The Fall of Kyrace by Jonathan Moeller Page B

approached, another wave of Legionaries rushed the old man. Tyndaros threw out his arms and raised his face to the sky, his voice rolling in booming song. Lightning ripped down from the heavens, slaying the Legionaries on the spot, and a gale of wind flung others aside like dried leaves. But some survived to charge at the Archon, and Tyndaros tried to fight back with his sword. The old man was a stormsinger, not a stormdancer, and the Legionaries pressed him hard.
    Rykon moved with the speed of a gale. He crashed into the knot of Legionaries clustered around the Archon’s horse, striking left and right. Men fell dead, armor clattering as they rolled down the ramp. Again Tyndaros sang, and a gale struck the remaining Legionaries which such force that they were flung into the air, screaming. 
    And for a moment, the ramp became an island of calm in the chaos of Kyrace’s fall. 
    “Lord Archon,” said Rykon.
    “Rykon,” said Tyndaros, blinking sweat from his eyes. “You’re still alive.” He looked at the burning ruins of the docks, at the tide of Imperial soldiers rising from the harbor. “It is good to know that someone is still alive in all this ruin. Though with your skill, I am not surprised.”
    “Lord Archon,” said Rykon, reaching to take the reins of the horse. “We must get you to the next circle of the city, quickly. The enemy will be upon us at any moment.”
    “The city is lost,” whispered Tyndaros, gazing at the fires. “Kyrace is lost.”
    “We must go,” said Rykon. “The guards will not close the inner gates until you arrive, and if the enemy reaches us first…”
    Tyndaros straightened, and some resolution returned to his expression. “Yes. Yes. You are right.” He looked towards the upper city, to the ziggurats with their pools and gardens. “Yes. If Kyrace is to fall, then I will see to it that the Empire pays dearly. We…”
    A thunderclap rang out, and the earth heaved. The horse reared back, screaming, and Tyndaros fell from the saddle to sprawl upon the ramp. Rykon caught his balance, drawing upon water sorcery to keep himself upright, and looked for their attacker.
    A red-armored figure landed on the ramp a short distance away, black-trimmed cloak fluttering in the hot wind rising from the burning docks. But unlike the other battle magi, gold scrollwork adorned the armor, with a golden Imperial eagle spread across the cuirass. This man carried a heavy mace in lieu of a black sword, and arcane power rolled off him in snarling waves. 
    Rykon recognized him at once.
    Corthios, Lord of the Empire and one of the high magi of the Magisterium, the man who had smashed the Kyracian army below the walls of Marsis, who had burned the Kyracian fleet in the harbor of Mors Naerius. 
    And the man who had slain a dozen stormdancers in single combat.
    “Tyndaros, old friend!” said Corthios in accented Kyracian. “So good to see you again.” He smiled. “Perhaps we now can conclude the dispute between us?”
    He strode forward, lifting the massive mace. 
    Rykon stepped before Tyndaros, sword raised, the sorcery of wind and storm filling him.
    Corthios snorted. “Another one? Don’t you fools ever learn?” 
    He flicked his wrist.
    And a crushing torrent of invisible force slammed into Rykon, hurling him from the ramp and towards the walls of the inner city. He drew on the power of air and wrenched free from the invisible fist, landing on the ramp, his sorcery-strengthened legs absorbing the impact. 
    Tyndaros thrust out a hand and sang, lightning ripping from the sky to strike at Corthios.
    The high magus blocked the lightning with another flick of his wrist.
    Again Tyndaros sang, and a freezing gale blew towards Corthios, the blood upon the ramp turning to brittle black ice. Corthios lifted his hand, and the gale dispersed into nothingness. He drew closer to the Archon, lifting his mace for a killing blow. 
    Rykon leapt into the air, drawing upon all his power. He swung his sword in