Ghost in the Ring (Ghost Night Book 1)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Rudjak glared at Balmin, his mavrokh stirring in wrath, a yellow cast coming into his eyes. “You were not there, Balmin. You did not see that sword the Kyracian carried. It was a valikon of old, I am certain of it.” Balmin started to sneer, but Rudjak cut him off. “I sensed Varlov’s mavrokh perish! No, it was no trick.”

  A shiver of fury went through Razdan. Some of it came from his mavrokh. The spirit demanded that he hunt down the threat and destroy it. Some of the rage belonged to Razdan himself. This foreign woman had dared to strike down one of his szlachts? She and her companions would suffer for this…

  He forced back the rage, forced the mavrokh to subside.

  Control. Control was vital. He was a mavrokh, a Hound of the Iron King, a predator moving among the herds of sheep that were the common men…but he still needed to exercise caution. An incautious predator was a dead predator.

  Even prey still had teeth.

  And something had killed Varlov and destroyed his mavrokh.

  Balmin sneered at Rudjak. “Are you so unmanned by the stories of the old Arvaltyri? Perhaps I should put you to bed with a glass of warm milk, so you don’t have nightmares.”

  Rudjak started to snarl back.

  “Silence, both of you,” said Razdan.

  At once his szlachts fell silent, flinching from the anger in his gaze.

  Razdan rode towards the gate to his town.

  He could not help but wonder if his transformation into a mavrokh had drawn a reprisal at last. Had he become a mavrokh and reinstituted the Boyar’s Hunt while his father had still been alive, it would not have lasted long. Someone would have sent word to the Imperial Lord Governor of Ulkaar. The Magisterium would have fallen on him like a storm, or the witchfinders of the Temple. The Umbarian Order had offered friendship in secret to many lords of Ulkaar for years, but they would not have lifted a finger to protect a lord who brought such attention to himself.

  But the world had changed. The Empire would fall to the Umbarian Order. The old ways would come into the light, and Ulkaar would rise again in glory and power. The Syvashar had showed Razdan the truth. They would be victorious over both the Empire and the Umbarian Order.

  Yet Razdan was not foolish enough to believe that victory was inevitable. And even if victory was inevitable, he still knew that carelessness might mean he would not live to see that victory.

  After all, no doubt Varlov had thought he would live to see victory, and now Varlov was dead.

  “We shall play this out,” he informed his pack brothers. The szlachts nodded. “A parley before a battle is customary, after all. Remain vigilant, and I shall decide how to deal with this threat.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to the town, and Razdan reined up before the gate, glaring at the guards. The men went to one knee before their lord and bowed their heads.

  “Costin, isn’t it?” said Razdan, recognizing the man on the right.

  “Yes, lord boyar,” said Costin.

  “What news from the town?” said Razdan.

  “Foreigners have come to Kostiv, my lord, and are in the White Boar inn.” He swallowed. “They…they claim to be Arvaltyri, my lord, like the knights of ancient legend.”

  “I see,” said Razdan. “Have you seen their valikons?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Who has?”

  Costin swallowed. He was doing a good job of keeping a calm face, but the fear filled Razdan’s nostrils, and the mavrokh stirred with hunger inside his mind. “The burgomaster, my lord. Also, Brother Valexis of the Temple and Ivan Zomanek.”

  “Have they, then?” This time Razdan did not bother to keep the contempt from his face. All three men had been irritations that he had been unable to remove. He would have liked to have killed the sanctimonious old priest, but if he did, that might be the final act that turned the pious townsmen against him, that sent them to seek help against their demon-worshipping lord. Kostiv needed a burgomaster, though Razdan thought that fat old Magur ought to have been appreciative that not one but two of his daughters had been chosen for the honor of the Boyar’s Hunt. As for Ivan, the Zomanek family had noble blood, so he couldn’t simply kill Ivan out of hand. Worse, Ivan had the respect of the townsmen, and his death might also drive the town to desperate acts.

  Still. If they had been conspiring with this foreigner, this woman who claimed to be Caina Amalas the Balarigar, perhaps Razdan had the excuse he needed to rid himself of all three.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Costin. He had interpreted Razdan’s musing as a question. “At the burgomaster’s house. Then the Arval…the Countess asked us to send a message to you, so we did.” He swallowed again. “The burgomaster has been notified of your arrival, and awaits you in the market.”

  “Very well,” said Razdan. He beckoned to his pack brothers. “Come.”

  They rode into Kostiv, leaving the guards behind without a second glance. Razdan looked over the houses lining the main street as the horses’ shoes rang against the cobblestones. All the houses had been locked and shuttered shut, the townsfolk hiding in fear as their lord passed. His mavrokh sensed them hiding within their feeble little houses, and their dread pleased him. The lesser ought to cower in fear before the greater. The Empire had never really understood that, even under its more tyrannical Emperors, but the Umbarian Order did.

  And no one had understood that better than the Iron King himself.

  Razdan and his pack brothers came to the market square, the White Boar on his left, the Temple and the burgomaster’s house on the right, and the town’s mill rising before him. The burgomaster and Brother Valexis awaited him in the center of the market. Magur’s face was composed, though Razdan smelled his terror. Valexis was calm, and he smelled of nothing but age and sickness. The ancient fool was old enough that death no longer held any terror for him.

  But Razdan could still make him scream.

  The two old men went to their knees as Razdan brought his horse to a halt.

  “My lord boyar,” said Magur. “We welcome you to Kostiv.”

  Razdan stared at them for a moment. Neither man could meet his gaze.

  “It seems,” he said at last, “that you have sent me a message.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Magur. “The Countess Caina Amalas Tarshahzon Kardamnos is residing at the White Boar, and requests the honor of a meeting with you at your convenience.”

  Balmin let out a sneering laugh. “The Countess Caina…such a load of foreign nonsense! Does this outlander woman think she can summon the Boyar of Kostiv at her whim? She should be whipped for such impudence!”

  “There is no harm,” said Razdan, “in one noble extending an invitation to another.” He stared at Magur for a moment, enjoying the man’s fear and helpless rage. “I have heard some interesting rumors about this woman and her companions.”

  “My lord?” said Magur.

  “They killed the szlacht Varlov,” said Razdan, letting a growl come into his voice. Magur flinched. “And the woman claims to be an Arvaltyr, a…valikarion.” He disliked the feel of the ancient Iramisian word upon his tongue.

  “She does, my lord,” said Magur.

  “And she is as she claims to be, my lord.” It was the first time Valexis had spoken, and the old Brother lifted his eyes to look at Razdan. “Both she and her husband carry holy valikons, as the Arvaltyri did in the days of the Iron King.”

  “You dare to speak defiance to the boyar?” thundered Balmin.

  “I speak no defiance, honored szlacht,” said Valexis. His calm annoyed Razdan. “I simply state the truth, as a Brother of the Temple of the Divine is sworn to do.”

  Yet there was a threat in his simple words. The Warmaiden and her valikarion had overthrown Rasarion Yagar, and they had destroyed the Hounds of the Iron King. The old priest didn’t need to make any threats. He only had to state facts.

  “You are certain they both had valikons?” said Razdan.

  “I swear it on the name of the Divine,” said Valexis.
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br />   Razdan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his mavrokh screaming in fury. He had hoped that Rudjak had been wrong, that Varlov had gotten himself killed in a fit of bad luck. Varlov always had more enthusiasm than brains. Yet Razdan could not deny Rudjak’s testimony, the warning of his mavrokh, and the confidence of Brother Valexis. The old man was not strong with the Words of Lore, the secrets of the Temple, but he was strong enough to sense the presence of a valikon. That meant the foreigners did indeed have valikons.

  And that made them a deadly threat to Razdan.

  “Very well,” said Razdan, swinging down from his saddle. “Come!” He passed his reins to Magur. “Watch our horses.”

  It was an insult to a man of Magur’s rank to ask him to watch the horses, but the burgomaster only nodded.

  Razdan crossed the square, his szlachts following him, and strode into the common room of the White Boar.

  It was a wretched peasant hovel, but decent enough for the commoners, and it was also warm, and the roof didn’t leak. In his younger days, before he had become the boyar and a Hound of the Iron King, Razdan had bedded a few peasant women here, and the inn had been a reasonable enough place for wenching. Old Rachov stood near the counter, trying to keep the fear from his face. Razdan sensed the presence of the innkeeper’s family in the kitchen, hiding away from him. He barely paid them any mind.

  The two men standing at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor held his attention.

  Razdan stepped towards them, the szlachts fanning out around him.

  The man on the left was a battle magus of the Magisterium, clad in black armor, a sword at his belt. He had thick black hair and cold blue eyes and watched Razdan with faint interest. Next to him stood a Kyracian man in his early thirties, with brown eyes and close-cropped brown hair. He looked dangerous. The battle magus would be dangerous, of course, but the Kyracian had the balance that Razdan associated with a master swordsman.

  And both men had arcane auras. That likely meant the Kyracian was a stormdancer, one of the warrior-sorcerers of the Kyracian Assembly. The thought of a valikon in the hands of such a man was an unsettling one.

  Both men smelled like warriors. Razdan did not detect fear on them, not quite. Rather, they smelled like experienced fighters readying themselves for a battle.

  For a moment, they stared at each other.

  “You,” said Razdan in Caerish at last, pointing at the battle magus, “are a Scorneus. I would recognize the look anywhere.”

  The magus inclined his head. “You are correct, sir. I am Sebastian Scorneus, a battle magus of the Imperial Magisterium of the Empire of Nighmar.”

  “And the Kyracian?” said Razdan.

  The hard brown eyes turned to him as if assessing how best to strike. “I am Kylon of House Kardamnos.”

  “The Shipbreaker,” said Razdan. Ulkaar was a long way from the western sea and even farther from New Kyre, but even in Kostiv, they had heard the account of the destruction of the Emperor’s western fleet.

  “So some call me,” said Kylon. He did not seem a man inclined to excessive speech.

  Sebastian Scorneus, on the other hand, did. “Might I presume that we have the honor of speaking with Razdan Nagrach, the boyar of Kostiv?”

  “You do,” said Razdan. “I am here by the invitation of the Countess Caina Kardamnos.” He did not bother with the full ridiculous name. The pompous Imperial nobles had always been so concerned with their titles and ancient House names. Let them see how such empty words protected them when the Iron King’s tide swept across the world.

  “She did extend such an invitation,” said Sebastian. He gestured to the balcony. “The Countess awaits you in the upper dining room. She would speak with you alone.”

  “Why alone?” said Razdan. That seemed bold of her. If she was alone with him, he could do whatever he wanted to her. He could kill her, and neither her husband or her pet battle magus could arrive in time to save her from him. Razdan wouldn’t even need to change shape to do it.

  Unless…

  “Because,” said Sebastian with a smile. “She is the only one among us who is a valikarion. She will be quite perfectly safe from you.”

  “Is that a threat?” said Razdan. Behind him, Balmin and a few others bristled. Rudjak kept his eyes on Kylon. If Kylon was the one who had killed Varlov, then he was the biggest danger.

  “Certainly not,” said Sebastian. “This is a cordial meeting, nothing more. So long as there is no need for us to defend ourselves, there is no need for you to defend yourself.”

  “Indeed,” said Razdan. His mavrokh screamed for him to attack and to kill these intruders, and he felt the similar fury from his pack brothers. Yet his rational mind counseled caution. Razdan had heard tales of the skill of the Kyracian stormdancers, of how fast they could move, and he was standing close to Kylon. The man might be able to attack before Razdan could react.

  Though Razdan neither saw nor sensed a valikon on him. Kylon’s only weapon seemed to be a curious jeweled saber of ancient design.

  “The Countess awaits you upstairs,” said Sebastian. “I imagine she is quite eager to begin your discussion.”

  Razdan looked towards the door to the private dining room. He knew the room. In fact, he had once pulled a woman into the room and taken her there…had it been five years ago? Six? It wasn’t important.

  What was important was the fact that he couldn’t sense anyone inside the room. Razdan could sense his pack brothers, Sebastian and Kylon, and Rachov. Come to think of it, he could also sense Sophia Zomanek and her damned uncle. They were in one of the private rooms, no doubt listening to the conversation.

  A thrill of lust went through Razdan at the thought of Sophia. She was a beautiful young woman, and she belonged to the boyar of Kostiv. Her uncle would have married her off to a minor merchant or nobleman of Risiviri, or the Magisterium would have found Sophia once her sorcerous abilities became obvious.

  Instead, Razdan would put her to better use. First, to slake his lust. And then, once he tired of her, he would take his wolf-form and devour her, letting her screams feed his mavrokh.

  “Do not go alone, my boyar,” said Balmin at once. “It could be a trap.”

  “For once I agree with Balmin,” said Rudjak. “She is dangerous.”

  Rudjak and Balmin never agreed on anything. If they both thought this might be a trap…

  “There is no reason to fear,” said Sebastian. “There will be no fighting unless you or one of your men start it, my lord boyar.”

  “But if you do,” said Kylon, “then we will have violence.”

  “Do you think I fear one lone woman?” said Razdan to Balmin. He looked at Sebastian. “Very well. I will speak with this Countess of yours.” He turned back to Rudjak. “At the first sign of treachery, kill them both.” Razdan glanced at Rachov. “And everyone in the White Boar inn, for failing to warn their lawful lord of treachery.”

  He had the distinct satisfaction of seeing the desperate terror go over Rachov’s face. The satisfaction curdled. An old innkeeper was far easier to bully than a battle magus and a Kyracian stormdancer.

  And, perhaps, a valikarion.

  Without another word Razdan turned and walked towards the stairs. Sebastian stepped aside to let him pass, though Kylon did not move. He felt Kylon’s and Sebastian’s stares on him as he climbed the stairs, walked down the balcony, and opened the door to the dining room.

  ###

  Caina waited at the head of the table, clad in her borrowed dress, her pyrikon in its diadem form and resting atop her black hair. She had redone her hair in the crown-like style of Nighmarian noblewomen, though this time she had done it properly since there had been more time and Sophia had helped her. The girl had proven quite adept at braiding hair.

  Deep voices rose from the common room, and a moment later she heard the creak of footsteps upon the stairs.

  The door swung open, and Razdan Nagrach stepped into the dining room.

  Caina had not been sure
what to expect. Based on what the others had said, she had expected a fat lordling, a man who relied on his mavrokh for strength. Instead, the boyar was sharply handsome and quite fit. He was in his early twenties, and his black hair and mustache had been styled in the same fashion as the statues of the Iron King in Sigilsoara. Like Rudjak and the others, Caina had seen at the Sanctuary Stone, Razdan wore dark clothing, his jacket and cloak trimmed with fur, a sword and a dagger at his belt.

  They stared at each other. Caina’s mind raced, sorting details about him. His eyes were brown. His clothes were clean, despite the ride from his castle, which indicated a fastidious nature, and likely pride in his station as boyar. He was in good physical condition, which meant he possessed at least some self-control, and there was no sign of excessive alcohol consumption. His sword and dagger were fine weapons, but the leather wrappings around the hilts showed the signs of much use. His face was a cold mask as he stared at her, his brown eyes hard as stone, though she saw hints of lust and hunger there.

  Overall, he struck her as a dangerous man.

  Caina rose, slowly, not taking her eyes from his, and began speaking in High Nighmarian. “Thank you for coming, my lord boyar. As you have no doubt guessed, I am Countess Caina Amalas Tarshahzon Kardamnos.” She stepped around the table and offered him a bow, and then extended her left hand towards him.

  His lips twitched in something that might have been amusement, or perhaps contempt, and he bowed over her hand and pressed a brief kiss onto her knuckles.

  “And I am Razdan Nagrach, boyar of Kostiv,” he said, his High Nighmarian thick with an Ulkaari accent, his voice a deep rumble.

  “Shall we be seated?” said Caina.

  She sat at one end of the table, and the boyar at the other, the chair creaking a little beneath his weight.

  ###

  Razdan was not quite sure what to make of Caina.

  He had heard the rumors about Caina Amalas, of course, the stories about the Balarigar and the Umbarians and Istarinmul, but he knew such stories were always exaggerated in the telling.