The Fall of Kyrace Read Free

spell-forged armor ripped free from his torso, flying to embed itself against the elemental. 
    It was all the opening Rykon needed.
    He sprang forward, plunging his sword into Corthios's chest. The high magus’s eyes bulged, and he stumbled to one knee, blood spilling from his mouth. Then his eyes rolled up and Corthios, Lord of the Empire and high magus of the Magisterium, died on Rykon's blade.
    The elemental shuddered and collapsed into rubble, released from Corthios's spell. 
    Rykon sighed, kicked the dead High Magus from his blade, and hurried to the Archon. Lord Tyndaros struggled to his knees, blood seeping from a cut on his brow. 
    "You...defeated him," breathed Tyndaros. "That man has been a bane of our people for years, and you vanquished him. A great victory." He looked at the burning city, at the thousands of Imperial soldiers filling the docks. "Not that it matters, not any more."
    "Lord Archon," said Rykon, "we must go." He took a shuddering breath. "Quickly. The enemy will be here any moment."
    Tyndaros nodded, and Rykon helped the old man through the inner gates, into the next circle of Kyrace. The gate guards, Rykon noted sourly, had not come to help during the fight. The slaves pulled the massive gates shut, and they were safe. 
    Briefly. 
    "You have done well," said Tyndaros. 
    "Not well enough," said Rykon. "The city is lost."
    Tyndaros closed his eyes and nodded. "Aye. The fault is mine. We have been betrayed."
    "Then it is the betrayer's fault, not yours," said Rykon. "The traitor...is it Mathanius?"
    "Almost certainly," said Tyndaros. "Someone led the Imperial fleet through the coral maze warding the harbor. You urged me to execute him, when he betrayed us at Mors Naerius. I should have listened to you."
    "That is past," said Rykon, though he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "What do you command?"

    "The Tower of Storm," said Tyndaros. "Take me there. Quickly!" His voice rose. "The rest of you, you have fought manfully, but it is over. You may leave your posts with honor. Those of you who are slaves, you are free from this moment. The ships wait at the hidden harbor, to escape. If you hasten, you might yet make it in time. Go!" 
    Some of the soldiers stayed at their posts. But most left, running into the higher circles of the city, to the secret tunnels that led to the hidden harbor, where ships waited to take the women and children to safety in New Kyre. 
    “If the gate is undefended,” said Rykon, “the city will fall all the faster.”
    “The city has already fallen,” said Tyndaros. “It is only question of time. Better that they flee to the ships than die upon the walls. Now, hasten! To the Tower of Storm!”
    Rykon led the Archon through the circles of the city, past the ziggurats with their terraces, rippling ponds, and lush gardens, past the temples to the gods of storm and sea and salt, along the broad streets that climbed ever higher up the slopes of the Broken Mountain. 
    Until they came to the Tower of Storm.
    The massive ziggurat rose from the highest circle of the city, fifteen steep tiers of polished granite. Every tier had its own ponds and gardens, beautiful even in the glow of the burning lower city. From here the Archons had ruled over the scattered Kyracian people from Ril Kyrion in the far north to Kyrikos in the south.
    Until today. 
    They entered the Tower’s courtyard. Nine massive statues, each carved from a single block of green dolomite, stood over a central reflecting pool. Each statue represented one of the great elementals that had been bound within the Broken Mountain, when the first Archon and his people had fled here from the mainland. 
    “Good,” said the Archon, breathing hard, “good. There is still time.”
    “To do what?” said Rykon. “The city is lost, you said so yourself.”
    “Aye,” said Tyndaros, looking at the Broken Mountain’s jagged peak. “Aye, the city is lost. But I swear to you, by the gods of sea and storm,