Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Damla nodded, gripping her crossbow.

  Nerina kept mumbling something under her breath. A click came from the door, and then another, and Nerina smiled. She got to her feet, tucking her tools away, and seized the door handle as she swung to the side, pressing herself against the wall.

  The room beyond was long and rectangular, and the wall facing the fields outside was full of machinery, interlocking gears and counterweights, all the various mechanisms necessary for the gates to open and the portcullis to rise quickly. There were also arrow slits looking at the fields outside the city, and a dozen men stood at those arrow slits, keeping watch.

  Every single one of those men turned to look at them.

  “Ah,” said Tomazain, grabbing his shield. “Hell.”

  Malcolm ripped the seal from his amphora and flung it through the doorway, the container spewing gray smoke. The soldiers charged with a shout, drawing their swords, and Damla aimed her crossbow and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked in her hands, and the bolt sprouted from the shoulder of one of the charging men. He staggered, and then fell coughing to his knees as he inhaled the sleeping mist. Malcolm’s crossbow bolt was more accurate, and it ripped out the throat of a soldier. Tomazain tore open his amphora, and the sleeping fog erupted forth, sheathing the armory. Damla and the others backed away, but it proved unnecessary. One by one the soldiers collapsed, knocked unconscious by the sleeping fog.

  “Madame Strake, the mechanism,” said Agabyzus, and Nerina jogged forward, Malcolm going after her.

  “What about them?” said Tomazain, drawing his sword. “Should we kill them?”

  Damla shuddered. She had never killed anyone in cold blood.

  “No,” said Agabyzus. “There isn’t time. Drag them out of the gate room. We’ll barricade ourselves inside. That should keep the sleeping fog from dissipating for a little while longer.”

  “Azaces!” called Nerina. “I need you here!”

  Azaces ran to join Malcolm and Nerina at a massive steel windlass set into the floor, while Damla, Agabyzus, and Tomazain dragged the unconscious soldiers into the armory. Damla tried not to look at the bloodstains they left upon the planks of the floor. Once they had moved the unconscious men to the armory, they retreated into the mechanism room, locking and barring the door behind them.

  “This windlass,” said Nerina, pointing at the massive steel wheel. “Turning it in a complete revolution will open the gate and raise the portcullis. If we sever the chains here, here, here, and here, and remove that gear,” she pointed at each of the objects in turn, “that will jam the gate and portcullis open until the soldiers can repair the damage.”

  “Very well,” said Agabyzus. “Azaces, Tomazain, and Malcolm. The wheel, please. Take…”

  There was a thump at the door on the far side of the room.

  “Open!” roared a voice. “Open in the name of the Grand Wazir.”

  “We should have used some of the sleeping mist in the eastern tower,” said Damla.

  “Too late now,” said Agabyzus. “Hurry!”

  The three men hastened to the windlass and turned it. It took all of their strength, their faces turning red and the cords bulging in their necks, but they forced the windlass to turn. As they did, the gears and chains along the walls rattled and slithered, the counterweights moving and sliding, and Damla heard the groan as the gates opened and the rattle as the portcullis slid upward.

  And almost in perfect time with the groan of the gates and the rattle of the portcullis, the pounding at the door got louder and louder.

  “Damla!” said Agabyzus, pointing at a stone basin next to the windlass where Tomazain and Malcolm and Azaces strained. “The signal fire. Quickly!”

  Damla ran to the stone basin. A pool of oil rested in the shallow basin, and she saw the copper pipe that linked it to the waiting signal fire on the ramparts overhead. A lantern waited next to the basin, and Damla reached down, opened the lantern, and touched the flame to the oil. At once the basin took fire, and she heard the whooshing noise as the fire traveled up the pipe, followed an instant later by a yellow-orange flickering from the arrow slits as the signal fire atop the ramparts caught flame.

  “Got it!” shouted Tomazain, and the windlass shuddered to a stop. “The gate is open!”

  Malcolm ran to the wall, raising his massive hammer and a chisel. He began severing the links of specific chains with powerful blows, and Azaces produced a smaller hammer and chisel from beneath his robes and followed suit.

  “There!” said Malcolm, lowering his hammer as the last broken chain shuddered against the wall.

  “Excellent,” said Nerina. “The doors are jammed open. They will be unable to close the gate without repairing the broken chains. A peril of relying on the mechanism to control the gate rather than simply pulling or pushing the gate shut or open with muscle power as circumstances require. I calculate that the lost time in…”

  “Very good,” said Agabyzus. “You can explain the mathematics to us later. Through the western door, quickly…”

  Someone started pounding on the western door, and Damla flinched.

  “How the devil did they get up here so quickly?” said Tomazain. “The sleeping fog should have knocked them out.”

  “Someone must have realized what was happening,” said Agabyzus. “One of the Alchemists in the Grand Wazir’s service, perhaps. They likely prepared masks for the soldiers.”

  “What will we do?” said Damla.

  “Best reload your crossbow, mistress Damla,” said Tomazain, slinging his shield over his left arm and drawing his broadsword with his right hand. “There is only one thing we can do. Stand and fight.”

  Damla swallowed, but nodded and loaded her crossbow.

  It seemed she had been right. She would die as a coffee merchant…and she realized that she would also die as a Ghost.

  She hoped her sons would live and thrive.

  Damla set herself and waited for the end.

  Chapter 16: Oath Shadow

  In the predawn gloom, the army of Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon and the emir Tanzir Shahan prepared itself for battle.

  Kylon walked through the rows of tents, making for where the Padishah’s banner flew at the head of the army.

  When they faced Erghulan Amirasku to the south, the emir’s army had arrayed itself in a traditional battle formation, with the Kaltari footmen and the heavy infantry in the center, the horsemen on the wings, and the skirmishers of the Istarish nomad tribes forming a line of archers before the main host. Here, the army prepared itself for an assault on the city. The horsemen formed up in the center in a massive column, with the Istarish nomads and mounted Kaltari warriors at the column’s head. Once the Ghosts opened the gate, the Kaltari would storm into the Bazaar of the Southern Road, hoping to secure a foothold for the rest of the army. The Istarish nomads would rush after and scatter into the streets of the Anshani Quarter, causing chaos and distracting the defenders. After that, the rest of the horsemen, both mercenary soldiers and the retainers of the rebel emirs, would charge for the gate.

  The footmen formed up in rows on either side of the horsemen, gathered around siege ladders. The infantry would charge the walls and throw up the siege ladders to the battlements, using them to storm the ramparts. With the defenders distracted by the open gate, hopefully, the infantry would reach the walls and scale their ladders.

  But only if the gate was opened.

  If the gate wasn’t opened, the horsemen would be useless. Tanzir would order the siege catapults into range and launch a barrage to cover the charge of the infantry and the ladders to the wall. That might work. It also might result in a catastrophic slaughter as the engineers upon the wall launched their own bombardment of Hellfire amphorae. In the face of such an inferno, the siege ladders would burn like kindling…and so would the men carrying them.

  Kylon shook his head as he walked, his sword hand clenching and unclenching. Countless lives were at stake, and they were about to take a tremen
dous gamble, trusting in the cunning of the Ghosts of Istarinmul. Caina trusted them, of course. She had recruited all of them, and Nerina and Azaces had gone with Caina and Kylon and the others into the Inferno and come out again.

  Yet had Kylon asked too much of them? Damla was a coffee merchant. Nerina was a locksmith, and Malcolm a blacksmith. Could they possibly enter the gatehouse and open the gate? Or would they all be killed before they could succeed?

  Kylon didn’t know. He supposed that not even Sulaman and the Emissary knew what would happen today.

  He stopped as he reached the banners of Sulaman and Tanzir, the captains of the army gathered around them. Sulaman sat atop his horse, having exchanged his simple robe for equally simple plate armor. Mazyan sat scowling next to the Prince, the Oath Shadow’s eyes looking in all directions for any sign of danger. Kylon spotted Tanzir, flanked by his bodyguards, Strabane, a dozen other rebel emirs, Lord Martin, Lady Claudia, Kazravid, and Tibraim. Nasser and Laertes waited next to Sulaman, Nasser with his usual smooth calm, and Laertes with the grim watchfulness of the veteran centurion. Laertes had mentioned that he had several daughters, and at various times he had plotted to marry one to Kylon or to Caina (before he had realized that Caina was not, in fact, a man). Kylon wondered where his wife and daughters were, and if they were safe.

  He shook off the stray thought. In truth, no one was safe, not today.

  Kylon glanced to the side and saw the Emissary and her monks a short distance away. Had she seen their deaths in the flames of her visions? He didn’t want to know.

  Damned oracles.

  “Lord Kylon,” said Sulaman in his quiet yet commanding voice. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I promised I would see this through to the end,” said Kylon, still thinking of Caina, “and one way or another, this is going to end today.”

  An uneasy rustle went through the gathered captains.

  “That is so,” said Sulaman with unruffled calm. Kylon could sense the man’s grim emotions, but the Prince presented nothing but calm confidence upon his face. If they lived through the next few hours, he might well make an excellent ruler. “Headman Tibraim, any news from the gate?”

  “None, lord Prince,” said Tibraim, squinting at the gloom cloaking the walls of Istarinmul, dotted here and there by torchlight. “My men keep watch, though. If anything happens, we shall know at once.”

  “The horsemen are to remain ready to charge at a moment’s notice,” said Tanzir. “If we see nothing happen at the gate by mid-morning, I fear we will have no choice but to launch a full assault upon the wall.”

  “The progress of the Apotheosis continues unimpeded?” said Sulaman.

  “Yes,” said Kylon, Claudia, and the Emissary said in unison. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Kylon gestured for Claudia to continue. She was more eloquent than he was, and he would rather hear her opinion than another prophecy from the Emissary.

  “Grand Master Callatas is gathering a tremendous quantity of arcane force,” said Claudia, speaking Istarish with her cool Nighmarian accent. “The amount of power he has called should have killed him by now, or laid the Golden Palace to waste, but I suspect the relics of Iramis permit him to withstand it.”

  “Has he summoned as much power as the day of the golden dead?” said Sulaman.

  Kylon remembered that terrible day and tried not to shudder.

  “Probably more,” said Claudia in a quiet voice.

  “Lord Kylon,” said Sulaman, turning to face him. “I wish to ask a favor of you.”

  “Lord Prince,” said Kylon.

  “You are one of the most skilled warriors in our host,” said Sulaman.

  “That is very kind,” said Kylon.

  “I am glad you think so, but it was a simple statement of fact,” said Sulaman. “You slew the Master Alchemist Rhataban in single combat, and no one else among us could have managed that, save perhaps Mazyan.”

  Mazyan grimaced. “The dog of the nagataaru had overpowered me.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without Mazyan’s help,” said Kylon. In truth, Mazyan was one of the most formidable fighters that Kylon had ever encountered. Had Mazyan’s fighting style not been so formal, he would have been even more dangerous. Kylon’s time in the gladiatorial games of Istarinmul had been quite an education.

  “Which is why I ask this of you,” said Sulaman. “When we begin our attack, whether the gate opens or not, I would like you to charge the ramparts and disable as many of the catapults as you can.”

  “Just the two of us?” said Kylon, frowning.

  “For all their power,” said Laertes, “catapults are damned fragile things. Knock a single gear out of place, and the machine is disabled for an hour. In this kind of a battle, an hour makes all the difference.”

  “Very well,” said Kylon. Laertes was right. “I will do what I can.”

  Mazyan’s scowled deepened. “My place is at your side, lord Prince.”

  “I know,” said Sulaman. “You have sworn to guard my life, but at the moment the greatest threat to my life are the catapults upon the watch towers. If those are not destroyed or disabled, we cannot take the city, and Callatas will prevail, and we all shall die. At Lord Kylon’s side is where you are most needed, my friend.”

  Mazyan did not look happy. But, then, Mazyan never looked happy. He nodded at last.

  “All is in readiness, then,” said Tanzir. “I fear there is nothing left to do but wait.”

  “The wait before a battle,” said Nasser, “is often the hardest part.”

  Laertes laughed. “Gods of war and battle! I hope it is true this time.”

  “It goes easier if you have something to drink,” said Strabane. “Pity, I didn’t think to bring some wine.”

  Kazravid frowned behind his oiled beard. “You would go into a battle drunk?”

  Strabane shrugged. “If you’re stabbed, it stings less if you’re already drunk.”

  Kylon listened with half an ear to the conversation, turning his attention outward, lowering the mental barriers around his arcane senses. He sensed the fear and tension from the army around him, the clenched anticipation for the coming battle. If he stretched, he sensed the wariness of the men upon the walls, the fear and alarm of men fighting for their lives at the southern gate of Istarinmul…

  Fighting at the gate?

  Kylon blinked and focused his senses, straining.

  “Lord Kylon?” said Claudia. “Something is happening at the gate,” said Kylon. “I’m…not sure. It’s too far away. I can’t tell…”

  “Then the hour,” murmured the Emissary, “has come at last.”

  Tibraim sat bolt upright in his saddle, his emotional sense flooding with excitement.

  “Lord Prince!” he said. “The gate opens! I can see it! The spies have done it! The gate is opening!”

  He was right. Even as Kylon looked, he saw the glimmer of firelight from the gate. The doors were opening, letting the light from the bonfires in the Bazaar of the Southern Road spill onto the dusty plains outside the city’s walls.

  “Then we must act at once,” said Sulaman, still calm, though his emotional sense roiled. “Lord Tanzir?”

  “Charge at once!” said Tanzir. “All horsemen to the gate.”

  He had barely gotten the second word out when one of his bodyguards lifted a war horn and blew a series of blasts. Strabane sprinted towards his horse. Tibraim whooped and put spurs to his mount, and around him, the Istarish nomads loosed their wailing war cries. A surge of furious emotion rose from the horsemen, the dread and anticipation of the fighting to come giving way to a mad relief that the moment was upon them.

  “Mazyan!” said Kylon. The Oath Shadow turned to him, his eyes glimmering with the smokeless fire of the djinn. “The southwestern wall. Two towers down from the gate. We’ll start there and work our way towards the gate towers.”

  Mazyan gave a curt nod, and Kylon ran towards the walls of Istarinmul.

  Hundreds of horsemen mo
ved at full gallop towards the opening gate, but Kylon outpaced them. His own urgency and the sorcery of air rose in him like a winter storm, and he hurtled forwards. Mazyan kept pace with him. The djinn were air elementals, spirits of storm and wind, and the djinni bound within Mazyan’s flesh granted him superhuman speed.

  The wall loomed before Kylon, and he sensed the alarm spreading through the men guarding the ramparts as they realized the rebels were attacking.

  Kylon leaped, calling on the sorcery of water to sheathe his hands in frost. He caught the wall about halfway up, kicked off and jumped again, gripped the battlements, and heaved himself onto the ramparts. Next to him Mazyan duplicated his feat, though the Oath Shadow managed a somewhat less graceful landing. Undaunted, Mazyan bounced to his feet, drawing his scimitar with a steely hiss.

  Kylon whirled towards the nearest tower. An Istarish soldier stood on watch there, clad in chain mail and spiked helm, and his eyes widened as Kylon hurtled at him. The soldier scrambled for his scimitar, but it did him no good. Kylon killed him with a quick thrust of the valikon, kicked open the door, and raced up the short flight of stairs to the watch tower’s turret.

  It was cramped atop the tower’s turret since a massive catapult took up most of the space. Six soldiers labored to load the catapult’s basket, which already held a pair of Hellfire amphorae. The nearest soldier saw Kylon and started to shout a warning, and Kylon cut him down, a sorcery-enhanced blow from the valikon hammering through his guard and into his flesh. Mazyan killed another soldier, and the remaining four men charged, scimitars raised.

  Kylon and the Oath Shadow fought back to back. A soldier drove his scimitar at Mazyan’s head, and Kylon deflected the blow with the valikon. That gave Mazyan the opening he needed to land a killing thrust, and the soldier fell dead to the ground. Another soldier charged at Kylon, but he called upon the sorcery of water, sheathing his left hand with freezing mist while his right hand grasped the valikon’s hilt. He punched with his left hand as a gauntlet of granite-hard ice appeared around his fist, and the blow snapped the soldier’s head back, sending him stunned or dead to the floor. Mazyan killed another soldier, and the few survivors retreated, flinging themselves over the edge of the turret to the rampart a few feet below.