The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War

by Jonathan Moeller

  The company marched forward, and Caina kept pace with them. The looted warehouse drew closer. If she was going to break away, she needed to do so now.

  So she tripped.

  She fell flat upon her face, the leather of her gauntlets scraping against the ground. The soldier behind her stumbled over her outstretched leg, and crashed headfirst into the next rank. The company dissolved into chaos, men shouting curses at each other, and the khalmir bellowing threats.

  Caina moved.

  She rolled to a crouch, taking a quick look around. The men climbed out of their tangle, cursing, while the khalmir shouted instructions, bashing any laggards with his shield. No one paid any attention to Caina. She darted forward and ducked into the looted warehouse. Smashed and empty crates lay everywhere, light shining through sun wells in the roof. Caina crouched behind an empty crate and waited.

  For a moment no one appeared.

  Then the khalmir and another soldier appeared in the door.

  "That damned deserter," said the khalmir. "If the company is under strength, the emir will have our heads. Find him! Now!"

  The officer moved to the left, while the soldier walked along the right wall.

  She remained motionless, slipping a throwing knife into her hand.

  The soldier moved past the crate, looking back and forth. Caina circled around him, her boots making no sound against the floor. She leaned up, clapped her left hand over the soldier's mouth, even as her right raked the blade across his throat. Blood gushed over her fingers, and the soldier struggled, almost wrenching from her grasp...but not for very long.

  He went limp, and Caina eased him to the floor.

  It had taken no more than a few heartbeats.

  Caina glided across the warehouse floor, still moving soundlessly, the dripping knife in her hand. The khalmir stalked through the crates, poking them with the butt of his spear.

  Caina tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Sir," she said, "the deserter."

  He turned, and Caina punched him in the stomach. As he doubled over, she seized the spike on his helmet, wrenched his head back, and opened his throat.

  A moment later he joined the soldier on the floor.

  Caina straightened up, breathing hard. She glanced toward the warehouse door, but saw no other soldiers. No doubt the khalmir had sent his company on its march before returning to find the deserter. His men would probably assume that he had deserted, ironically enough.

  She looked at the corpses and felt a twinge of guilt. Two men, slain in cold blood. They would have killed her, had they caught her. Yet it still weighed upon her. She had killed these men without hesitation, without mercy. How hard and cold she had become.

  Little wonder Jadriga had seen herself in Caina.

  She shoved aside the thoughts with an angry shake of her head. Her conscience could wait. Right now she had to find Nicolai. With the soldiers marching out of the Market, her best chance to do so had arrived.

  She took a moment to arrange the corpses so it looked like they had killed each other in a quarrel, and then left through the warehouse's back door. The alley was deserted, and Caina saw a five-story tenement standing nearby. By now its residents would have fled or been taken captive. It would make an ideal location to watch the Great Market.

  And if she got lucky, she might spot Nicolai.

  Caina walked into the tenement’s courtyard and froze.

  Five men stood there, waiting for her.

  Four of the men looked like common mercenaries, clad in chain mail and leather, broadswords hanging at their belts. The fifth wore leather armor with steel studs, an old cloak thrown over his shoulders. His dress was that of a caravan guard, but his features were...scarred.

  Badly.

  His face looked as if it had been stitched together from pieces of old leather. His left eye was a bright green, while his right was a sulfurous yellow-orange. Both eyes fixed on her, and the man's scarred face twitched into a smile.

  She felt the tingle of sorcerous power.

  The scarred man, whoever he was, had some level of arcane ability.

  "Ah," he said. "Mistress."

  He recognized her as a woman, even through her disguise. Which meant he was either clever, or able to wield his arcane power with skill.

  Or worse, both.

  "Who are you?" said Caina.

  "I call myself Sicarion now," said the scarred man.

  Caina blinked. "That's High Nighmarian for 'of the dagger'. Rather pretentious."

  Sicarion shrugged. "Well. I am ever so fond of knives, mistress. They are positively delightful." He titled his head to the side. "You...do not recognize me?"

  "No," said Caina, hand inching toward her weapons. "Should I?"

  "You really should," said Sicarion. "We've had many good times together, mistress, you and I. Unless..." Again he titled his head, his mismatched eyes unblinking. The tingle of sorcery sharpened against Caina's skin.

  "Whoever you are," said Caina, "I have my own business, and you have yours. No reason for us to kill each other. The Istarish and the Kyracians will do that readily enough."

  "I am hard to kill," said Sicarion. "And you are the one I seek. I am rarely mistaken." His eyes widened, and he nodded to himself. "Yes...I understand now. This has happened before." He glanced at his men. "Take her. But gently, mind. No harm is to come to her. She is our mistress."

  The men advanced on her. Caina just had time to wonder what the devil was going on, and then she turned and ran.

  Chapter 7 - A Severed Hand

  Caina sprinted down the alley, all attempts at stealth abandoned.

  Sicarion and his mercenaries pursued.

  She risked a glance over her shoulder. The mercenaries kept out of each other's way in the manner of experienced fighters. Whatever had happened to Sicarion's face had not damaged his legs, and he kept pace with ease. The five men knew how to work together.

  If they caught up to Caina, and she fought them, she would lose.

  She had to get away.

  Caina took a sharp right and ran down a narrow street, the ground sloping beneath her boots. This street led to the harbor, winding through the docks' tangled maze of alleys and courtyards. If she was careful, she could lose her pursuers here.

  Boots slapped against the cobblestones as Sicarion and his men rounded the corner in pursuit.

  Caina pushed through a narrow door in a brick wall. Inside was a wine shop, its tables and benches empty. A stairwell climbed the far wall, leading to the upper rooms. Caina raced up three flights of stairs, her heart pounding, and found herself on the building's top floor. At the end of the hallway a ladder climbed to the roof.

  She heard the crash as Sicarion's men kicked through the wine shop's door.

  Caina climbed the ladder, scrambled onto the roof, and jammed the trapdoor shut behind her. It wouldn't slow down Sicarion and his men for very long. But hopefully it would delay them just long enough.

  She sprinted across the roof, came to the edge of the alley, and jumped. She hit the roof of the tenement across the alley with a thud, her boots scraping against the clay tiles, and for a terrible moment Caina thought she would fall forty feet to her death. But she caught her balance, and saw the trapdoor on the wine shop’s roof shudder as Sicarion's men hammered it open.

  So she stepped off the edge of the roof.

  She caught the edge of the gutter in her hands, her arms protesting with the strain. Just below the roof a window yawned in the blank wall, the shutters open. The room was in disarray, as if the inhabitants had fled. Caina swung and landed in the apartment. She rolled to one knee, reached up, and pulled the shutters closed, leaving then open the tiniest crack.

  With any luck, Sicarion and his lackeys would assume that she had fled over the rooftops. Once they were gone, Caina would leave the tenement and resume her search for Nicolai.

  The trapdoor on the tavern's roof shook once more, and then burst open. The four mercenaries scrambled onto the roof, f
ollowed by Sicarion. They looked around, their eyes passing over the side of the tenement.

  "She's gone," said one the mercenaries. "She must have jumped to another roof, and climbed down to the street."

  "No matter," said Sicarion, closing his eyes.

  Caina felt the sudden prickle of arcane power against her skin.

  Sicarion's mismatched eyes opened, looking right at her.

  "Ah," he said, pointing. "She's right there, hiding behind those shutters. Very clever. Take her."

  Two of the mercenaries jumped to the tenement’s roof, followed by Sicarion himself. The other two disappeared down the ruined trapdoor. Caina suspected they planned to block the tenement’s front door when she tried to flee.

  She sprinted from the room, and half-jumped, half-ran down the tenement stairs. The sound of shattering wood echoed through the stairwell as the other two mercenaries kicked down the front door.

  Time to change plans, again.

  She changed direction and entered a deserted apartment on the second floor. A brazier of dying coals stood in the corner, and Caina pushed it onto a discarded blanket. The blanket went up in flames, the fire spreading into the dry planks of the floor.

  These tenements were firetraps.

  Caina pushed open the window's shutters and jumped. It was fifteen feet to the street, and Caina let her legs collapse beneath her, rolling to absorb the energy of the fall. She came to a stop against the wall of the building across the street, scrambled to her feet, and kept running. Smoke rose from the tenement’s windows as the fire spread.

  She saw one of the mercenaries burst from the front door an instant before she turned a corner.

  Caina cursed and ran faster, ignoring the ache in her legs, tearing deeper into the dockside district. Again she felt the crawling tingle of arcane force. Somehow Sicarion had the ability to track her with sorcery. No matter how fast she ran, no matter where she hid, she could not elude him.

  Which left only one choice. She had to kill him, and all four of his men.

  As soon as she thought up a way to do it.

  But Sicarion might not know that Caina knew about his ability to track her.

  Which meant if Caina was clever, she could set a trap for him.

  But where? Halfdan had a hidden safehouse in an abandoned warehouse not far from here, stocked with weapons, supplies, and other useful things. Caina’s shadow-cloak was hidden there. Woven with a method known only to the Ghosts, it blended with the shadows, greatly enhancing her abilities at stealth. It also protected its wearer from any divinatory sorcery. Once she wore it, Sicarion would not be able to track her.

  But until she had it, Sicarion could track her. And if she went to the safehouse now, she would lead him right to it. Worse, other Ghosts might have taken refuge there, and she would not expose them to Sicarion.

  She needed another location.

  The street widened, and Caina realized she was moving closer to the Great Market. Could she lure Sicarion and his followers into the Market, and trick the other Istarish soldiers into attacking him? That might work, if the Istarish assumed Caina was one of their own.

  Then she recalled where she had seen Sicarion’s scarred face before. He had been on horseback in Rezir Shahan’s entourage, moments before the attack began. Sicarion had come to the city with Rezir. Which meant he was working for the emir.

  What did Rezir and Sicarion want with Caina? She had never seen either man before today.

  Later. She could figure it out later. After she killed Sicarion.

  The street ahead of her led to the Great Market. Caina looked around for an escape. On her left stood a large warehouse, its roof blasted away by one of the stormsinger’s lightning bolts. A half-burned stone watchtower, still smoldering, rose out of the ruined warehouse. As Anna Callenius, she knew the owner, a merchant who bought whiskey from the Caerish and Mardonish provinces. Whiskey…

  An idea clicked in Caina’s mind.

  The side door to the warehouse hung on its hinges, knocked loose by the lightning. Caina pushed it aside and ran inside.

  And came to a skidding halt.

  The lightning blast had torn away the warehouse’s roof and burned the interior of the watchtower. But the fire had not spread to the warehouse proper, which was just as well, since row after row of heavy wooden shelves held barrel after barrel of whiskey. There was even a clever of arrangement of ropes and pulleys to raise and lower the barrels. Caina nodded to herself and ran down the aisle of stacked barrels.

  She ripped the plugs free as she did, and whiskey splattered across the floor.

  The entrance to the ruined watchtower opened before her, the damaged stairs winding up the interior of the tower. Caina ripped a strip from her sleeve, wrapped it around a fragment of wood, and scrambled up the charred stairs. Some of the beams still smoldered, and she raked her improvised torch across the coals, setting it aflame.

  She stood on the stairs, hid the torch behind her back, and waited.

  It was not a long wait. The mercenaries charged into the warehouse, breathing hard, followed by Sicarion himself. Sicarion held up a hand, and the men stopped. Just at the edge of the massive whiskey puddle.

  Caina forced herself not to grimace.

  "A goodly race," said Sicarion. "Yes, I can see why the mistress chose you. But you cannot hide from me. You cannot elude me. "

  "If you want me," said Caina, "come and get me."

  "Easily done," said Sicarion, and he waved the mercenaries forward. They ran at her, their boots splashing through the growing puddle of whiskey.

  Caina threw the torch.

  The entire aisle erupted in a sea of pale blue flame. The mercenaries screamed and threw themselves to the ground, trying to smother the flames dancing up their legs. Sicarion snarled and came to a halt, dodging around the fire.

  Caina jumped from the stairs, a dagger in either hand.

  She landed in front of a stumbling mercenary, and her blades lashed out, opening his throat. The man fell without a sound, his blood sizzling against the hot floor. Most of the whiskey had burned away, and Caina plunged her dagger into the chest of a second mercenary. The man stumbled, and Caina twisted past him, reaching for Sicarion. The scarred man drew a heavy serrated dagger, but Caina was faster. She drove her remaining dagger into his chest. Sicarion staggered, slashing his blade at Caina. She sidestepped and seized his arm, spinning him around.

  Sicarion crashed into the smoldering shelves with enough force that his heavy black dagger sheared off his right hand at the wrist. Even if the dagger in his chest hadn't killed him, the blood loss from his hand would. Caina raced for the warehouse door. Undoubtedly the light from the fire would draw the attention of the Istarish soldiers, and the sooner she was gone from here, the better.

  Her boot caught on the floor.

  The boards. The heat had warped them.

  She struggled to catch her balance, but she stumbled and pitched forward. She tucked her shoulder and rolled, coming to a stop against the brick wall. Caina scrambled back to her feet, but it was too late.

  The mercenaries had her.

  The first man grabbed her, and Caina slashed with her dagger, forcing him back. But that gave the second mercenary the opening her needed to slam his fist into her stomach. The hard metal plates compressed against her belly, and Caina stumbled, the breath exploding from her lungs. The first mercenary seized her wrist and twisted. Caina tried to rotate out of his grip, but she couldn't draw breath, and the dagger fell from her grasp. The second mercenary took her arms and pinned them behind her back, while the first stood before her, scowling.

  His fist exploded against Caina's jaw, and her head snapped back, stars swimming before her eyes.

  "Gently, now," said a rusty voice.

  Caina shook her head, trying to think through the pain, and blinked in surprise.

  Sicarion hobbled toward her, Caina's dagger still in his chest, blood dripping from the ragged stump of his right wrist.

 
"She killed Nassar and Corwall," said the first mercenary.

  "So?" said Sicarion. “If they were foolish enough to get themselves killed, they deserved their fate."

  "You," said Caina, and spat out a mouthful of blood. "You should be dead."

  "Yes," agreed Sicarion. "And long before you were born, too." He gripped her face in his left hand, his grip hard and cold. Even his fingers, Caina noticed, looked as if they had been stitched onto his hand. "Count your blessings. If you were not who you are, I would take a harvest from you."

  He released her face and retrieved his serrated black dagger. He looked over the slain mercenaries, and for a moment he reminded Caina of a man considering merchandise in the Great Market.

  Then he stooped and hacked the right hand from one of the dead men.

  Sicarion straightened up, holding the severed hand in his grip. He pressed it against his stump and frowned with concentration, muttering under his breath. Caina felt the cold, crawling tingle of necromantic sorcery.

  There was a crackling noise, and the hand attached itself to Sicarion's stump. A welt of ragged scar tissue grew from Sicarion's arm, sealing the hand to his damaged wrist. After a moment he flexed the fingers of his right hand - his new right hand - and sighed in pleasure.

  Suddenly Caina knew how he had gotten his scars.

  She had seen more of necromancy then she had ever wished to - Maglarion's bloodcrystal of stolen lives, Jadriga's life-stealing bracers.

  Yet she had never seen anything like this.

  "Good enough," said Sicarion. "It's best to take a harvest from a living source. But then you have to listen to all the screaming." He titled his head for a moment, his mismatched eyes fixed on something only he could see. "Though I do enjoy the screaming."

  Caina wrenched against the mercenaries' grip, but they held her fast. They were stronger than she was, and knew what they were doing.

  Sicarion’s eyes fell upon her. Despite herself, Caina shivered. "A pity I couldn't take your hand instead," he whispered. "But...the hands of women are usually too small. Throws off my balance." He smiled. "And my mistress would be wroth if I took one of your hands."