Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge (4 page)

And helping Caina Amalas to destroy a weapon of fell sorcery…well, Corvalis could think of none better.

Chapter 4 - Stormdancer

Kylon, the High Seat of House Kardamnos and thalarchon of New Kyre’s seventh fleet, stood upon the trireme’s prow, his sword of storm-forged steel in his right hand, the wind blowing salt spray across his face. Part of his mind noted the lines of the Imperial fleet across the expanse of blue-gray waves, counted the number of ships, a number that exceeded those under his command.

But another part of his mind considered his memories of Marsis.

Some part of his mind always remembered Marsis.

Andromache’s lightning ripping from the sky, scattering Legionaries like toys.

The mocking sneer on Sicarion’s face as he plotted his betrayal. 

Andromache’s face distorting as Scorikhon’s spirit donned her flesh, the pain on her face as Kylon’s sword sank into her chest. 

And the Ghost most of all. The Ghost with eyes like blue ice, her mind like a weapon. She had warned Kylon and Andromache both, and Andromache had ignored her warnings. 

And now Kylon would continue to pay the price for that failure. 

“Thalarchon?” said a man’s voice.

“I see them,” said Kylon without turning. 

How things had changed in the months since Andromache had been slain. Once she had been the High Seat of House Kardamnos, one of the nine Archons of New Kyre, and in all things Kylon obeyed her without question. He left strategy and tactics up to her, and he had merely carried out her designs. 

But now he was the High Seat of House Kardamnos and the thalarchon of the seventh fleet…and the burden of command fell to him.

He turned and looked at the two men standing on the trireme’s bow. The first, like Kylon, wore the gray leather of a stormdancer of New Kyre, sword ready at his waist. His expression was grim, but it always was. Cimon of House Siltarides was Kylon’s senior by ten years, but he obeyed without question.

The second man did not. Alcios was the High Seat of House Kallias, a vigorous gray-haired man in his fifties. He wore the armor and plumed helm of the ashtairoi, an ashtair, the sword of the Kyracian foot soldiers, hanging at his belt. Alcios thought he should have been made the thalarchon of the seventh fleet, and he made no secret of that fact. 

But he had not been disobedient. Which was just as well. Kylon would have regretted executing him. 

“Yes, lord thalarchon,” said Alcios. “I am pleased you see the foe. It would be beneath the dignity of a thalarchon for his underlings to point out the obvious to him.”

“Indeed it would, my lord High Seat,” said Kylon. 

“The enemy has twice our ships,” said Alcios. “And their vessels are quinqueremes, heavier and better armed than ours.”

“You are stating facts,” said Kylon. “I assume you intend to draw a conclusion from them.” 

“Aye,” said Alcios. “I suggest, my lord thalarchon,” he said with the faintest hint of condescension, “that we break formation and sail north. With the stormsingers to command the winds, we can strike the villages south of Marsis and bring chaos to the Empire.”

“We’ve already picked clean the villages south of Marsis,” said Cimon with a frown. “The only target left of any value along the Empire’s western shore is Marsis itself. And we cannot take the city.”

“No,” said Kylon. “We already tried.”

“And your sister failed,” said Alcios.

Kylon looked at him. 

“Though I do not mean to speak ill of the dead,” said Alcios.

Kylon shrugged. “Why not? She did fail, did she not? She stared this war.” He wondered how the Assembly would react if they knew Andromache had started the war with the Empire at the behest of the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror. “But she stared it, and we must finish it.” 

“Indeed,” said Alcios. “Which we will not do if the Empire’s fleet destroys us here.”

“Or,” said Kylon, “we will destroy the Imperial fleet.”

“Why would we take such a foolish risk?” said Alcios.

“Because,” said Kylon, “this is all that remains of the Empire’s western fleet. We’ve hit them too hard, my lord High Seat, and destroyed too many of their warships. We cannot overcome them on land…but they cannot overcome us on the open sea. So they have gathered their remaining ships to crush us in one solid blow.” He pointed with his sword. “Instead, we shall reverse their trap and crush them in turn.”

“It would be better,” said Alcios, “to withdraw to New Kyre. The fleets are the city’s only line of defense against the Empire. If we are slain and the ships destroyed, we will leave New Kyre defenseless. My lord thalarchon, if I may be blunt?”

Kylon nodded. 

“You are young,” said Alcios, “and eager for fame and renown. This is understandable. Laudable, even. But do not let your pride lead you astray. For the loss of our fleet would be a crippling blow to New Kyre.”

For a moment Kylon wavered. Perhaps Alcios was right. Andromache been defeated at Marsis, and it now fell to Kylon to succeed where she had failed. Perhaps Kylon’s grief had led him astray. Perhaps he was driving his fleet to destruction.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and drew upon his sorcery, the power to command wind and wave, water and storm. He was a stormdancer, and while he lacked the raw power of a stormsinger, he could use his sorcery to move with the speed of a hurricane and strike with the force of a tidal wave. Kylon’s talents gave him an affinity for the element of water, and this gift let him sense things hidden to other men.

For men, after all, were fashioned of water. 

A storm of emotion washed over him. He felt the fears and grim determination of the men in his fleet. Across the water, he sensed the emotions of the men crewing the ships of the Empire of Nighmar. He felt their fear, far more fear than his own men. And he sensed loci of sorcerous power aboard one of the other ships. Magi, sorcerers in service to the Imperial Magisterium, come to counter the powers of the stormsingers and the stormdancers. 

And Kylon knew his pride had not let him astray.

He could crush this fleet and inflict a staggering defeat upon the Empire.

He opened his eyes and faced Cimon and Alcios. 

“We attack,” said Kylon. Cimon nodded, and Alcios sighed…but both men drew themselves up. “Issue the following commands.”

The signal drums boomed out from the flagship, and the Kyracian fleet arranged itself for battle. 

###

“Row, you bastards!” roared the hortator, thundering upon his drums. “Row, damn you! Show these weak-livered dogs of the Empire how the men of New Kyre fight!” 

Kylon braced himself on the bow as the trireme spun about, the oarsmen working in perfect harmony. The navies of Anshan and Istarinmul used slaves to man their oars. In New Kyre, only free men wielded the oars of a warship, and they achieved a degree of skill and prowess that slaves lacked.

Of course, the Nighmarian Empire used free men to crew its ships as well. 

“I hope, my lord thalarchon,” murmured Alcios, “that you know what you are doing.”

“As do I, my lord High Seat,” said Kylon, gazing at the enemy ships.

The Kyracian fleet split into three squadrons, two attempting to flank the line of Imperial ships, while the third squadron, gathered around Kylon’s flagship, drove at the heart of the Nighmarian fleet. Kylon’s arcane senses told him that the enemy magi waited upon the flagship, a huge quinquereme bristling with catapults and ballistae. 

His plan banked upon killing those magi. The stormsingers could use their spells to drive their ships far faster than the bulky Imperial warships…but only if the magi did not interfere. 

And to keep them from interfering, Kylon would simply have to kill them all.

“High Seat,” said Kylon. “Now.”

Alcios turned to the polemarch in command of the ship. “Ramming speed!” 

The polemarch relayed the order to the hortator, who howled imprecations at the oarsmen. The oarsmen grunted, faces red with strain, sweat pouring down their chests. Yet the trireme picked up speed and made for the port side of the Imperial flagship, the waters foaming white around them. 

The Imperial flagship tried to turn, its five banks of oars lashing at the waters, but the vessel was too heavy, its oarsmen too unskilled. The Legions of the Nighmarian Empire were the finest infantry in the world, but the Kyracians were masters of the sea. The men of Old Kyrace had ruled a maritime empire, and their descendants of New Kyre were the best sailors in the world. The catapults on the quinqueremes spat balls of burning pitch, but the trireme came too fast, the shots missing to splash in the waves. 

“Brace yourselves!” shouted Alcios, hand on the hilt of his ashtair. “Prepare to board the foe!” 

“Cimon,” said Kylon, and the second stormdancer stepped to his side.

“I am with you, my lord thalarchon,” said the older man. 

“Good,” said Kylon, lifting his sword. “Follow my lead. Remember, slay the magi first.”

Cimon nodded, and the trireme hurtled towards the Imperial flagship. Kylon saw soldiers scrambling across the deck, clad in chain mail, shields on their arms and spears in their hands. Auxiliaries, then - the Legions themselves rarely fought aboard ships. 

And in their midst Kylon saw the black armor of battle magi.

A heartbeat later the massive steel spike of the trireme’s prow plunged into the side of the quinquereme. The shock of the impact traveled through both ships, accompanied by the sound of shattering wood, and Kylon saw men stagger as the decks trembled beneath their boots and sandals.

And in that instant, Kylon moved.

He drew upon his power and leaped into the air, the sorcery of water lending his muscles the power of a roaring river. He soared over the trireme’s prow, over the railing of the Imperial flagship, and hurtled towards the startled auxiliaries. 

“Stormdancer!” a man screamed, but it was too late.

Kylon landed among them like a thunderbolt, and the killing began.

He struck left and right, the sorcery of air giving his arms the speed of a hurricane wind. White mist swirled around his blade, a rime of frost spreading over the steel. Kylon’s storm-driven strength drove the blade through armor and flesh alike. Men fell dead from his blows, his frost-wreathed sword turning their blood to ice. Cimon fought behind him, driving into the auxiliaries. He moved slower than Kylon, but blue-white lightning snarled up and down his sword, and crackling daggers of lightning leapt from his blows to encircle his foes. 

Behind them the ashtairoi scrambled aboard, Alcios at their head. For all his bluster, the High Seat of House Kallias was no craven, and wielded his ashtair and shield with vigor, shouting exhortations to his men. The auxiliaries, already scattered by the stormdancers, crumbled beneath the assault of the ashtairoi. 

Kylon whirled, cut down another soldier, and found himself face to face with the magi. 

There were four of them, all wearing the black plate armor of the battle magi, black maces and swords in their hands. A black cloak with a purple fringe hung from their leader’s shoulders. A master magus, then, no doubt skilled in both arms and battle sorcery. 

Even as the thought crossed Kylon’s mind, all four men lifted their hands and released arcane power.

A fist of invisible force slammed into Kylon and threw him backwards towards one of the masts. But Kylon drew on his own sorcery, filling his limbs with the power of a surging torrent. His boots slammed into the mast, but his enhanced strength absorbed the impact, and he shoved off the mast, hurtling at the magi. 

The eyes of the magi widened in astonishment, and Kylon’s sword shot forward in a white blur. One of the magi fell dead, his face covered in frost, and the others backed away and raised their weapons. 

“Kill them, you fools!” shouted the master magus, raising an enormous mace. “Kill the stormdancers and the day is ours!”

The three magi attacked, psychokinetic force driving them forward with terrific speed. Cimon raced to Kylon’s side, and the furious duel began. Kylon’s sorcery gave him the speed of the wind and the strength of a waterfall, but the magi used bursts of psychokinetic force to drive their blows. Sword rang against sword, and Kylon dodged the shattering blows of the master magus’s mace. Cimon slapped his sword against the black armor of the magi, but the magi had warded themselves against his lightning. 

But they had not warded themselves against the cold.

So many stormdancers and stormsingers made the same error. They trusted too much in the power of lightning and ignored the sorcery of frost and ice. 

Kylon knew better. 

He faced off against one of the magi, his storm-forged steel meeting the magus’s black blade. Time and time again Kylon’s sword struck the magus’s sword arm, rebounding from the plates of black steel. 

“Pitiful, Kyracian dog,” growled the magus, driving a spell-enhanced blow at Kylon’s face. “Pitiful! Lie down and die.”

But a layer of frost covered the magus’s sword arm.

Kylon forced his will and power into his sword, a vortex of freezing white mist swirling around his blade, and struck once more at the magus’s sword arm.

The battle magus sneered and drew back his blade for a killing blow. 

And as he did, the armor plates covering his arm stuck together, bound by the frost.

It did not slow him for long. Not for more than a half-second. But that was more than enough for Kylon to plunge his frost-wreathed sword home. The battle magus stiffened and collapsed to the deck with a clatter of black armor.

Kylon saw that Cimon had dispatched the other remaining magus, and now faced off against the master magus in the purple-trimmed black cloak. Cimon was getting the worst of the fight, and his leather armor had been torn by a glancing blow from the master magus’s mace. Cimon had slowed, and the master magus drove him back step by step. 

Kylon charged forward, darting through the struggling ashtairoi and auxiliaries, his legs moving with the speed of the storm.

The master magus was faster. The older man spun, the mace a black blur. Kylon jerked back, the steel head whipping past his face, and drove his blade for the magus’s neck, but the mace came back and blocked his thrust. Cimon drew back his lightning-sheathed blade for a strike, and the master magus thrust out his hand.