Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge

by Jonathan Moeller

  If Caina could stay away from him long enough, maybe she could locate the canopic jar before he found her.

  She moved forward as fast as she dared, her boots making no sound against the stone floor, her eyes adapting to the dim blue glow coming from the enspelled crystals. She risked a glance at the compass, but could not make out the needle in the faint light. Ahead the massive bulk of a pillar yawned out the darkness, ghostly in the blue glow.

  “Stop hiding!” shouted Corvalis, his voice tinged with rage and amusement. “You can’t run forever, and you won’t lift a finger to harm your precious pet assassin. Make this easier on yourself, Ghost.” He laughed. “Lie down and die, and I promise that Corvalis Aberon will join you momentarily.”

  Caina bit back the insult that came to her lips and kept going.

  She reached the pillar and circled around it, keeping her shadow-cloak close. Had Ranarius concealed his canopic jar here? Perhaps instead he had hidden it deeper within the vaults, maybe even in the chambers below Black Angel Tower itself. Caina would have to get close enough to one of the crystals to see the needle, though she risked revealing herself to Corvalis…

  There.

  A small stone jar stood at the foot of the pillar. Caina knelt and felt the tingle of powerful sorcery from within the jar. She pried off the lid and saw a human heart within, dried and withered. Sorcerous power radiated from the thing, and as she watched, it pulsed and flared with the green fire of a necromantic spell.

  Ranarius’s canopic jar.

  She raised the ghostsilver dagger to stab.

  “No!”

  Caina turned her head, saw Corvalis sprinting at her, and too late she realized that the flare of green light from within the jar had revealed her position.

  She stabbed down as Corvalis gestured. Invisible force slammed into Caina, and her blade bounced off the jar’s stone lip. The psychokinetic power threw her against the pillar. Her boot struck the canopic jar and sent it rolling away, the green light spilling across the floor.

  Corvalis stalked closer, his free hand outthrust, his face tightened into a grimace of strain as sweat poured down his face.

  “You troublesome little bitch,” said Corvalis. “How is it that I have not killed you yet, and you have killed me four times?”

  “Maybe because you’re an idiot,” said Caina, struggling against the force that held her pinned. She had endured far stronger spells, and with a little more effort perhaps she could break free. “Maybe because you were stupid enough to follow the Moroaica, and then stupid enough to get yourself killed when you rebelled against her.”

  Corvalis hissed and drew back the ghostsilver spear with his right hand. “I am a master magus of the Imperial Magisterium…”

  “You’re not,” spat Caina, struggling against the spell. The invisible force held her right arm and ghostsilver dagger pinned against the pillar, but her left arm was free. She fumbled at her belt, trying to get her fingers around the handle of a throwing knife. “Not any more. Do you think Decius Aberon gives a damn what happened to you? You’re a failure, Ranarius, a spirit bound to a chunk of rotting meat, a…”

  “Shut up!” bellowed Corvalis.

  He strode forward, and Caina yanked a throwing knife from her belt, getting her fingers around the handle.

  “I wager,” said Caina, “that you don’t have enough strength left to work a warding spell.”

  Corvalis sneered. “You wouldn’t use that on your precious assassin.”

  “I don’t,” said Caina, “have to kill him to stop you.”

  At least she hoped not. She felt the icy calm of her self-control, but terrible dread stirred beneath it like a beast waking from slumber.

  Corvalis strode towards her, drawing the spear back to stab, and Caina flung the knife. The look of surprise on Corvalis’s face was absolute when the knife’s handle struck his windpipe. He stumbled, the spear in his right hand plunging for her belly. Caina seized the shaft of the weapon and yanked, and the blade struck the pillar. Corvalis slammed into her, still coughing, and Caina wrapped her legs around his waist.

  She drove her forehead forward with all the strength she could muster.

  The shock sent a wave of pain down her spine, but Corvalis’s head snapped back, and he overbalanced, her weight driving him to the floor. Caina rolled off him and came to her knees next to the canopic jar, the ghostsilver dagger still clutched in her hand.

  She snatched the jar, raised the dagger, and brought the blade hammering down.

  “No!” roared Corvalis, surging to his feet as blood streamed from his nose. “Stop, stop, stop…”

  The ghostsilver dagger sank into the withered heart, and Corvalis shrieked. The handle grew hot beneath Caina’s fingers, and the heart pulsed with green fire and crumbled into smoking ashes. Caina felt a jolt of chaotic, uncontrolled sorcery as the spells upon the heart unraveled.

  Corvalis threw back his head and screamed, green fire erupting from his head and hands. For a dreadful instant Caina remembered the final battle in Caer Magia, remembered Rhames crumbling into dust as his final canopic jar shattered beneath her blade. Would the same thing happen to Corvalis?

  The green fire blazed brighter, and for a moment a pale image fashioned of ghostly light seemed to float before Corvalis. Caina glimpsed Ranarius as he had looked in Cyrioch before his first death, a proud and austere master magus. Yet now he looked terrified, his eyes bulging as he raised his hands to ward off unseen foes.

  The specter’s mouth opened in a silent scream and vanished. The green fire faded away, and Corvalis fell to the ground, the ghostsilver spear bouncing from his hands.

  Caina shoved her dagger into its sheath and ran to him.

  “Corvalis,” she said, kneeling next to him. “Corvalis!” He was still breathing, thank all the gods. A bruise marked his throat from the knife’s handle, and his nose and mouth were wet with blood. She grabbed his hand. “Can you hear me?”

  His green eyes blinked open, and for a terrible moment Caina thought she would see Ranarius’s hatred and loathing there. Or emptiness, if Ranarius’s destruction had shattered his mind and left him an empty vessel.

  Instead she saw only confusion.

  “Gods,” he said, “my nose hurts. And my neck.” He sat up, rubbing his throat. “Ranarius! Where…”

  “He’s dead,” said Caina. She laughed with relief, a little alarmed at how hysterical she sounded. “Again. But permanently this time.”

  Corvalis shook his head. “I don’t…remember anything. Did he hit me with a spell?”

  She helped him to stand. “He possessed you.”

  “He did?” said Corvalis, alarmed. “I don’t remember any of that. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “You didn’t,” said Caina. “He tried. I found his canopic jar and destroyed it.”

  “Good,” said Corvalis, rolling his shoulders. He picked up the ghostsilver spear. “I’m sure Claudia will be delighted when I tell her.” He looked at her. “Caina. Thank you. Gods, that monster’s spirit in my head…”

  She gave him a quick kiss, ignoring the taste of blood on his lips. “Let’s go. The sooner we can find a way out of Marsis and set off for New Kyre, the better. It’s what…it’s what Halfdan told us to do.”

  But a large part of her mind noted the practical difficulties. She had been seen murdering Aiodan Maraeus. Halfdan could have protected her, but Sicarion had killed him. And the scarred assassin was hunting her.

  As the thought crossed her mind, a rusty laugh rang out of the darkness.

  Corvalis stepped away from her, drawing his sword with his free hand, and Caina took her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left.

  “You know, I’m jealous,” said the voice. “You gave him the final death, but I’ve wanted to kill him for years. You should have let me kill him at least once before you broke his jar.”

  Sicarion stepped out of the darkness, his weapons ready.

  Chapter 9 - A Mask of Scar
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  Caina realized they were likely about to die.

  She was exhausted from the night spent running and fighting, and Corvalis was in no better shape.

  Sicarion looked calm, even amused. He wore a new dark cloak, and she saw fresh patches of skin grafted to his face and neck, healing the burns she had inflicted upon him at the safe house. His sword waited in his right hand, his ugly serrated dagger in the left.

  “Another victim?” said Caina.

  “This?” said Sicarion, gesturing at his patchwork face. “Some dutiful Legionary, so zealously hunting for the murderer of the poor Lord Governor. Perhaps I ought to turn the assassin in myself for the reward. The mistress wants you dead, but she did not say how to do it. I think she would be just as pleased if you were beheaded for assassinating the Lord Governor.”

  “Ranarius killed him,” said Caina, “and all that is left of Ranarius is some ash in a jar. Perhaps I ought to collect the reward.”

  “You could,” said Sicarion, “but you won’t. You and I, we know the truth. Ranarius wore poor Aiodan Maraeus like a coat and threw himself upon your blade. But all those witnesses in the inn know better. They saw the merchant’s daughter murder the Lord Governor, so sad, so tragic. Maybe he spurned her affections. Or she was a Kyracian spy who seduced him.” He clucked his tongue. “Such a scandalous, tragic affair. If anyone remembers you, Ghost, it will be as the woman who murdered the Lord Governor of Marsis.” He grinned. “And quite a few other people.”

  She scowled. With Rhames’s enspelled mask, he could have masqueraded as her for months, and killed any number of people while wearing her face. “Like who?”

  “Oh, a few people here, a few people there,” said Sicarion. “If you ever get back to Malarae, you’ll find you have rather fewer friends than you remember.” Caina tightened her grip on her weapons, the faces of Ark and Tanya and Theodosia and Shaizid flashing before her eyes. “But I shouldn’t be needlessly cruel. You’re never going back to Malarae.”

  Corvalis barked a harsh laugh. “You? Refraining from needless cruelty? I would ask if you were possessed by Ranarius, but he embraced needless cruelty, too.”

  “Aye,” said Caina, glaring at Sicarion. “And look how he ended.”

  Now it was Sicarion’s turn to laugh. “Quite badly. I do regret that I never had the chance to kill him at least once. When he first approached the mistress all those decades ago, I told her to kill him on the spot. I knew he would betray her. But the mistress, alas, keeps her own counsel, and she required his skill for summoning elementals.”

  “Why?” said Caina. She wanted to keep him talking. Sicarion seemed inclined to gloat, certain that they could not escape him. And the longer she kept him talking, the longer she had to think up a way to escape.

  “For the great work, of course,” said Sicarion, a mocking edge coming into his tone. “For the mistress’s great plan to remake the world, end death and suffering, and bring vengeance to the gods for all the pain of mankind.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe in the great work,” said Caina.

  “It is folly,” said Sicarion, grinning. “The mistress’s plan will fail, horribly. She could see this, were she not so fixated upon vengeance. But she will not stop, and millions upon millions shall die when her spell fails.” His twisted face lit up with glee. “The entire world will die.”

  “And you support this?” said Corvalis.

  “Because Sicarion only cares about death,” said Caina. “Nothing else matters to him.”

  “You understand,” said Sicarion, and he sounded almost grateful. “Killing is pleasure. The only pleasure. The mistress cares about vengeance for the pain of the world, but there is no such thing as justice. There is only power and killing.”

  “You sound like a Kindred Elder,” said Corvalis.

  “They are fools,” said Sicarion. “They kill for money and power. Killing should be done for its own sake.”

  “Spoken like a true artist,” said Corvalis.

  “So why does the Moroaica need Ranarius’s skill at summoning elementals to cast her great work?” said Caina.

  For a moment Sicarion stared at her, his mismatched eyes unblinking.

  “Clever, clever,” he said at last. “Still seeking for secrets, even at the very final moments of your life. But why not? Why should you not understand the depths of your failure? The Moroaica needed his knowledge to design spells she would use with the Staff of the Elements.”

  “The Staff?” said Caina. She had seen it in the Tower of Study in Catekharon, a metal staff that blazed with sorcerous fire or crackled with arcane lightning. “It can waken greater elementals from their sleep.”

  “Such as the elemental prince sleeping beneath the Stone of Cyrioch,” said Sicarion. “With the Staff, she can awaken them, and with the Ascendant Bloodcrystal, she can bind them.”

  “The crystal was destroyed in Caer Magia,” said Caina.

  “Only a duplicate,” said Sicarion. “I stole the real one and presented it to the mistress. Meanwhile I had the pleasure of watching you kill Ranarius in Maena Tulvius’s body. A pity, really. That was by far the most attractive body.”

  “Then she has the real Ascendant Bloodcrystal?” said Caina, alarmed. With that ancient relic of the Fourth Empire, Rhames could have rebuilt the Kingdom of the Rising Sun.

  With that relic, Jadriga could destroy the world.

  “Yes,” said Sicarion. “And all the phoenix ashes she needs, thanks to you.”

  “Phoenix ashes?” said Caina. “What is she going to do with those?”

  “Raise the dead, of course,” said Sicarion, “and heal all their woes. Or so she believes. I think it more likely that she will raise an army of insane undead.” His voice brimmed with delight at the prospect.

  “Then Ibrahmus Sinan was one of her disciples,” said Caina. “That is why she helped me in the netherworld when I went to the Sacellum of the Living Flame.”

  “Not at all,” said Sicarion. “Sinan made Ranarius look clever. The mistress merely followed Sinan’s plans until they collapsed, and then claimed the remaining ashes for herself. She will feed their power through the chained might of the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and the elemental lords, and use them to raise the dead. Then she shall go to confront the gods.”

  “And how shall she do that?” said Caina.

  Sicarion shrugged. “I don’t know. Nor do I care. All I know is that she shall fail. Declare war upon the gods? The gods care nothing for the world of men, or perhaps they do not exist at all. Declaring war upon them is like declaring war upon the rain or the sea.”

  “A surprisingly sane view,” said Corvalis.

  Sicarion laughed. “Her plan will fail…but the failure of her spell will unleash death on a scale unseen in the history of the world.” His smile widened, his mismatched eyes crazed and gleeful. “So much death…and I shall be there to watch it.”

  “So much for sane,” said Caina.

  “I almost wish you could be there to see it,” said Sicarion, raising his weapons. “But you won’t. I’ve been looking forward to killing you, Aberon. You’ve gotten in my way once too often. A pity I didn’t have the chance to kill your sister in front of you.” His eyes turned to Caina. “And you, Ghost. I…”

  “Let me guess,” said Caina. “I’ve heard all your threats before. You’re going to cut off my hands, or my ears, and graft them to your damned scarred hide.”

  “No,” said Sicarion. “I’m just going to kill you. No more games. Farewell, Ghost.” He smiled. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Without another word he moved with a speed that belied his scarred appearance, his blades a blur. Caina flung her throwing knife, and the blade slammed into Sicarion’s shoulder, but the assassin did not slow. She ducked under the sweep of his sword and the slash of his dagger, but Sicarion’s boot slammed into her knee and sent her sprawling.

  He laughed and raised his weapons for the kill.

  Corvalis attacked, thrusting the
ghostsilver spear in his left hand. Sicarion twisted aside with the grace of a serpent, and lunged at Corvalis in a furious blur, his sword and dagger thrusting. Corvalis retreated with a curse and tossed aside the spear, taking his sword in both hands. Steel rang on steel as Corvalis fell back, trying to regain his footing beneath Sicarion’s wild attack.

  Caina staggered to her feet, trying to ignore the pain in her limbs, and raised another throwing knife. Sicarion made a flipping gesture with his left hand, and Caina felt a spike of arcane force. She cursed and tried to dodge, and the blast of psychokinetic power clipped her left side. The spell spun her around and sent her tumbling across the ground, and she came to a hard stop against the base of a pillar. Pain flooded her, and for a moment Caina could not move.

  But she could not yield now, could not surrender. To yield meant death.

  And worse, Corvalis would die.

  She clawed to her feet, breathing hard, the ghostsilver dagger in hand. Corvalis retreated beneath Sicarion’s attack, the scarred assassin pursuing with gleeful fury. Corvalis stumbled, and Sicarion’s next blow left a line of blood across his jaw. He lunged at Corvalis for the kill, and Caina sprinted at him, her arm pumping as she flung throwing knife after throwing knife. Three of the blades struck home, two in Sicarion’s leg, one in his side. He stumbled, and Corvalis attacked, his dagger sinking into the assassin’s shoulder.

  Sicarion snarled and raked his hands before him, green fire and darkness crackling around his fingers.

  Caina felt the surge of sorcery, and a sphere of hazy, translucent shadows, perhaps a dozen yards wide, whirled around Sicarion. She charged at him, ghostsilver dagger in hand, and entered the sphere of shadows. A deathly chill shot through her, the dagger heating up as the ghostsilver reacted to the spell. She felt frost forming in her hair as she staggered towards Sicarion, and had no choice but to jump back, out of the shadows.

  The spell, the sphere of life-draining shadow, was simply too strong.