Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge

by Jonathan Moeller

Caina backed away and Corvalis retreated out of the sphere.

  “Enough games,” said Sicarion with a laugh. “Time to end this.”

  He sheathed his weapons and began casting a spell, more green fire and black shadow dancing around his hands. Caina had seen him use that spell before. It would unleash a bar of shadows and green flame, a lance of sorcery that drained the life from anyone it touched.

  Unless Caina stopped the spell, it would kill both her and Corvalis.

  She felt the malevolent force gathering around Sicarion.

  She doubted a throwing knife would stop him, and Caina adjusted her grip on the ghostsilver dagger. The weapon was not balanced for throwing, but she could think of nothing else to do. Corvalis sprinted across the chamber, making for the ghostsilver spear. If he could take the weapon and throw it at Sicarion, perhaps that would stop the spell, maybe even kill him.

  Sicarion laughed and lifted his hands, green fire blazing brighter, and Caina knew that they had run out of time.

  Suddenly Caina felt the presence of powerful sorcery…but it wasn’t coming from Sicarion.

  A white light flared in the darkness.

  She and Corvalis and Sicarion all turned their heads at once, and a ribbon of white flame exploded out of the darkness and slammed into Sicarion. The assassin rocked back, his sphere of shadows disintegrating. He lifted his hands, flinging his lance of shadows and green flame into the darkness.

  Caina saw the spell strike a limping man clad in the threadbare black finery of a Nighmarian noble, his face concealed behind a serene jade mask. The limping man held a silver rod in his right hand, and he swept it before him. Sicarion’s spell shattered into nothingness, the power draining away.

  “You,” said Sicarion, his voice full of loathing and a hint of fear.

  “Me,” said the masked man. He pointed the silver rod at Sicarion. “And I remember you this time.”

  Sicarion sneered. “Then you remember that I have killed you before.”

  “You did,” said the masked man. “When my memory was fractured, my power divided. Now I am whole, or at least as whole as I shall be…and you will not stab me in the back this time, necromancer. Come and face me.”

  The masked man’s voice was dry, yet utterly confident. Sicarion backed away, his whole attention upon the lean figure in the black coat.

  Then he turned and fled, dark cloak billowing behind him.

  Corvalis flung the ghostsilver spear at Sicarion. The assassin yanked his sword from its sheath and spun, deflecting the spear. The weapon clattered to the floor, and the masked man unleashed another ribbon of blazing white flame. Sicarion dodged behind one of the pillars and fled, and Caina heard the slap of his boots against the floor as he sprinted away.

  She almost pursued him, but caution held her back. She was exhausted, and Sicarion’s sorcerous ability gave him an edge she could not match. If she ran after him in the darkness, he would kill her without much trouble.

  Instead she let out a long breath, lowering her dagger. Corvalis went to retrieve the ghostsilver spear, and Caina faced the masked man.

  He walked towards her, his right leg twitching and jerking. She felt the arcane force radiating from his mask and rod, the power of the wards defending him from arcane and physical attack. He removed the mask, revealing a lined face with weary, bloodshot blue eyes and gray-shot brown hair. He looked middle-aged, but Caina knew that he was older.

  Far older.

  A man in a black cloak and leather armor appeared behind the masked man, cowl drawn back to reveal a middle-aged face and graying black hair. He carried a crossbow in his hands with the ease of a man familiar with the weapon.

  “Harkus,” said Caina.

  Harkus of the Order of the Venatorii nodded. “Ghost.”

  She turned her gaze to the limping man with the mask and the silver rod.

  “Talekhris,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

  Long ago, the Moroaica had come to Talekhris in disguise, and learned a great deal of his knowledge. Horrified at what he had done, Talekhris had vowed to stop her, using his sorcery to stay alive. Every time he was killed, he was reborn in his damaged body after a few days, keeping him alive to face the Moroaica. But with every death, he lost part of his memories, and sometimes he could not even remember his own name.

  “You are Caina Amalas of the Ghosts,” said Talekhris. “You stopped Mihaela in Catekharon, and you aided me against Maena Tulvius and the Moroaica’s schemes in Calvarium.” He scowled. “And both times Sicarion stabbed me in the back.”

  “It is a habit of his,” said Caina. “You seem to remember more.”

  “With his last death,” said Harkus, “the Sage has recovered much of his memory.”

  Talekhris nodded. “And I know how we can finally put an end to the Moroaica. But we must act at once. She has already begun the great work, and if we do not stop her, she shall lay the world waste.”

  Chapter 10 - The Lord Ambassador

  Kylon, High Seat of House Kardamnos, thalarchon of the seventh fleet of New Kyre and newly-elected Archon of the Assembly, stood on the prow of his ship and gazed at the capital of the Empire.

  New Kyre housed half a million people within its walls, and it was, or it had been, the richest trading city in the world. Its merchant vessels visited every port, and men and women from every nation in the world came to New Kyre to buy and sell.

  Malarae was twice as large.

  Kylon stared at the labyrinth of docks and quays and warehouses lining the harbor and the mouth of the River Megaros. Beyond them rose the vast tenements that housed most of the city’s working population, the gleaming mansions of the nobles and the magi and the rich merchants, the spires of temples to every god worshipped in the world. He saw the vast shining dome of the Grand Imperial Opera, the towering walls of the basilicas where the Empire’s magistrates sat in judgment and invoked public assemblies.

  And over it all, standing upon the mountain crag, rose the white walls and towers of the Imperial Citadel itself, a city in its own right, an impregnable fortress that had never fallen to any foe.

  Kylon looked upon the capital of the Empire of Nighmar and marveled at the folly of his sister.

  Andromache and Rezir Shahan had started the war, planning to seize Marsis and the Empire’s western coast. But they had been defeated, and Kylon had realized that his sister’s plan was folly. Worse, it had been a lie, for she had cared nothing for Marsis or the invading army, intending only to seize the power of the Tomb of Scorikhon for herself. And even that had been another lie, for the Moroaica’s pet assassin Sicarion had poured his deceptions into Andromache’s ears. The Moroaica had never intended to give Andromache anything, had planned instead to let her disciple Scorikhon possess Andromache’s body and live again.

  His hand tightened against the hilt of his sword. Lies upon lies, follies upon follies.

  If he ever had the chance, he would kill Sicarion for his deception.

  Kylon had loved his sister, had been in awe of her sorcerous prowess and her political skill, but as he stood upon the prow of his ship and looked at the Empire’s capital, he realized that Andromache had been a fool.

  There was no way New Kyre could ever have conquered the Empire, even if Andromache had become the most powerful sorceress in the world. New Kyre was one city with a fleet. Malarae was but one of the Empire’s great cities. The Empire was too large, too wealthy, too populous. The Kyracians could defeat the Empire at sea, but they could never hope to conquer it.

  The best New Kyre could hope was to stand free of the Empire’s might, to use its fleets and wealth to make the city too difficult a target for conquest.

  And as Imperial warships came to escort his squadron into the harbor, Kylon hoped he could do that.

  His mind started making contingency plans of its own accord. He had been in too many battles to keep it from doing otherwise. If the Empire planned treachery, his ships could cut their way free from the harbor, aided by the sorcery o
f his stormsingers. The Imperial Citadel had never fallen to enemies, but Kylon wagered he could make the docks of Malarae burn…

  The power of water sorcery within him stirred. It gave him the ability to make himself stronger, to sense the emotions of the men around him, for all men were but water, in the end. He sensed the vast emotional tide of Malarae, a million men and women and children buying and selling and working and laughing and weeping. As a child he would have fled to the corner, trying to block out the noises in his head, but after years of practice it bothered him only a little more than the stench rising from Malarae’s harbor.

  Kyracian or Nighmarian, Anshani or Istarish, harbors smelled the same the world over.

  A feeling of amusement brushed against his emotional sense.

  Kylon turned and saw his wife.

  Thalastre, formerly of House Ixionos and now the wife of the High Seat of House Kardamnos, was fit and trim. She wore a flowing stola of blue-green Anshani silk, her long, curly black hair bound in a golden diadem. Golden torques encircled each of her arms, and a faint chime came from her elaborate earrings when she walked. She seemed the very image of a high noblewoman of Kyracian birth, the mistress of the seas.

  Yet he could not forget how she had looked when she lay dying from the sorcery of a Dustblade, suspended an inch from death until he had found a blue bloodcrystal in the ruins of Caer Magia.

  “You are plotting to burn the docks, husband?” said Thalastre. “While I know little of diplomacy, I suspect that shall cause difficulties with the Emperor.”

  She was a stormsinger, strong and skilled with water sorcery. Kylon used his sorcery to augment his battle skills, to make himself stronger and faster, and he was good at it. But Thalastre used her sorcery to command wind and wave, to call lightning down from the skies to smite her foes.

  Which meant she could read his emotional sense just as easily as he could read hers.

  Idly he wondered if other men had such difficulty keeping things from their wives.

  “Yes,” he said. “But only if necessary. I have seen too many battles. I expect something to go wrong at every turn.”

  She laughed. “I know. You have brooded the entire trip here.”

  Doubt and fear had gnawed at him ever since he had argued for peace before the Assembly, ever since the Assembly had elected him as one of the city’s nine Archons to put his plan into motion. Was he doing the right thing? Would Lord Titus and the Emperor keep their word? Or had he led New Kyre to destruction and ruin?

  Thalastre threaded her arm through his and squeezed his hand. “You have chosen the course of wisdom, husband, however hard the path. Yes, there are difficulties. But the alternative would bring the greatest disaster to befall the Kyracian people since Old Kyrace burned.”

  He smiled at her. She knew how to talk him out of his dark moods, to keep him from brooding. Additionally, they had been married for less than a month, and he had spent the nights of the voyage attempting to secure an heir for House Kardamnos.

  Thalastre had responded with enthusiasm.

  That, too, had improved his mood.

  “We shall dock soon,” said Kylon. “Prepare yourself.”

  Thalastre nodded and drew herself up, arranging her face in the proud mask of a Kyracian noblewoman. Kylon strode to the ship’s main desk, where his honor guard of ashtairoi awaited him in their plumed helms, spears in hand and their long ashtair swords at their belts. Two men stood at the head of the guard. One, like Kylon, wore the gray leather armor and blue-green cloak of a stormdancer. Cimon of House Siltarides had been at Kylon’s side in some of the fiercest fighting of the war. The other man was middle-aged but fit, wearing the armor of an ashtairoi and a perpetual scowl. Alcios of House Kallias had thought he ought to have been made thalarchon of the seventh fleet, but had changed his mind about Kylon.

  The destruction of the Empire’s western fleet had changed a great many people’s minds about Kylon.

  “Lord Archon,” said Cimon. “Your guard of honor is ready.”

  “Aye,” said Alcios, “and we shall be ready for any treachery from the nobles of the Empire. Even after we have done them the honor of visiting.”

  “Remember,” said Kylon, “they are not surrendering to us. Nor are we surrendering to them. This is an agreement between two sovereign nations, between equals. Not a supplicant begging to surrender, nor a vassal pledging loyalty to an overlord. Merely an agreement between the Emperor and the Assembly.”

  “If the dogs of the Empire do not betray us,” said Alcios, “then neither shall we betray them. The honor of the Kyracian people shall be upheld.”

  “I expected no less,” said Kylon.

  Their ship reached the quay, and Kylon stepped ashore, his wife on his arm, his officers and his guard following him.

  The Imperial Guard and some of the highest lords in the Empire awaited him.

  Dozens of Imperial Guards in their black armor and purple cloaks lined the quay, motionless as statues, their steel shields polished so brightly that Kylon saw his reflection in their surfaces. Kylon had seen the Guards fight during the battle of Marsis, and he knew not to underestimate their skill and courage. A deputation of nobles, magi, priests, and merchants stood at the base of the ramp. A fat, red-faced noble stood at their head, and Kylon recognized Lord Titus Iconias. He had headed the Emperor’s embassy to Catekharon, and had almost died when Mihaela sprang her trap.

  Two nobles stood with Lord Titus. One was tall and thin with a red-trimmed black coat, his blond hair so pale it was almost white, his eyes blue and cold. The other man was in his sixties and wore the stern black coat and trousers of a Nighmarian lord, a black armband of mourning tied around his left arm. Behind him waited a grim-faced bald man with the look of a Legion veteran, a sword at his belt.

  Strangely, Kylon sensed no emotion at all from the pale-haired lord. The black-clad lord radiated a grim mixture of rage and offended pride.

  “Kylon, Lord Archon of the Kyracian Assembly and High Seat of House Kardamnos,” said Titus, “in the name of Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar, I bid you and your companions welcome to Malarae, the capital of our Empire.”

  “Thank you, Lord Titus,” said Kylon. “This is my wife, Thalastre of House Ixionos.” He introduced the others as the ashtairoi fanned out behind him, faces expressionless behind their plumed helms.

  “You are all welcome,” said Titus, once the introductions were finished. Kylon felt the weight of the Legion veteran’s eyes upon him, sensed the man’s mixture of concern and purpose. Did he have a grudge against Kylon?

  Perhaps one of his kin had perished with the western fleet of the Empire.

  “This is Lord Aeolus, a count of the Emperor’s court,” said Titus, indicating the thin man. Aeolus executed a perfect bow, his cold expression never changing. “And this is Lord Corbould Maraeus.”

  Kylon met the black-armored man’s eyes. According to his letters from Titus, Corbould had wanted to continue the war with the Empire, forcing the destruction of New Kyre, even if the stormsingers unleashed a drought and a famine across the western and central Empire.

  He saw the game at once. Lord Titus would offer the carrot, and Lord Corbould the stick. In case the Kyracians made too many demands.

  This was indeed a delicate dance.

  “A pleasure, Lord Archon,” said Corbould in a flat voice. He gestured to the Legion veteran behind him. “This man is Arcion of Caer Marist, who earned the title of Champion of Marsis for his valiant deeds during the battle for the city.”

  Kylon nodded. During the battle of Marsis, Caina had tried to find the son of her friend Ark, taken by Kyracian slavers…and that same Ark had killed the stormdancer Kleistheon in single combat. He recognized the sword at Ark’s belt. It was a stormdancer’s lightning-forged blade.

  Kleistheon’s sword.

  Alcios drew himself up. “You present us with a peasant wearing the blade of a stormdancer? An insult!”

  Corbould scowled. “That stormdancer
attacked a city of the Empire, and the Champion slew him in fair combat! That is hardly an insult…”

  Alcios sneered, and it might have gone further, but Kylon spoke.

  “You are in mourning, my lord Corbould,” said Kylon. “Might I ask why? If one of your kin has fallen in battle against the Kyracian people, I grieve for his loss, but many men have fallen upon both sides.”

  A ripple of surprise went through Corbould’s emotional sense. “Thank you for your kind words, my lord, but it has nothing to do with you or the Kyracian people. A message came from the Magisterium chapterhouse in Marsis. My son Aiodan was the Lord Governor there, and he was assassinated by a traitor.” His gray eyes narrowed. “She will pay for her crime.”

  She?

  “I agree, my lord,” said Aeolus. “Forgive us, my lords of Kyrace. War, as I am sure you know, brings out both great heroism and cruel treachery.”

  “I am sorry for the loss of your son,” said Kylon. A female assassin had killed Aiodan Maraeus? That in itself was not unusual – the Kindred assassin families recruited from both men and women.

  Yet why did Ark look so urgent?

  “Thank you,” said Corbould. “Still, this is a matter for Imperial justice, and should not trouble you, my lord Archon. The perpetrator was Anna Callenius, the daughter of the master merchant Basil Callenius. It seems they were dealing with enemies of the Empire.” He looked at Aeolus. “And they, in turn, shall be dealt with.”

  Anna Callenius was the alias Caina had used in Catekharon.

  Caina had assassinated Aiodan Maraeus?

  That made no sense. Aiodan had been Lord Governor of Marsis, and Caina only killed those she thought deserved it. Why would she have killed Corbould Maraeus’s son? Had he turned against the Empire?

  Or had there been some other reason?

  “Indeed,” said Titus, and Kylon sensed his impatience with the entire matter. “I suggest we proceed to the Imperial Citadel, Lord Archon. The Emperor himself waits to greet you, and the Imperial Curia shall host a banquet in your honor. We hope to sail for New Kyre in three days’ time, and until then, we shall have many festivities to celebrate peace between our two nations.”