Ghost in the Pact (37 page)

“No,” said Nasser. “Without aid, I fear they will not be able to hold.”

“What aid can we give them?” said Laertes. “A hundred horsemen and a stormdancer could not turn the tide against five thousand Immortals.” 

“No,” said Nasser again. “We should withdraw and rejoin Lord Tanzir. If he is forced to fall back, he will need assistance to keep the…”

“Wait,” said Kylon, an idea coming to him. He looked over the battlefield, gauging the distances. It would mean difficult timing, but if they acted at once…

“Lord Kylon?” said Nasser.

“Erghulan is giving up on using the Hellfire catapults,” said Kylon. “By the time he reaches Tanzir’s army, they’ll be out of range. But Erghulan’s own men…”

“Are still within range of the catapults,” said Nasser. “You suggest we seize control of one of the catapults and bring it to bear against the Immortals?”

“Yes,” said Kylon. “Right now.” The Immortals were still in their close-packed formation, and if a dozen Hellfire amphorae landed among them, the results would be devastating.

“A daring plan,” said Tibraim. “I like it! Let us turn the enemy’s own weapons upon him!”

“Agreed,” said Nasser. He pointed at the next catapult, and even from a distance Kylon saw a number of Immortals still guarding it. “Ride!”

The nomads put heels to their mounts and charged, and Kylon drew on the sorcery of air for speed, running alongside them. The score of Immortals guarding the catapult saw the horsemen coming and scrambled into a line, raising their scimitars and chain whips. Behind the Immortals Kylon saw a flash of white from the robe of an Alchemist, followed by a flare of golden fire. 

“Mazyan!” shouted Kylon, and the Oath Shadow looked at him. “Keep the Immortals off me! I’ll handle the Alchemist!” 

Mazyan gave a curt nod and turned his horse towards the Immortals.

Then the golden fire flared, and a burst of brilliant flame erupted over the heads of the Immortals. It touched two of the charging nomads, and both the riders and their horses transmuted into statues of pale blue crystal. Three more riders slammed into the suddenly motionless statues, tumbling from their saddles.

Kylon gritted his teeth, put on another burst of speed, and jumped.

The sorcery of wind lifted him in a soaring leap, and he shot over the Immortals’ heads and landed between the Alchemist and the catapult. The Alchemist wore the white battle armor Kylon had seen before, a full helm masking his features. Golden fire played around his left hand, and in his right he held a long metallic fork, a bright blue-white spark playing between the tines.

Kylon had seen sorcerous weapons like that before. The Immortals started to turn towards Kylon, but by then Mazyan had leapt among them, followed a moment later by the nomads.

The Alchemist thrust his fork towards Kylon, and a snarling blast of blue-white lightning leapt from the sorcerous weapon. Kylon cast his own spell, pushing out his left palm. The sorcery of the stormdancers and the stormsingers of New Kyre was the power of storm and wave and sea. Kylon knew the basics of manipulating lightning, but never had been very good at it, and certainly had never tried to use it in battle. 

But it was easier to disrupt a spell than to work one.

Kylon cast a simple ward around himself, and the lightning struck his palm and rebounded, grounding itself in the steel rods of the catapult with a thunderclap. For an awful moment he was sure that it had struck the dozen amphorae of Hellfire loaded in the engine’s throwing arm, but none of the sparks reached the amphorae.

He raced forward, lifting the valikon, and the Alchemist cast another spell. Another lance of golden fire burst from his white gauntlet, and Kylon snapped up the valikon. The sword shivered in his hands as the golden fire struck it, but the blade unraveled the spell in a flare of brilliant sparks. Kylon kept charging, and the Alchemist snarled beneath his helm and flung something small from his belt. Kylon jumped to the side, kicking off the side of the catapult, and the object missed him by a few yards. It struck the ground and shattered, and he saw the harsh red gleam of Hellfire. 

An instant later the Hellfire exploded in a pillar of howling red flame, one yard wide and six tall. The heat struck Kylon like a hammer blow, but he was far enough from the fire that it did not injure him. The Alchemist was moving already, casting another spell. Kylon raced at the Alchemist, white mist swirling around his fist, and leaped as the Alchemist threw another bolt of transmuting fire. The blast missed Kylon, but he heard the familiar tearing shriek of living flesh transmuted into blue crystal as the spell struck the nomads. Kylon landed and swept the valikon at the Alchemist. The Alchemist stumbled back, trying to dodge, but the white metal of his cuirass deflected the valikon’s edge with ease.

But Kylon was already punching with his left hand. 

The gauntlet of ice had frozen around his fist, but this time he had made another change to it. In the gladiatorial games of Istarinmul, sometimes the gladiators fought with a weapon called a cestus, an armored glove reinforced with razor-sharp spikes. Kylon had made himself a cestus of ice, the frozen gauntlet ending in a three-inch long spike as sharp as a dagger.

His left fist smashed against the front of the Alchemist’s helmet, and he heard the crunching noise as the icy spike plunged into the Alchemist’s face. There was a gurgling scream of pain, and the spike snapped off as the Alchemist stumbled back, his armored hands flying to his face. That exposed his neck, and Kylon brought the valikon around.

The Alchemist fell motionless to the ground, his blood watering the grass of the steppes. 

Kylon looked for other foes, but the nomads had already ridden down and killed the Immortals, though they had taken casualties, and several new crystalline statues stood here and there. Mazyan stepped over a dead Immortal, the smokeless fire in his eyes matching the sword in his hand, and shook his wrist as his blade of force dissipated. 

“The catapult is ours,” said Nasser. “Laertes!” 

Laertes dropped from his saddle with a grunt, squinting at the catapult, and then at the Grand Wazir’s charging army, the lines in his brow deepening with concentration. Then his eyes widened. “Fortune smiles on us this day. Watch this. Don’t stand in front of the catapult.” 

Laertes strode towards the right side of the catapult, towards the massive gears that filled the center of the machine. There was a large windlass there, along with a long steel lever. Laertes squinted at the lever for a moment and nodded to himself, his emotional sense tightening. 

“Lord Kylon,” said Laertes. “Get ready. You’re the strongest one here thanks to your sorcery, and we’ll need that strength in a moment. Tibraim, have your men start bringing over amphorae of Hellfire from that wagon.” He pointed to the wagon. “Quickly! And for the gods’ sake don’t drop any of the damned things. Mazyan, Nasser. We had best be ready to fight. Once the enemy realizes what we’re doing, we’ll need to defend ourselves. Or run for our lives.” 

Laertes might have retired from the Imperial Legion, but he still gave orders like a centurion, and the nomads hurried to obey. Even Kylon found himself moving to obey, and despite the grim situation he almost smiled. He had heard Caina say more than once that no one gave orders quite like a centurion. It was evidently a common proverb in the Empire, and Kylon saw that it had some truth to it. 

“Let’s see what happens,” said Laertes. 

He reached up and pulled the steel lever.

There was a massive clang, followed by a tremendous twanging noise, and the catapult’s throwing arm blurred forward with terrific speed. A dozen Hellfire amphorae soared into the air, tumbling over each other. Each one of those amphorae, Kylon judged, would hold about six or seven gallons of Hellfire. The crystal vials that the Alchemists threw in battle held maybe an ounce or two, and they had produce columns of flame as tall as a man. Thirty gallons of Hellfire going up all at once…

Two of the amphorae smashed against each other in midair, shattering, a rain of Hellfire droplets falling upon the advancing Immortals.

“Move!” roared Laertes. “Get that damned Hellfire over here. Twelve amphorae, move! Lord Kylon, give me a hand!”

Laertes seized the handles on the massive windlass, and Kylon saw at once what was needed. He sheathed the valikon, drew on the power of water sorcery, and grabbed the handles, straining. Inch by inch they forced the windlass to rotate, and Nasser hurried to lend his strength to the effort. Kylon suspected it would normally take five or six men to move the damned thing, but with the aid of water sorcery, the three of them managed it, the catapult’s arm lowering foot by foot…

Then the Hellfire erupted.

The remaining amphorae had landed in the midst of the Immortals’ formation, and a bloom of fire thirty yards across erupted from the ground. Kylon looked up for a moment, stunned, and saw hundreds of Immortals flattened by the explosion, saw dozens more go tumbling through the air like leaves caught in the wind, limbs flailing. Crimson flames erupted throughout the formation as the Hellfire from the shattered amphorae ignited, ribbons of fire dancing atop the Immortals. The shock went through the entire center of Erghulan’s army as the Immortals’ charge came to a sudden halt, the Immortals scrambling to get away from the raging fireball. 

“Move, damn you!” roared Laertes, stepping away from the windlass. “Get those amphorae into the basket. Quickly, quickly!” The nomads rushed to obey, piling the amphorae into the basket at the end of the arm. Kylon stepped back from the catapult, reaching for the hilt of the valikon. The Immortals had frozen in surprise for a moment, but that moment would not last long. Sooner or later they would rush the catapults, or Erghulan would come to his senses and send his horsemen to ride the down.

Laertes started to reach for the lever, and an idea came to Kylon. Caina had burned down a lot of buildings, though for some reason she always got irritated when someone pointed that out. She thought of herself as a spy, and spies did not draw attention to themselves by burning down buildings. 

Kylon, however, was not a spy, and he had no problem with the tactic. 

He drew the valikon and hammered with the hilt six times in rapid succession, cracking the seals on the lids of the Hellfire amphorae. At once the crimson fluid started to bead around the cracks.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Laertes. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Pull the lever!” said Kylon.

Laertes spat a sulfurous curse and pulled the lever. The catapult twanged again, the massive arm heaving forward, and a dozen Hellfire amphorae shot into the air. The ones that Kylon had damaged cracked and split apart from the violence of their flight, spraying a rain of Hellfire droplets along their vector. 

Right into the path of the Immortals, who were advancing towards the catapult.

“Huh,” said Laertes. “That might…”

The six intact amphorae struck the ground, shattered, and exploded, fireballs ripping through the lines of the Immortals. They also ignited the rain of Hellfire droplets that the broken amphorae had sprayed across the field, and a howling sheet of flame swept up, burning the trampled grass of the battlefield. For a moment a blazing wall of flame rose up before them, cutting off the Immortals.

And consuming those caught within the firestorm. 

The smell of burning flesh was ghastly. 

It was a horrible way to die. Kylon regretted the necessity of this, but he had not started this war. 

He would, however, help finish it.

That, and Erghulan had been planning on using the Hellfire on the rebels. It would be only just if one of the amphorae had landed upon the Grand Wazir’s head. 

The wall of fire burned out quickly, but it had left hundreds of dead Immortals in its wake. The entire center of Erghulan’s army had fallen into disarray, with hundreds of Immortals wounded and hundreds dead, and the rest scattered as they tried to avoid the burning patches of Hellfire.

Tanzir’s army, however, had suffered no such setbacks, and his infantry crashed into the disorganized Immortals. 

Even from a mile and a half away, Kylon heard the crash as the Kaltari warriors and the infantry of the southern emirates slammed into the Immortals. A ripple of shock went through the Immortals, and to Kylon’s surprise, their damaged formation collapsed. The Immortals were stunned by the sudden explosions of the Hellfire, and the Kaltari were fresh and rested and eager for blood. The wings of horsemen on the left and right flanks of both Tanzir’s and Erghulan’s armies struck, and for a moment Kylon was sure that Erghulan’s horsemen would hold. Yet the Immortals had fallen back in such disarray that Tanzir’s cavalry flanked their foes, and the horsemen, too, began falling back.

The army of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku was about to collapse in a rout.

“We need to move, Nasser,” said Laertes. “When that army breaks, they’ll stampede over us. We need to be gone by then or we’re going to get trampled.” 

“Agreed,” said Nasser. “We…”

Mazyan went rigid, gazing to the south, the smokeless fire flaring in his eyes once more.

“The Prince is in danger!” said Mazyan.

“What?” said Nasser. “He is likely with Tanzir behind the lines of the Kaltari. There is no risk the Immortals will break through to him…” 

“The nagataaru come for him,” said Mazyan. “I must go.”

Kylon felt a surge of alarm, followed by the rage that had filled part of his mind ever since the Red Huntress had cut down Thalastre in the Tower of Kardamnos. Had the Huntress finally decided to reveal herself? 

On the other hand, Rhataban might have decided to win the battle by killing the rebel leadership. With the combat prowess he had displayed during his fight with Kylon in the Kaltari Highlands, Kylon knew that the Master Alchemist would be able to kill Tanzir and Sulaman and the others with ease.

“Stormdancer, you must aid me,” said Mazyan.

“Yes,” said Kylon.

“We shall go right through the fighting,” said Mazyan.

“Go,” said Nasser, climbing back into the saddle of his horse. “We shall join you as soon as we can.”