Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (27 page)

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 moved 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.

“Don’t bother pursuing them,” said Kylon. “The entire rampart’s going to be roused in a few moments anyway. We need to disable the catapult.” He stopped at the side of the machine, gazing at the gears and weights at the base of the throwing arm.

Mazyan stepped forward, rolling his left hand. A blade of smokeless fire appeared in his fingers, crackling with power. Before Kylon could react, the Oath Shadow slashed the weapon through the gears. Like the blade of dark force the Red Huntress used, the sword of smokeless flame passed through the gears without noticeable resistance. The machine shuddered, and the throwing arm sagged against the base of the engine.

“That works,” said Kylon. 

“The simple way is best,” said Mazyan, the blade dissipating, the fire glowing in his eyes again. Like the Red Huntress, he could make himself faster and stronger, or he could wield that invincible blade, but he couldn’t do both at once. 

“The next engine,” said Kylon, and Mazyan nodded. He leaped over the edge of the turret and down to the ramparts, Mazyan following a half-step behind. Below he heard the thunder of hooves as the horsemen charged the opened gate, the wailing war cries of Istarish nomads ringing in the predawn gloom. A flare of Hellfire burned further to the east, but only from one catapult. So far the war engines had not unleashed the kind of coordinated volley that had masked Erghulan Amirasku’s sortie. That gave Kylon a burst of hope. A coordinated volley could have wiped out half of the rebel army, but the longer the engines went without reacting, the better the odds for the horsemen.

Then the turret of the second tower was within reach, and Kylon had no more time for thought. 

Already he saw the soldiers rallying to defend the turret, but they were overmatched. During Rezir Shahan’s attack upon Marsis years ago, Kylon had carved his way through the men of the Imperial Legion with ease, and those Legionaries had been far better trained that the footmen of the Istarish army. Legionaries would have formed a shield wall bristling with spears to deal. The Istarish soldiers started to form themselves into a ragged line, scimitars in hand, while a few of them fumbled with crossbows. 

It was exactly the wrong defensive tactic to deal with sorcery-enhanced warriors like Kylon and Mazyan.

Kylon leaped, hurtling over the battlements of the turret and the heads of the warriors. The valikon flashed as he passed, the power of his momentum driving the blade through the neck of an Istarish soldier. Kylon landed and whirled, his sword snapping up to deflect the panicked swings of the terrified soldiers. One of the soldiers managed to aim a crossbow, only for Mazyan to split his skull open. Kylon ducked under a frantic swing and killed another soldier, and felt a sudden surge of arcane power.

A man in the gold-trimmed white robes and turban of an Alchemist stood at the stairs leading to the rampart, something glittering in his hand as he drew back his arm to throw. Kylon had seen this kind of attack before, and he ducked as the vial of Hellfire shot past him to shatter against the base of the siege engine. 

An instant later a pillar of howling crimson fire erupted from the catapult, chewing into the thick wood. Kylon jumped to the side, trying to line up an attack on the Alchemist, and as he did, he saw a pair of Hellfire amphorae in the catapult’s basket. The fire was chewing into the base of the engine, and when it collapsed, the throwing arm would fall and break against the floor. 

And then Kylon would find himself standing next to two broken amphorae of Hellfire. 

“Mazyan!” shouted Kylon.

Mazyan fought three soldiers at once in a blur of djinni-powered speed, but his eyes flicked to the burning catapult, and he snarled a curse. 

The Alchemist gestured, and Kylon sensed the sorcerous force gathering in a spell. Golden fire snarled around the Alchemist’s fingers as he cast a spell of transmutation, and Kylon raised the valikon in guard. A gout of golden fire snapped from the Alchemist’s hands and struck the valikon, shattering against the ghostsilver blade. Fingers of the golden fire touched the floor, transmuting the stone to pale blue crystal, while other shards of flame struck the burning catapult, transforming splinters of the wood to blue crystal. 

That did nothing for the structural integrity of the burning catapult, which promptly collapsed into a pile of broken beams and jagged crystal. The basket hit the floor, the Hellfire amphorae shattering, and thick, glowing red liquid seeped out the sides. 

The Alchemist barked a terrified curse, and he whirled and ran back down the stairs.

“Mazyan!” said Kylon.

Mazyan was already moving, killing the last soldier and dashing towards the stairs. Kylon followed him, scrambling down the stairs, and an instant later they ran onto the rampart, sprinting the larger towers that marked the gate. 

About two seconds later the Hellfire ignited.

The blast ripped apart the turret in a roiling fireball of broken stone and flaming rubble. For a moment it looked as if a sun of blood-colored fire rose from the top of the watch tower, bathing the ramparts in bloody light. In the radiant glow, Kylon glimpsed the horsemen galloping towards the gate, saw two pillars of fire burning below the wall where the catapults had thrown amphorae of Hellfire at the rebels.

Then the gale of hot air slammed Kylon to the floor, and he threw his arm over his face, trying to shield himself from the rain of hot pebbles that fell around him.