Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Well spoken,” said Tomazain.

  “Thank you,” said Damla. “I…how do you know how to that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Stack the logs,” said Damla.

  He blinked, and then he grinned. “I was a baker in the Legion.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” said Tomazain. “In the Legion, everyone learns a skill. Some become smiths, or farriers, or carpenters. Me, I was a baker. A damned good one, too. The Lord Commander of our Legion always preferred my loaves. After I had left the Legion, I figured I would settle back home in the Saddaic provinces, open up a bakery, and…”

  His voice faltered as if he had hit a painful memory.

  “The Umbarians?” said Damla, remembering what she had heard of the war in the eastern Empire.

  “No,” said Tomazain. “It was before that. After I had left the Legion, I married a woman, and we had a daughter. Our town was burned by Kagari raiders, and my family died in the fire.”

  “I am sorry,” said Damla.

  He sighed. “A few years after that, the Umbarians arose, and the town was destroyed anyway, the people raised as undead soldiers. My wife and daughter didn’t live to see that. A small mercy, I suppose.”

  “A very small one,” said Damla.

  “Yes,” said Tomazain.

  “It is no comfort, but I do understand,” said Damla. “My husband died at Marsis.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tomazain.

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  “I suppose that was why I became a mercenary,” said Tomazain. “There was nothing else to be done.”

  “It is why I help the circlemaster,” said Damla. “In her war against the nagataaru and the Grand Master. I already lost my husband. I help her in this war to save my sons.”

  To her surprise, Tomazain laughed.

  “What is it?” said Damla.

  “It is a war,” said Tomazain. “But it is a war in the shadows. Though I’ve never fought a war by baking bread.”

  “No time like the present, is there?” said Damla, and together they set to work.

  Chapter 13: Visions

  Kylon hurried to the southwestern corner of the Anshani Quarter, heading towards the lightly guarded section of wall he had used to enter the city earlier.

  It took longer than he expected.

  There wasn’t much left before dawn, and many bands of soldiers moved through the streets, torchlight glinting on their spiked helmets and chain mail hauberks. Kylon suspected that the duty shifts upon the ramparts were about to rotate. That would explain the tense wariness he sensed from the soldiers. Likely the defenders felt uneasiness and alarm when they contemplated the far larger rebel army outside of the walls. For that matter, the Grand Wazir and the Grand Master had terrible reputations, thanks to Erghulan’s defeat and Cassander’s announcements, and the men were likely not comforted by the thought that Callatas’s sorcery would win the victory.

  Perhaps the common soldiers were wiser than the Grand Wazir.

  Another thought occurred to Kylon as he threaded his way through the maze of alleys. Perhaps the Grand Wazir was planning to launch a sortie upon the rebels. That would explain the air of fear and anticipation he sensed from the soldiers, but it made no sense. Why would Erghulan launch a sortie? His men could be driven back into the gate. For that matter, the soldiers themselves might revolt if ordered to such a suicidal course.

  Perhaps Sulaman and Tanzir could convince the defenders to change sides and hand over Erghulan. Sulaman was the rightful Padishah, and he and Tanzir would be generous to anyone who surrendered.

  That would mean the rebels could get into the city without Damla and Agabyzus and the rest of the Ghosts risking themselves. Agabyzus’s plan was solid, but many things could go wrong, and if they did, Agabyzus and the others would be slaughtered. Kylon did not want to have to share that news with Caina.

  If Caina was even still alive…

  Kylon put all such fears out of his mind. He needed to focus on getting out of the city and bringing the news of Agabyzus’s plan to Sulaman and Tanzir and Nasser. Getting killed while brooding would be a ridiculous way to die.

  At last the city wall rose before him.

  He sprinted forward and leaped, drawing on the sorcery of water to sheathe his hands in frost. Kylon gripped the wall, kicked out, gripped the wall again, and kicked once more. He grasped the battlements, rolled over the ramparts, and sprang over the other side before anyone noticed him. Halfway down, he gripped the wall, the sorcery of frost slowing his descent, and he hit the ground, the sorcery of water giving him the strength to absorb the impact.

  Kylon rolled a dozen yards, came to his feet, and started running. In the distance, he saw the campfires of the rebel army, their tents placed beyond the reach of the Hellfire catapults. Kylon would first greet the sentries to make sure they did not shoot him, and then he would take his news to Tanzir and Sulaman and the other commanders. Tomorrow at dawn, Agabyzus and his Ghosts would open the gate, and the city would fall, or the Ghosts would fail and be slaughtered.

  Either way, a lot of people were going to die.

  The distant clang echoing over the ramparts was his only warning.

  Kylon whirled just in time to see every single catapult atop the watch towers release at once, flinging small, dark objects across the brightening sky. He sensed the latent power of those objects, a storm of fire ready to emerge.

  Hellfire amphorae, dozens of them.

  And Kylon was in their path.

  He sprinted as fast as he could manage, drawing upon the sorcery of air to give him every bit of speed he could muster. Kylon hurtled forward with the speed of a galloping horse, the camp blurring towards him.

  Behind him he heard the sound of shattering amphorae, following by a sudden whooshing noise.

  The explosion knocked Kylon from his feet.

  A wall of hot air slammed into him, and Kylon drew in as much of the sorcery of water as he could manage, sheathing himself in the power of ice and frost. He hit the ground and rolled, scrambling to his feet and resuming his run. Without using the sorcery of air, he couldn’t run as fast, but the sorcery of water kept him from burning alive in the hot wind.

  Because the heat was enough to kill a man. Hellfire exploded from the ground, rising in a curtain nearly thirty yards high, higher than the walls of Istarinmul. Had Kylon been any closer, he would have been incinerated at once. As it was, he was close enough that the heat of the Hellfire would have killed him instantly if not for the sorcery of water. Kylon ran as fast as he could manage, sweat pouring down his face, the heat of the Hellfire stinging despite the aura of frost sorcery that kept him alive.

  Bit by bit, the terrible heat subsided, and Kylon stumbled to a stop, breathing hard, and looked at the city. The curtain of Hellfire was already dimming, the elixir burning itself out. As potent as Hellfire was, there simply wasn’t that much to burn on the dusty plain outside the city. Kylon looked around, wondering if the engineers upon the wall had somehow managed to boost the range of the catapults to strike the rebel army. But no – as far as he could tell, the volley of Hellfire amphorae hadn’t reached the rebel army at all.

  In fact, it seemed to have accomplished nothing of use.

  “Lord Kylon?”

  Kylon saw a few of the sentries approaching him on horseback, eyes wide as they stared at him. He wondered how they knew who he was, and then realized they likely knew him from the duel with Master Rhataban. The account of the fight had spread throughout the army.

  “Aye?” said Kylon, wiping sweat from his face.

  “You are…uninjured?” said the sentry, his eyes wide beneath his spiked helm as if he could not quite believe what he had just seen.

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “Fortunately, I can run fast.”

  They gaped at him.

  “Is it an attack, Lord Kylon?” said the sentry.

  That didn’t make sense. The Grand Wazir was outnumbered at least ten
-to-one, maybe more. He didn’t dare throw away any of his men in a pointless sortie against the rebels. Something Caina had once said flickered through his mind. That barrage of Hellfire had been a spectacular display…and spectacular displays made for excellent distractions.

  The volley of Hellfire had been a distraction.

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “Sound the alarm, quickly! The enemy comes! To arms! Go!”

  The sentries turned and rode towards the tents of Tanzir’s army, yanking the war horns from their belts and blowing long wailing blasts. Kylon looked back at the thinning curtain of Hellfire and saw that the city’s southern gate had opened. A burst of shock went through him. Surely Erghulan was not that stupid? Then Kylon saw the horsemen boiling out of the gate, torches in hand.

  It was a sortie.

  There was no way Erghulan’s men could drive off the Prince’s army. Yet they could throw the rebel army into chaos, forcing the men to regroup. That would mean a delay or no more than a day or two…but with Callatas working the Apotheosis in the Golden Palace, even a delay of a day could be fatal. Agabyzus and the Ghosts would open the gate at dawn tomorrow, and if Tanzir’s men were not ready to strike, the opportunity would be wasted, and the Ghosts would be killed when the Grand Wazir’s soldiers retook the gate.

  “To arms!” shouted Kylon, running towards the rows of the tents. He used a spell of air to amplify his voice, raising it to a booming thunderclap. Around him, he saw the soldiers scramble out of their tents, felt the rising alarm from their emotional sense. “To arms! The enemy comes!”

  “Lord Kylon!” said a familiar voice.

  Kylon saw a band of grim-faced men in chain mail running down the aisle between rows of tents. Many of the men carried the skulls of defeated foes at their belts, which meant they were Kaltari warriors. Strabane himself marched at their head, scowling, his greatsword in his hands. After him came Nasser, a shadow in his dark clothing, and Laertes, broadsword and heavy shield ready. Kylon vaguely wondered if Laertes and Tomazain had served in the same Legion.

  “Seems you brought the fight with you,” said Strabane.

  “I doubt it,” said Kylon. “I have news for the Prince and the emir, but we have to deal with this first. The Hellfire barrage was just a distraction. The Grand Wazir launched a sortie.”

  Nasser nodded. “No doubt hoping to throw us into disarray, gaining his master another day to work the Apotheosis.”

  “That was my thought,” said Kylon. “They are forming up just outside the gate with torches, probably to burn the tents.”

  “The tents?” said Strabane, looking at Nasser.

  “They will ride right down this aisle,” said Nasser, “to set as much afire as they can.”

  Strabane nodded and spat upon the dusty ground. “Then let’s give the bastards an unpleasant surprise, shall we?” He barked orders to his warriors, and they dispersed, hiding in the narrow gaps between the tents. Strabane beckoned, and Kylon followed the Kaltari headman with Nasser and Laertes, ducking into a gap between two tents. For a moment, the aisle appeared deserted, even as the blast of war horns and the boom of drums rose from the rest of the camp.

  The illusion did not last long.

  A moment later the enemy horsemen galloped down the aisle. Most of them were armored in chain mail or gleaming plate, which meant they were the personal guards of the various emirs who still supported Erghulan Amirasku. All of them carried torches and scimitars and lances, and started to draw back their arms, preparing to throw the torches and set the tents ablaze.

  “Now!” roared Strabane.

  Kylon moved before anyone else could react, drawing on the sorcery of air and water. He leaped overhead, valikon raised, and came plummeting down. His sweeping blow knocked one of the horsemen from the saddle to die beneath the stamping hooves of his fellow riders. Kylon landed in the midst of the horses and jumped again, killing another horseman, and before he touched down again, the Kaltari erupted from concealment, howling their war cries.

  A javelin sailed through the air and buried itself in the chest of a horseman, driving the soldier to the ground with a scream. Laertes waded into the fray, shield raised as he reached over his back for a second javelin. Nasser parried the stab of a lance with a sweep of his scimitar, punching out with his gloved left fist as he did. His hand slammed into his foe’s knee with a hideous crunching noise, and the horseman howled in pain. Nasser stabbed up, his scimitar plunging into his foe’s flesh, and the horseman slumped to the ground.

  The Kaltari fought with less finesse than Nasser, but with no less effectiveness. Trapped between the mass of Kaltari warriors, the horsemen had no chance. Kylon killed and killed, the valikon running red with blood in his hands, and a moment later the few survivors broke and fled, galloping back towards the walls of Istarinmul.

  “Come!” said Nasser, gesturing with his scimitar. “We’ve driven off this band, but there will be others.”

  Kylon wanted to suggest that they charge at once and try to reach the opened gate before Erghulan’s men could close it, but he knew that would be suicide. The men upon the walls would see the attackers coming from a long way off, and would have ample time to close the gate. Then the attackers would be trapped outside the wall, well within the range of archers upon the ramparts…and the Hellfire catapults atop the watch towers.

  So he nodded and followed Nasser as they ran towards the sound of fighting.

  ###

  By mid-morning, the last of the raiders had been killed or driven off. As far as Kylon could judge, the sortie had been a failure. Erghulan had lost far more men than the rebels had, and Tanzir’s army had not been thrown into disarray. Kylon had not thought of Erghulan Amirasku as a shrewd commander, and both the battle on the steppes to the south and the recent sortie confirmed that suspicion.

  Of course, Erghulan didn’t need to be shrewd to hold Istarinmul for another few days. If Kylon used the spell to sense arcane forces, he detected the power gathering around the Golden Palace, a power that seemed to redouble every few hours. Callatas was gathering a colossal amount of force to cast the Apotheosis, and Kylon did not think it would take the Grand Master much longer to finish the spell.

  At noon, Tanzir and Sulaman called together their chief commanders to discuss their tactics for taking the city. Kylon followed Strabane, Nasser, and Laertes to the gathering outside of Prince Sulaman’s tent. All the chief captains were there – Tanzir and Sulaman, with Mazyan scowling behind the Prince, Lord Martin and Lady Claudia, Kazravid and the commanders of the mercenary companies, the other emirs who had declared their support for Tanzir and the Prince.

  The Emissary waited with them, flanked by a quartet of the bright-robed monks from Silent Ash Temple.

  “My lords and emirs,” said Tanzir, sweating a little in the noon sun. His armor had to be excruciating in the heat of the day. “We have driven off the last of the raiders and held our lines. I cannot imagine what Erghulan hoped to accomplish with that sortie, save to waste lives.”

  Strabane shrugged. “He wanted to buy time. Stir up chaos for us, and gain a few hours for his Grand Master to work his sorcery.”

  “That, I think,” said Nasser, “is the most likely explanation.”

  “We must decide how to proceed,” said Sulaman. “Lord Kylon. What news do you bring from the city?”

  Kylon took a deep breath as the eyes of the captains fell upon him. “The Grand Master has barricaded himself within the Golden Palace, and he is casting the spells to work the Apotheosis.”

  “I know,” said Claudia. She looked tired, her green eyes bloodshot. Likely she had spent the morning working in the hospital tents. “Every time I cast a spell I feel the amount of power he is drawing. Already he has gathered enough sorcerous strength to blast Istarinmul to ashes, and still he is summoning more.”

  “Callatas has ordered Erghulan to hold the wall no matter what happens,” said Kylon. “I think he promised that the Apotheosis will bring final victory, so Erghulan will fight to t
he bloody end.”

  Sulaman nodded. The lines on his thin face seemed deeper than they had a few days earlier. “And the other task we spoke of?”

  Kylon glanced at Claudia. “I made contact with the spies within the city.”

  “They are alive?” said Lord Martin. Claudia and Martin were both Ghosts, so they would likely have met at least some of the rest of the circle.

  “Yes,” said Kylon.

  “Was there any word from the Balarigar?” said Sulaman.

  One of the other emirs snorted. “The woman started this damned war, she can be here for the end of it.”

  “No,” said Kylon. “No one in Istarinmul has seen her.” The usual tangle of grief and worry and anger went through him, and he shoved it aside. “The spies have a plan. They think they can seize the city’s gate and open it tomorrow at dawn. They will be able to open it, but not for long. We must be ready to strike at once. I think that is our best chance to get inside the city before it is too late.”

  Sulaman regarded him for a moment. “Do you believe they can succeed?”

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “Their plan is risky, and I fear some of them will be killed. But I do think it will work. Otherwise, we will have to launch a full assault on the wall, and you saw what happened when those catapults threw amphorae of Hellfire to cover the sortie.”

  “It turned the field into a sea of fire,” said Strabane. “Damned sorcerers.”

  “Thousands would die in such an attack,” said Tanzir, “even before the first ladder reached the wall.”

  “It would be a terrible slaughter,” said Sulaman. “But a far greater slaughter would befall both Istarinmul and the world if Callatas finishes his evil work. We may have no choice.” He looked at Tanzir. “We should prepare to attack at dawn tomorrow. If the spies within the city succeed in opening the gate, well and good. If not…then we have no choice but to assault the walls with our full strength.”