Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge

by Jonathan Moeller

  He felt his scarred face twist into a smile.

  “Well,” he said, drawing his dagger. “Rust and death? Let us see how you like a little of both, my lady.”

  “Enough,” said a second woman.

  Sicarion turned and saw the Moroaica.

  She stood next to the floating crystal, clad in a crimson robe. She still wore the body of the Caerish shepherd woman she had taken from the hills near Caer Magia, her wheat-colored hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Yet only a fool would mistake the Moroaica for an innocent peasant girl. Her brown eyes were hard and cold, full of ancient knowledge and power. She carried a metal staff in her left hand, and even as Sicarion watched, the staff blazed with flames, the fire changing to crawling fingers of lightning and swirling white mist before fading away.

  Neither the fire nor the ice nor the lightning touched the Moroaica.

  Sicarion made a grand bow, flourishing his cloak with one hand. “You really ought to kill her, mistress. No telling what kind of trouble she shall make.”

  “She shall make no trouble whatsoever,” said the Moroaica, stepping around the pool, the Staff of the Elements tapping against the marble floor. “The nature of her power is to observe and foretell, not to act. She will watch and protest as I complete the great work, but do nothing.”

  “I need do nothing at all,” said the Surge, “for the Balarigar comes to oppose you.”

  The silver waters rippled, and for just a moment, Sicarion saw the face of Caina Amalas in the pool.

  “You call her the Balarigar?” said Sicarion. “The demon slayer? The Balarigar is a myth, a story the Szaldic peasants tell each other.”

  “So is the Moroaica,” said the Moroaica.

  “She is your opposite and mirror,” said the Surge in her threefold voice, “and she is coming for you. You are what she could yet become. She is what you could have been. The storm of the world demands it. The shadows of all futures intersect upon this spot. She will come for you and prevail…or you shall triumph and the world shall be ashes forevermore.”

  “Ashes?” said the Moroaica. A strange light came into her eyes, and Sicarion found himself taking a step back. “The world is already filled with ashes, with people broken upon the cruelty of life. I shall break the world and remake it, and forge a new world free of pain and death and loss…”

  “You shall not,” said the Surge. “This world is not perfectible. And if you attempt to do so, if the Balarigar does not stop you, you shall destroy this world utterly.”

  “I will not,” said the Moroaica, pointing the staff at her as it crackled with lightning. “I shall remake it! I shall create a world better than the gods ever did! And when I am done, I shall storm the heavens themselves, and bring retribution upon the gods for all the suffering their cruelty and their neglect brought upon us!” Her voice rose to a shout, the pale light from the hieroglyphs flaring brighter in response to her fury. “They will pay for it! They will pay for what they have done to us, what they have done to me…”

  “They will not,” said the Surge. “The suffering of mankind is our own fault. And you shall only bring more pain upon us, in the end. I…”

  “Silence,” said the Moroaica. The rage ended, and the mistress was calm again, as calm and cold as ice. Once she had always been calm and cold. But the time she had spent inside Caina Amalas’s head had changed her. Now she often became angry, flying into a rage when she considered the suffering of the weak.

  “The Balarigar is coming for you,” said the Surge, and again Caina’s face flickered across the surface of the silver pool. “I have foreseen it.”

  “She will not,” said the Moroaica, “because she is dead.”

  Her ancient eyes turned to Sicarion.

  “Well,” said Sicarion, uneasy. “Not quite yet.”

  “She still lives?” said the Moroaica.

  Sicarion nodded.

  “Then you failed,” said the Moroaica. “I told you and Ranarius to kill her. I let you use whatever method you thought best, so long as you killed her. Instead you return here and report your failure? Killing is the one thing I can rely upon you to do! Where is Ranarius? Or has he fled into hiding?”

  “He is dead,” said Sicarion.

  “Again?” said the Moroaica.

  “Permanently,” said Sicarion. “Ranarius foolishly allowed himself to be drawn into a confrontation in the hiding place of his canopic jar. The Ghost destroyed both him and his jar.”

  “Did she?” murmured the Moroaica. She closed her eyes, as if recalling a memory. “Clever indeed. His knowledge of elementals was useful, but I have no further need of it. And he should have known better. She had already slain him twice.”

  “Four times, actually,” said Sicarion. “He possessed the Lord Governor of Marsis and forced her to kill him, turning the Legions and her allies against her.” That had been Sicarion’s plan. It annoyed him that Ranarius had stolen the idea, though he had to admit the master magus’s implementation had been clever. “And in Varia Province, when he still had Ryther’s body.”

  “And where were you during all of this?” said the Moroaica, her eyes still closed. Her thin fingers tapped the staff’s metal length. “Ah. You hung back and watched from the darkness, didn’t you? You wanted to kill Ranarius from the moment you met. So you let Caina dispose of him, and then you moved in for the kill.”

  “Yes,” said Sicarion. It was no use lying to her. If she suspected him of deception, her sorcery would rip the truth out of him. “The plan worked, too.” He grinned. “Ranarius finally died his last death. I only wish I could have given it to him.”

  “Yes, a brilliant plan,” said the Moroaica, “given that Caina is still alive.”

  “I almost killed them both,” said Sicarion. “The Ghost and Aberon’s bastard both. But…”

  “What?” said the Moroaica. Her eyes shot open, full of fury and rage, and for a moment Sicarion thought they had turned icy blue. “You killed Corvalis Aberon?”

  She stepped towards him, and Sicarion sensed the massive force of her arcane power gathering for a spell.

  She was going to kill him, blast him into a thousand pieces scattered from the Pyramid of Storm to the harbor. But what did she care for Corvalis Aberon?

  “No,” said Sicarion, edging back. “I didn’t kill either one of them. I didn’t get the chance.”

  The Moroaica shuddered, closed her eyes, opened them again. The Surge watched her from the corner.

  “I see,” said the Moroaica, calm once more. “Why not?”

  “Talekhris arrived,” said Sicarion.

  An irritated hiss came from the Moroaica.

  “He has recovered most of his memories since his last death,” said Sicarion, “and the full extent of his sorcerous powers. Certainly he was the strongest I have seen him. I barely escaped with my life, and fled across the sea to warn you of the impending danger, mistress.”

  Her lip twitched. “How very gallant.” She stared into the silver pool for a moment, the staff swirling with a freezing mist. “So the Ghost comes, and brings powerful allies with her.”

  “The Balarigar comes here, to the place where all shall be decided,” said the Surge. “Her destiny is bound to yours, tormented child of Maat.” A flicker of irritation went over the Moroaica’s face. “And the masked Sage’s fate is bound to yours. The storm of the world decrees it. They shall come here, to the eye of the storm, and all shall be decided.”

  “Do stop talking,” said the Moroaica.

  “Why haven’t you killed her yet?” said Sicarion.

  “Because,” said the Moroaica, “in my brilliance, I observed from the shadows as my rival destroyed himself, despite the explicit commands of my mistress.”

  Sicarion blinked. Had she just made a joke? She never used to say things like that. In fact, it was the sort of thing…

  It was the sort of thing he would have expected Caina Amalas to say.

  “Additionally,” said the Moroaica, “if I kill her,
her mantle of power will pass to another Kyracian noblewoman with arcane ability somewhere in the city. That will alert the Kyracians to my presence, which I wish to avoid.”

  “They would drive you from the city?” said Sicarion, thinking of the combined might of the Kyracian stormsingers.

  “Of course not,” said the Moroaica. “But then I would have to kill them all.”

  Her confidence both unnerved and thrilled him. She could kill him with a thought. But she also had the power to destroy the assembled sorcerers of the Kyracian people.

  And she could bring death on a scale unseen in history.

  How Sicarion looked forward to it!

  “You foes come for you,” said the Surge.

  “Yes,” said the Moroaica, “and they shall perish, as has everyone else who has ever tried to stop me.”

  “How?” said Sicarion. “Not that I doubt your strength, mistress, but Talekhris is strong, and the Ghost is fiendishly clever.”

  “You shall overcome them,” said the Moroaica.

  “Me?” said Sicarion. “While I am ever eager to serve you…”

  “To kill at my bidding, you mean,” said the Moroaica.

  “Of course,” said Sicarion, “but if Talekhris has recovered the fullness of his power, even I might have difficulty killing him.”

  “And that is why,” said the Moroaica, “you are going to kill the Emperor of Nighmar.”

  Sicarion felt himself smile. Killing the Emperor would mean the war between the Empire and New Kyre would continue, that more men would fall on the battlefields and the seas. “Not that I object, but I am curious how the Emperor’s death shall stop the Ghost and the Sage.”

  “The Emperor’s ship will reach the harbor in a few days,” said the Moroaica. “I suspect Caina and Talekhris are close behind. The day after the Emperor and his party reach the city, they shall assemble in the Agora of Nations near the docks, and proceed to the Agora of Archons to conduct the formal ceremony of peace. The high nobles of both the Empire and the Kyracians shall be gathered in one place, giving you the ideal opportunity to kill the Emperor.” Her mouth twisted. “Since you were so keen on taking Rhames’s mask, you can easily disguise yourself for the task.”

  “Truly,” said Sicarion. “But how will that stop the Ghost and Talekhris?”

  “Because,” said the Moroaica, reaching into a pocket of her robe, “when you kill the Emperor, every eye shall be upon you, and you will be wearing this.”

  She lifted a strange amulet, a crystal vial hanging from a fine golden chain. Something stirred within the vial, a flicker of mist, perhaps, or a pulse of pale gray light. A strange tinge of fear went through Sicarion as he looked at the vial, and he found himself reaching for his weapons.

  It was just a vial. Why should it frighten him?

  “Ah,” said the Moroaica. “I thought it might have that effect upon you.”

  “What is it?” said Sicarion, working the spell to detect the presence of arcane forces. The vial in the Moroaica’s hand was powerful. He thought to find a mind-altering a spell upon the vial to explain the fear he felt, but instead he sensed…

  “A summoning spell?” said Sicarion. “There’s a spirit in there?”

  “Indeed,” said the Moroaica. “Do you know what a phobomorphic spirit is?”

  “A creature of the netherworld,” said Sicarion. “Hostile to mortals. They can read minds, and take the form of whatever their victim most fears.”

  “Correct,” said the Moroaica. “Within this amulet, I have bound a phobomorphic spirit. Which means that when you wear it…”

  “Whoever looks at me,” said Sicarion, “will see their worst fears made flesh.”

  The Moroaica nodded.

  “Is there a limit to its power?” said Sicarion.

  “None,” said the Moroaica. “Whoever looks at you shall see their worst fear…no matter how many people are looking at you.”

  Sicarion began to smile again. “Which means if I kill the Emperor in front of such a large crowd, in front of the Ghost and Talekhris…”

  “All eyes will be upon you,” said the Moroaica, “and then every single one of them will see their worst fear. Even someone wearing a Ghost shadow-cloak, which usually shields the mind from hostile sorcery. The spell will be upon you, not them, rendering their shadow-cloaks useless against its power. Even Talekhris’s wards and mask will be unable to stop the effect. With your opponents crippled by fear…I think you can see how easy it will be to kill them.”

  “Yes,” said Sicarion, considering the matter. “Yes.” There were mind-controlling spells, he knew, that could induce fear in a victim. Yet such spells were difficult to cast. If the amulet worked as efficiently as the Moroaica claimed, if he could terrorize thousands upon thousands at once…

  His smile widened as he thought of all the killing he could do.

  “Take it,” said the Moroaica.

  Sicarion took the amulet, the crystal vial icy cold beneath his fingers.

  On sudden impulse, he slipped it over his neck, curious how the Moroaica and the Surge would react.

  The Surge stepped back in alarm, her glowing eyes growing wide. Whatever her powers of prophecies and foretelling, they did not protect her from the amulet’s power. A vein bulged in her forehead, and her hands trembled as sweat appeared on her face.

  “No,” she said, her three voices discordant with terror, “it is just an illusion, no, no…”

  Sicarion wondered what she saw.

  He looked at the Moroaica, wondering how she would react.

  But she only appeared amused.

  “Sicarion,” she said. “Did you think you could surprise me? That I would see my worst fears and weep?” She stepped forward, the end of the staff clinking against the floor. “I already saw my worst fears, two thousand years before you were born, Sicarion. What more do I have to fear?” Her cold smile widened. “What do I have to fear from you?”

  Again Sicarion felt a flicker of fear, but this time it was not irrational. Perhaps the Moroaica’s time inside of Caina Amalas’s head had indeed unhinged her. But it had not made her any weaker. She had used him to dispose of rebellious disciples and those who stood in her way for centuries, but if he crossed her, if he challenged her, she would crush him like an insect.

  And if he died, he would never see the carnage her great work would unleash.

  “Nothing, mistress,” said Sicarion, removing the amulet. The Surge shuddered and let out a long breath. “Nothing at all.”

  “I thought not,” said the Moroaica. She looked in the pool. “Lay your plans as you think best, and kill the Emperor. The distraction will keep Caina and Talekhris from interfering with the completion of the great work.”

  Sicarion grinned. “I shall be glad to do so, mistress.”

  “Go,” said the Moroaica. “And take heart. You shall soon have all the killing you can stomach.”

  “I can stomach,” said Sicarion, “a great deal.”

  And he very much looked forward to killing Corvalis Aberon and Caina Amalas at last. They had escaped him far too often, especially Caina. He would enjoy sliding his dagger between her ribs, would enjoy watching pain replace the smug coldness of her expression.

  That he would get to kill Talekhris yet again was merely a bonus.

  Sicarion strolled into the night, his plans forming.

  ###

  The woman some called the Moroaica and others called Jadriga turned back to the hieroglyphs carved upon the wall, Sicarion forgotten. Either he would succeed and kill the Emperor, or he would perish. Jadriga did not care which. In the new world she would create, there would be no need for killing.

  Her fingers tightened against the Staff of the Elements, the staff’s power trembling in her grasp.

  She had acquired so many names during her long wanderings. The Szalds had called her the Moroaica, and the other barbarian nations of the far north called her Jadriga, the Sword-Queen. The Kyracians had called her the Bringer of Ashes, and
the Anshani had bestowed the title of Bloodmaiden upon her. The Arthagi whispered of the Queen of Crows, the bringer of battles, and of old in Maat they had called her the Destroyer.

  Appropriate, given that she had laid the Kingdom of the Rising Sun waste.

  But none of those titles were her name, not truly. She had been born Malifae, the daughter of the scribe Horemb and the basket-weaver Behnu. But the eyes of the Great Necromancers had fallen upon Malifae, had chosen her to become one the pharaoh’s Undying concubines in his tomb, and Rhames had killed Horemb and taken Malifae.

  Malifae had been dead for a very, very long time.

  Now the Moroaica was all that remained.

  She had destroyed Maat, taking her vengeance upon the Great Necromancers and their pharaohs. But even that had not been enough. Maat was dust, but there were more tyrants, more men like Rhames. The Moroaica had spent centuries destroying them one by one, throwing down empires and grinding kingdoms into the dust. But it was never enough. There were always men like Rhames who killed innocent men like Horemb.

  And then she realized the world was broken.

  The gods had built a world that was a torture chamber and prison, a world to heap suffering upon the innocent. Perhaps they had done it by design, and laughed at the torment of mankind. Or perhaps they simply neglected their creation. Or perhaps some of the philosophers Jadriga had met over the centuries were right, and there was one high god who ruled over all creation as a monarch over his subjects.

  If there was, he had much to answer for.

  And Jadriga would make him answer for it.

  The Staff of the Elements blazed with fire in her hand.

  “It is folly,” said the Surge.

  Jadriga looked up from the pool. She had gotten lost in her thoughts. That had happened more and more lately.

  Ever since she had been released from Caina’s flesh.

  Memories not her own flowed across her mind. A villa in the hills overlooking the Bay of Empire. A library full of books, and a rumpled, kindly father. The Ghosts and the Vineyard, Halfdan and the others teaching her to use knives and stealth and lockpicks and disguises.