craggy, rough-hewn statue. Yet Kylon had seen the older man move with terrifying speed, his sword crackling with blue-white arcs of lightning.
The older stormdancer made a shallow bow. “Kylon of House Kardamnos.”
Kylon bowed to the same degree. “Kleistheon of House Tericleos.”
Kleistheon’s face remained impassive. Yet Kylon could sense the disdain there, even without using his arcane senses. Most of the Assembly thought Kylon had been raised to the rank of stormdancer only because of his sister’s influence. Yet mixed with the disdain was the faintest hint of wary respect. Kleistheon had seen Kylon fight.
Kylon was only twenty-five, but no man who saw him fight would doubt that he had earned his rank.
“You acquitted yourself well in the skirmish,” said Kleistheon, walking at Kylon’s side.
“A sharp fight,” said Kylon.
Kleistheon snorted. “A skirmish. Hardly worth the name. And these Imperials are not worthy foes.”
“They fought well enough,” said Kylon, “but they could not hope to match our sorcery.”
“The Legionaries are peasant dogs,” said Kleistheon without a hint of rancor. “Fit only to wear a slave’s collar and till the earth. We are the blood of the gods of storm and sea. Our Houses can trace their lineage to Old Kyrace and earlier. And what does the Empire send against us? Peasant boys dressed up in armor, as if mere training can replace the blood of a born warrior!” He shook his head. “Marsis will be ours, by right.”
“We have not yet taken the city,” said Kylon.
“But we shall,” said Kleistheon. “They cannot hold against us. I had my doubts when your sister proposed this attack, I will admit. But after watching these Legionaries crumple like paper, I am certain. Marsis will be ours.”
“Taking a city of a quarter million with ten thousand men is a risky gamble,” said Kylon, “and may yet go ill.”
Kleistheon frowned. “Do you doubt the High Seat?”
No,” said Kylon.
Did he have doubts about this mad attack? Yes, he did.
But if anyone could take Marsis with only ten thousand men…his sister could do it.
They walked in silence the rest of the way.
Soon they reached the Great Market. Kylon had heard it described as a bustling bazaar, buying and selling goods from across the world. Now it was half-wrecked, the merchant stalls shattered by fighting or by errant bolts from the Citadel’s catapults. Kylon also saw thousands of captives, mostly women and children, sitting stunned in the Market. Rezir Shahan’s men had been taking slaves. If the Kyracians and Istarish were victorious, some of the slaves would toil on the new plantations the Istarish would create outside the city. Others would be shipped overseas, to be sold in the markets of New Kyre and Istarinmul and Anshan.
Kylon knew that the gods had ordained an order to the world. Just as some animals were born wolves and others were born sheep, so were some men born warriors and others born slaves. One could do nothing to change the nature of the world.
Yet looking at the captives still made him uneasy.
He pushed aside the thoughts. He was a stormdancer, and his task was to make war upon the enemies of New Kyre.
Thinking was his sister’s task.
A half-burned tower, once the watchtower of a prosperous warehouse, stood at one end of the Market. A massive banner of crimson silk hung from its jagged crown, showing the crown-and-sword sigil of the Padishah of Istarinmul.
Rezir Shahan, Emir of Istarinmul, awaited below that banner, surrounded by his bodyguard of black-armored Immortals.
He was clad in elaborate gilded armor, a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders. Despite the richness of his armor, there was nothing soft about this man – his face was hard and fierce, and he had the balance of a master swordsman. Kylon drew upon the sorcery of water, and reached
The older stormdancer made a shallow bow. “Kylon of House Kardamnos.”
Kylon bowed to the same degree. “Kleistheon of House Tericleos.”
Kleistheon’s face remained impassive. Yet Kylon could sense the disdain there, even without using his arcane senses. Most of the Assembly thought Kylon had been raised to the rank of stormdancer only because of his sister’s influence. Yet mixed with the disdain was the faintest hint of wary respect. Kleistheon had seen Kylon fight.
Kylon was only twenty-five, but no man who saw him fight would doubt that he had earned his rank.
“You acquitted yourself well in the skirmish,” said Kleistheon, walking at Kylon’s side.
“A sharp fight,” said Kylon.
Kleistheon snorted. “A skirmish. Hardly worth the name. And these Imperials are not worthy foes.”
“They fought well enough,” said Kylon, “but they could not hope to match our sorcery.”
“The Legionaries are peasant dogs,” said Kleistheon without a hint of rancor. “Fit only to wear a slave’s collar and till the earth. We are the blood of the gods of storm and sea. Our Houses can trace their lineage to Old Kyrace and earlier. And what does the Empire send against us? Peasant boys dressed up in armor, as if mere training can replace the blood of a born warrior!” He shook his head. “Marsis will be ours, by right.”
“We have not yet taken the city,” said Kylon.
“But we shall,” said Kleistheon. “They cannot hold against us. I had my doubts when your sister proposed this attack, I will admit. But after watching these Legionaries crumple like paper, I am certain. Marsis will be ours.”
“Taking a city of a quarter million with ten thousand men is a risky gamble,” said Kylon, “and may yet go ill.”
Kleistheon frowned. “Do you doubt the High Seat?”
No,” said Kylon.
Did he have doubts about this mad attack? Yes, he did.
But if anyone could take Marsis with only ten thousand men…his sister could do it.
They walked in silence the rest of the way.
Soon they reached the Great Market. Kylon had heard it described as a bustling bazaar, buying and selling goods from across the world. Now it was half-wrecked, the merchant stalls shattered by fighting or by errant bolts from the Citadel’s catapults. Kylon also saw thousands of captives, mostly women and children, sitting stunned in the Market. Rezir Shahan’s men had been taking slaves. If the Kyracians and Istarish were victorious, some of the slaves would toil on the new plantations the Istarish would create outside the city. Others would be shipped overseas, to be sold in the markets of New Kyre and Istarinmul and Anshan.
Kylon knew that the gods had ordained an order to the world. Just as some animals were born wolves and others were born sheep, so were some men born warriors and others born slaves. One could do nothing to change the nature of the world.
Yet looking at the captives still made him uneasy.
He pushed aside the thoughts. He was a stormdancer, and his task was to make war upon the enemies of New Kyre.
Thinking was his sister’s task.
A half-burned tower, once the watchtower of a prosperous warehouse, stood at one end of the Market. A massive banner of crimson silk hung from its jagged crown, showing the crown-and-sword sigil of the Padishah of Istarinmul.
Rezir Shahan, Emir of Istarinmul, awaited below that banner, surrounded by his bodyguard of black-armored Immortals.
He was clad in elaborate gilded armor, a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders. Despite the richness of his armor, there was nothing soft about this man – his face was hard and fierce, and he had the balance of a master swordsman. Kylon drew upon the sorcery of water, and reached
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