Ghost Relics

by Jonathan Moeller

  Admete opened her mouth and closed it again, her eyes wide with fear.

  “You,” said Tarniar, pointing at Caina. “I do not care who you are or why you are here, but you will leave at once. This is not your concern. Meddle with my business, and you will learn what it is to earn the wrath of an occultist of Anshan.”

  “I know what’s in the box,” said Caina. “I cannot let you take it.”

  Tarniar laughed. “Who are you, then? An agent of the Imperial Magisterium? Or the College of Alchemists, perhaps? You wish to claim the idol for yourself?”

  “I want to see it destroyed,” said Caina. “Maatish necromancy is too dangerous to be used.”

  “Fool,” said Tarniar. “I shall take the power and use it to make Anshan strong. The world is changing, and chaos rises around us. The Padishah of Istarinmul shall fall, and civil war burns in the Empire. Ancient horrors stir in the dark places of the world. The day of the golden dead proved that. With the power of the idol, I will be the strongest occultist in Anshan, stronger than even Yaramzod the Black himself. The Shahenshah shall heed my wisdom, and I will lead Anshan to a new age of glory.”

  “Or you’ll get yourself killed,” said Caina, “along with many other people.”

  “Perhaps,” said Tarniar, stepping forward, his shadows slithering and whispering around him. “Or perhaps you shall be the first to perish, if you are foolish enough to aid this wretched thief in her folly. Stand aside, or I shall…”

  A loud click echoed through the tomb.

  “Of course,” said Nerina, straightening up with a sigh. “The torsion of the central gear was insufficient.” The trapbox clicked again, shuddered, and the massive lid rose a few inches. She sighed, stretched, and looked around. “Oh. Is something happening?”

  “A few things,” said Caina.

  “Leave now,” said Tarniar, “or else I shall…”

  Caina took three quick steps to Nerina’s side, opened the lid of the trapbox, and looked inside. Several pouches of ancient Maatish coins lay at the bottom of the massive box, loose coins and gems scattered amongst them. There was a bundle of old papyrus scrolls, which Caina would destroy if they lived through this. In their midst stood a foot-high statue of a man wearing a linen kilt, a staff topped with a solar disc in his right hand. Instead of a head, he had a stylized scarab.

  It was an idol of Anubankh, the Maatish god of necromancy.

  “Enough!” roared Tarniar, flinging out his hands, and Caina felt the surge of arcane power.

  His three shadows rolled across the floor, whipping back and forth like serpents. One coiled around Admete, who screamed as the coil of darkness lifted her into the air. Azaces charged in silence, but Tarniar gestured, and his second shadow lashed towards the towering Sarbian. It lifted him into the air, the shadow holding him easily.

  The final shadow rolled towards Caina.

  Tarniar’s sorcery was not like the psychokinetic blasts of an Imperial magus, the transmutations of an Istarish Alchemist, or the wind and water of a Kyracian stormsinger. He commanded the shadows of the netherworld, its spirits and creatures, and forced them to do his bidding.

  And Caina knew how to make herself unseen to those creatures.

  She reached under her cloak and yanked, letting her shadow-cloak fall around her, and pulled up the cowl to cover her head. The shadow-cloak was a wondrous garment, blacker than a starless night and almost weightless. It merged and melded with the darkness around Caina, granting her far greater ability to move unseen. It also shielded her thoughts from divinatory spells and mind-altering sorcery.

  A useful side-effect was that it rendered her invisible to spirits of the netherworld.

  The shadow stopped a few paces from Caina, hissing and whispering. Nerina took several hasty steps back, her blue eyes filled with concern as she stared at Azaces, while Azaces and Admete struggled in the grip of Tarniar’s other two shadows.

  “What is this?” said Tarniar. “How did you do that? You are another sorcerer?” He didn’t recognize the shadow-cloak, which was good, since it meant he didn’t know that she was a Ghost.

  “Let them go,” said Caina. She saw Nerina reach into her loose coat, saw her produce a small crossbow loaded with a steel dart. The dart’s head had been darkened with poison.

  “Or else?” said Tarniar.

  Caina looked into the trapbox, at the idol of Anubankh. Still she felt no sorcerous power from it, and a suspicion grew in her mind.

  She nodded to Nerina.

  The locksmith raised her bow and squeezed the trigger. The weapon shuddered and spat its dart at Tarniar. His third shadow rose off the floor in a black wave and caught the dart in midair, ripping it to splinters.

  “You think mere weapons of steel and wood can harm me?” said Tarniar, sneering behind his beard. “I, who command the shadows of the netherworld? Enough! Surrender or I shall kill you all.”

  Caina stooped and snatched up the idol. The thing felt lighter, far lighter, than a statue of gold should.

  “Let them go,” said Caina, “or I’ll destroy this.”

  “Fool,” said Tarniar. “You cannot destroy an object of such power. Not before I stop you, anyway.” His third shadow crawled closer, like a hand groping across the floor of a darkened room. “Then you’ll wish that you had surrendered to me.”

  Caina looked at him, at the idol in her hand, and then back at Tarniar.

  Suddenly she realized that he was a fool. A powerful fool, a dangerous fool, but a fool nonetheless. He had made a tremendous mistake, a mistake that Caina could exploit.

  Assuming he didn’t kill her first.

  “Tarniar,” rasped Admete, her voice tight with fear. “Let them go. They didn’t have anything to do with me. Just let them go, and I won’t fight. Do whatever you want to me. But they…they don’t deserve my fate.”

  “Very noble,” said Tarniar, “but useless.” The shadow moved closer to Caina. “If you do not…”

  “You want the damned thing?” said Caina, drawing back her arm. “Then catch!”

  She threw the idol as hard as she could manage.

  “No!” shouted Tarniar, all three of his shadows rippling in alarm. “That…”

  The idol struck one of the stone pillars and shattered in a cloud of dust and crumbling, dry wood, fragments of gold foil falling like tiny leaves to the floor. The idol had merely been gold foil spread over ancient wood, wood no longer strong enough to survive the impact.

  “You ruined it!” screamed Tarniar, and his shadows flung Azaces and Admete to the ground. “I spent years seeking that, and you destroyed it! Perish!” All three shadows raced for Caina. Shadow-cloak or not, she suspected that if one of them touched her, the others could rip her apart. Tarniar began chanting and waving his hands as his shadows came closer, and Caina felt the surge of arcane power.

  She stooped and closed the lanterns, plunging the tomb into darkness.

  Tarniar’s chant faltered in a furious curse, and Caina moved, trusting to her memory as she moved silently through the tomb, dodging the pillars and the leaden coffins. One hand gripped a throwing knife, and the other stretched out before her, feeling for any obstacles. She heard Azaces’s heavy breathing and Admete’s groans of pain, heard Tarniar began another spell.

  Caina circled around a pillar in the darkness, and blue light flared as Tarniar finished his spell, an eerie blue glow radiating from him to flood the tomb. The light drove back the darkness, and she saw Nerina helping Azaces to his feet, saw Admete lying prone upon the floor.

  It made Tarniar a marvelous target.

  Caina flung the throwing knife at him. One of his shadows leapt from the floor to intercept the weapon, catching the knife and flinging it aside. Tarniar whirled to face her, a triumphant smirk on his face, and began another spell. Caina slid a dagger from her belt and charged, but Tarniar showed no sign of alarm as his shadows boiled up to intercept her. His shadows had proven capable of turning aside steel weapons.

  So the look
of shock on his face was absolute when Caina’s ghostsilver dagger shredded through the shadows that rose up to stop her.

  Ghostsilver was proof against sorcery and could harm spirits of the netherworld, and the hilt grew hot beneath Caina’s fingers. The shadows recoiled with a shocked, hissing scream, and before they could recover Caina reversed the weapon and drove it into Tarniar’s chest. The occultist fell to his knees with a strangled groan, his shadows rolling around him, and Caina ripped the dagger free and stabbed again.

  He fell dead to the floor, his shadows evaporating into nothingness, the blue glow fading away.

  A moment later Nerina relit the lanterns.

  “How…how did you do that?” said Admete, gazing in shock at Tarniar’s corpse. “He was so powerful…”

  “He was a powerful sorcerer,” said Caina, “and like so many powerful sorcerers, he trusted too much in that power.”

  ###

  Later, after Caina had burned the papyrus scrolls and Admete had taken all the gold and gems she could carry, they left the tomb and sealed the door behind them. Caina wanted to be well away before anyone discovered the occultist’s corpse. Though it might be years before anyone broke into the plague tomb again.

  “It wasn’t enspelled at all?” said Admete as they left the Tomb Quarter and entered the Emirs’ Quarter, making their way past the splendid palaces of Istarinmul’s nobles.

  “No,” said Caina. “It had no arcane power at all. It was just some gold foil spread over a wooden statue. Tarniar spent years seeking an arcane relic, but all he found was some moldy wood and a bit of gold.”

  “Gods of the brine,” said Admete. “The damned fool.” She shook her head. “Thank you for my life. Though I still do not understand why you helped me.

  They passed one of the palaces. The gates bore a copy of the Grand Wazir’s edict offering two million bezants for the death or capture of the Balarigar.

  “Because I hate sorcerers,” said Caina, “and I suppose I cannot blame a woman for stealing from them.”

  Nerina snorted, and they vanished into the city’s night.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading GHOST RELICS. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page. Turn the page for the first chapter of Ghost in the Cowl, the first novel of the GHOST EXILE series.

  GHOST IN THE COWL Chapter 1 - Istarinmul

  Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas stood on the ship’s deck and threw knives at the mast.

  It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from thinking too much. To distract herself from the memories that flooded her mind if she was idle for too long. Sometimes she locked herself in her cabin for hours and performed the exercises of open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago, working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every muscle in her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes.

  But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went to the dark places. To New Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion laughing as he drove his dagger into the back of the man who had raised Caina. To the Moroaica, weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.

  To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the netherworld.

  And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself gazing at the veins in her arm, thinking of the knives she carried.

  She retained enough of her right mind to realize that she was not thinking clearly, that her mood was dangerous.

  So when that mood came, she went to the deck and threw knives at the mast.

  At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew accustomed to it. They had been told that she was a mercenary named Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, delivering contracts now that trade between Istarinmul and the Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be forgiven an eccentricity or two.

  That, and she never missed the mast.

  Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain Qalim’s orders. Caina suspected that the sailors would have reacted rather differently if they knew that beneath the disguise “Marius” was actually a twenty-two year old woman, but she did not care.

  She could not bring herself to care about very much.

  So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking into the wood. Compensating for the motion of the waves and the wind kept her mind busy. Pulling the knives out of the mast and sharpening the blades anew kept her hands occupied.

  The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless attracted an audience.

  When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New Kyre’s harbor, she had expected to share the vessel with cargo. Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or perhaps Anshani silk. The Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly a year, and cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.

  She had not, however, expected to share the ship with a circus.

  More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels.

  Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the mast, and Master Cronmer himself approached.

  Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the shoulders and chest of a titan. He was bald, with a graying mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a brilliant red coat. She saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten bread and cheese for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship carried.

  “Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish tongue. “You should come work for me.”

  Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She made sure to keep her Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and raspy, as Theodosia had taught her to do.

  “Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty old merchants? You should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to create a stupendous knife-throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll throw knives at some lusty Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch from her skin, and she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”

  “Working for the Collegium,” said Caina, “pays better.”

  Spending the voyage throwing knives at the mast and brooding had likely been a poor idea. A spy needed to remain inconspicuous, and Caina had not bothered to do so. If she was to rebuild the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, she would have to take greater care.

  But she could not bring herself to give a damn.

  “Mere money,” said Cronmer, striking a pose. “What is that compared to the roar of the crowd, of a woman in your arms, of…”

  “Cronmer,” said a woman with a heavy Istarish accent. Cronmer’s wife, a short Istarish woman named Tiri, hurried to his side. She looked tiny next to her massive husband, and they bickered constantly, but they had been married for twenty years and had six children. “Leave the poor man alone. The life of the circus is not for everyone.”

  Cronmer rumbled. “But the Traveling Circus Of Wonders And…”

  “Can’t you see?” whispered Tiri into Cronmer’s ear. Caina heard her anyway. “Can you not see that he has lost someone? Likely when the golden dead rose. Do not pester him.”

  Caina wondered how Tiri had figured that out. On the other hand, Caina had spent the last two weeks throwing knives into the mast and staring into nothing. It was hardly a mystery.

  “Yes, well,” said Cronmer, a hint of chagrin on his face. “If you ever get tired of working for fat old merchants, Master Marius, come see me. The Circus shall be at the Inn of the Crescent Moon for the next week, and then we shall perform before Master Ulvan of the Brotherhood of Slavers.”

  Caina had no wish to visit the home of an Istarish slave trader, but it caught her curiosity. “What does a slaver want with a circus?”

  “A celebration,” said Tiri. “He has been elevated to a Master of the Brotherhood, endowed with his own cowl and brand. Traditionally the newly-elevated Masters throw lavish celebrations, and h
e has hired the Circus for that purpose.”

  “Just as well,” said Cronmer. “The Kyracian nobles were humorless folk. Too enamored of their own traditions to enjoy the Circus. Well, Master Marius, if you change your mind, the Inn of the Crescent Moon is in the Cyrican Quarter.”

  Caina nodded, barely hearing him.

  “We had best gather the others, husband,” said Tiri, “for we shall put in before noon.”

  Caina blinked and looked over the ship’s rail.

  Istarinmul rose before her.

  She yanked the knives from the mast, returned them to her belt, and walked to the prow.

  The city was huge, larger than New Kyre and almost as large as Malarae itself. The Padishah’s capital occupied a jut of land that almost reached the southern end of the Argamaz Desert. The resultant Starfall Straits gave the Padishah his power. The domains of Istarinmul were far smaller than the Empire of Nighmar or the vast lands ruled by the Shahenshah of Anshan. Yet the Padishah of Istarinmul could close the Starfall Straits, blocking off traffic from the Cyrican Sea and the Alqaarin Sea, and halt the world’s commerce. Kyracian merchants visited every port in the world, but Istarinmul could close half the world’s ports to the other half.

  And ships from Istarinmul ranged across the seas, buying and selling slaves.

  Even through her apathy, Caina felt a twinge of anger at that.

  But for now Caina gazed at Istarinmul. The city gleamed white from walls whitewashed to reflect the hot sun of the southern lands. In the city’s core rose a massive palace of brilliant white marble, its domes and towers sheathed in gleaming gold. The Golden Palace, where the Padishah sat and governed Istarinmul with his nobles and magistrates. It faced another, slightly larger palace, a towering edifice of white stone and domed towers, gleaming crystals lining its roofs. It was the College, where Istarinmul’s Alchemists carried out their secret studies.