouse. Worse, the Kyracians were too close to the wall for Radast’s siege engines to hit them.

  The Istarish had reacted to Kleistheon's death with panic. The Kyracians only seemed determined to avenge their fallen champion.

  Another wave of ashtairoi boiled up the earthworks, spears drawn back to stab.

  “Stand fast!” roared Ark.

  Around him the Legionaries and the veterans shouted in answer, lifting their shields. Ark's arms trembled with exhaustion, sweat pouring down his face, his heart thundering in his ears. He was too old to fight for two days straight.

  Gods, he would have been too old for this at twenty.

  An ashtairoi lunged at Ark, spear flashing. Ark raised the shield he had taken from a slain Legionary and caught the blow, the spear's point scraping against the wood. He thrust the sword he had claimed from Kleistheon's corpse. It was lighter than any sword he had ever wielded, but far stronger and sharper than a Legionary's broadsword. No doubt sorcery had been used in its forging.

  The blade crunched through the ashtairoi's cuirass, and the Kyracian soldier staggered back, wounded. Ark swung his shield, and the ashtairoi tumbled down the crude earthworks. Gods and devils, but he wished there had been more time to build a better defensive position. At least the second stormdancer or the stormsinger hadn't shown up yet.

  But it looked as if the ashtairoi would not need the aid of sorcery to take the northern gate.

  The line of Legionaries atop the earthwork wall wavered, falling back beneath the sheer weight of the Kyracian attack.

  “Reserves!” yelled Ark. “Reserves to the rampart, now!”

  “What reserves?” said Tarver, fighting nearby. Blood tricked down the left side of his face from a blow to his helmet.

  Ark risked a glance over his shoulder and cursed. Most of Korbulus's reserves were fighting on the earthworks, while the rest had hurried to the city wall to aid the crossbowmen. Every last Legionary was fighting. There were no reserves.

  A Legionary fell with a scream, his armor pierced by a Kyracian spear, and a gap opened in the line. Ark threw himself into the gap, the spell-forged sword rising and falling. He killed the ashtairoi that had slain the Legionary, and the line held.

  For now.

  But everywhere the defensive line was starting to buckle. Once it collapsed, they would have to fall back to the gatehouse. Assuming the ashtairoi upon the wa
lls did not overwhelm the crossbowmen and seize the towers. And even if the Legionaries escaped to the gatehouse, the ashtairoi could bottle them up inside.

  Or they could simply set fire to the towers. And old trick, but an effective one.

  A scream caught Ark's attention. Almost all the Legionaries holding the narrow gate in the earthwork fortifications had been slain. Even as Ark watched, a mass of ashtairoi moved toward the gate.

  “To me!” roared Ark, leaping from the rampart and running to the gate. He snatched up a pair of javelins from a slain Legionary as he ran. “To me!”

  No one came. No one could, not without turning their backs to the enemy and risking a spear or sword between the shoulders. Even as he ran, the last Legionary holding the gate fell, and the ashtairoi surged forward.

  And Ark realized that he was about to die.

  It was monstrously unfair to have survived Kleistheon, only to perish at the hands of the ashtairoi. But he had vowed to save Tanya and Nicolai, or die trying.

  And it looked like he was going to die trying.

  Ark flung his first javelin, and then the second. The first slammed through an ashtairoi's shield, rending it useless. The second sailed through the gap and crashed into a Kyracian soldier's leg. The man stumbled, opening a hole in the formation.

  Ark hurled himself into the gap, Kleistheon's sword blurring in his fist. He struck down one ashtairoi, and then another. Their formation broke apart, and the Kyracian soldiers retreated from the gate. But unlike the Istarish footmen, they did not keep running. Instead they reformed, presenting a solid wall of shields and spears.

  And step by step, they advanced. They could only come three abreast through the gate, but that was more than enough overwhelm Ark.

  Ark blinked sweat from his eyes, lifted his shield, and prepared to meet his death. He blocked the first thrust, then the second, but could find no opening to attack.

  Then a black shape appeared beside him.

  For a terrible instant Ark wondered if an Immortal had gotten inside the earthworks. But Lord Corbould Maraeus caught a thrust upon his shield, twisted, and stabbed with the broadsword in his right hand. His target fell, dying, and Ark killed the ashtairoi next to the dead man.

  But they kept coming.

  “My lord,” said Ark, breathing hard. “Get back to the gatehouse.”

  Corbould laughed. “Little good that will do. The Kyracians will overrun the gatehouse soon enough. And a scion of House Maraeus will not die caught like a rat in a trap.”

  An ashtairoi lunged at Corbould with a spear. Ark caught the blow on his shield, and Corbould stepped past him, landing a killing blow on the Kyracian soldier.

  “Then flee,” said Ark, “and join Lord Hiram. You needn't die here.”

  “No one needed to die here,” said Corbould. “But you insisted on staying. Little good that has done. Impressive that you slew the stormdancer. But the result will be the same. Marsis will fall.”

  An ashtairoi came at Ark. He parried the blow, his shield shuddering, and a sweep of his spell-forged blade took off the ashtairoi's hand. The Kyracian soldier fell, screaming, blood spurting from the ruined stump.

  “Then run,” said Ark. “While you still bloody can.”

  “Too late for that!” said Corbould, blocking another strike. “If we try to run now, the Kyracians will kill us all.”

  “Then you run!” said Ark, his sword splitting the helmet of an ashtairoi.

  He stumbled back, trying to keep his shield up. There were too many ashtairoi, far too many, and the sheer weight of their number pushed him back. Very soon now they would push him out of the gate, and then they would surround him and kill him. Or they would storm over the top of the ramparts, and he would die when the defensive line collapsed.

  “Bah!” said Corbould. “If I die, I will die fighting with a sword in my hand. As a lord of the Empire should! Perhaps you ought to run, blacksmith!”

  “No,” snarled Ark, killing another ashtairoi.

  A spear came at him, and he staggered back another step. A Kyracian soldier lunged at Corbould, and Ark blocked the attack. Corbould swung, his sword tearing open the soldier's throat.

  “Perhaps your lordship ought to withdraw,” said Ark. “Combat is tiring for a man of your lordship's advanced years.”

  The look Corbould gave him was just short of murderous. But if Ark was going to die, he would not take insults from this man, Lord Governor of Marsis or not.

  Corbould spat a curse and killed another ashtairoi.

  “And perhaps you ought to retreat to the gatehouse!” said Corbould. He parried a spear aimed at Ark's chest, and Ark's sword shattered the shaft of the weapon. “War is no place for a retired centurion. Go back to your forge and boast of your war stories to anyone who will listen! I'm sure they'll be enthralled.”

  “Or you could go lie down and have some warm milk,” said Ark. “The accommodations in the gatehouse,” he paused to kill an ashtairoi that stepped a little too close, “are not up to your lordship's standards. But an old man needs to find his rest where he can take it.”

  “I commanded armies when you were still a boy!” said Corbould, blows raining upon his shield. “While your first centurion was still beating the impudence out of you, I led the armies of the Empire to victory! And when you were still learning to make horseshoes, blacksmith, I was governing the richest provinces of the Empire!”

  Two spears thrust at Ark. He beat them aside and attacked, trying to force back the ashtairoi. But there were too many of them, far too many. It would not be very much longer now.

  “Not successfully,” said Ark, “since we're about to be overrun by Kyracians!”

  He staggered as the top quarter of his shield splintered beneath a heavy blow.

  “Then you will have the honor, blacksmith,” said Corbould, his blade wounding a Kyracian, “of dying alongside the Lord Governor of Marsis!”

  “I’m sure they’ll make a song about it!” said Ark.

  Corbould's white teeth flashed in a snarl. Or perhaps a wolfish grin. Ark wasn't sure. At that moment the Kyracians at last pushed them through the gate.

  It was over.

  Ark took a deep breath, preparing to charge into the ranks of the enemy.

  Something shot overhead, glinting in the light of the fires burning atop the gatehouse's towers.

  A volley of iron-tipped javelins fell upon the tight-packed Kyracians, wounding dozens and killing at least as many. Had the crossbowmen defeated their attackers, come to Ark's aid? But, no, he still saw them struggling atop the ramparts.

  He dared a glance over his shoulder and saw men running through the gate. Men in the overlapping plate armor and helmets of the Legions, heavy shields upon their left arms and broadswords in their hands. Even as Ark watched, the new Legionaries raced to the ramparts, lending the aid to the faltering defense.

  And looking through the gates, a river of gleaming armor and fluttering banners stretched as far as Ark could see.

  “The Twentieth and the Twenty-First,” said Ark, unable to believe his eyes. More Legionaries rushed past. The Kyracians fell back, reforming their lines to deal with the new threat. “They're here.”

  “I'll be damned,” said Lord Corbould, wiping sweat from his brow. “Your plan worked, blacksmith.” He shook his head. “It actually worked.”

  More troops rushed through the northern gate, and the Kyracian attack upon the earthworks faltered, and then stopped entirely. Ark hurried to the top of the makeshift wall, and saw the Kyracians withdrawing to the other end of North Gate Plaza.

  A troop of horsemen clattered through the gate, carrying the banners of the Twentieth Legion. One of the riders walked his horse forward. He was a about Ark's age, his face marred by scars beneath his plumed helmet. Yet he sat straight as a spear in his saddle, and betrayed no hint of weakness.

  A wave of relief went through Ark.

  “I am Lord Commander Hiram Palaegus of the Twentieth Legion!” announced the horseman. �
�I am taking command of this defense. Has Lord Corbould survived? Is he here?” His gaze fell upon Ark, and a smile flashed over his face. “Arcion. I should not be surprised to find you here.”

  Lord Commander Hiram was part of Marsis's Ghost circle.

  “It is good to see you, Lord Commander,” said Ark.

  Corbould frowned and stepped to Ark's side. “You know our blacksmith, Hiram?”

  “Aye,” said Hiram. “He was most helpful in that business with Lord Naelon Icaraeus, my lord governor.”

  “Really?” said Corbould, then he shook his head. “A matter for later. You've arrived at a good time, Hiram. Another hour and we’d have been finished.”

  “What is going on?” said Hiram. “I leave for two days to track down Kyracian raiders, and return to find the city overrun.”

  “Almost overrun,” said Corbould. “We held the northern gate.”

  “The Istarish and the Kyracians made an alliance and attacked,” said Ark. “Their combined force is only ten thousand men, and they've taken losses. With the Twentieth and the Twenty-First, you have enough men to sweep them from the city.”