Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask

by Jonathan Moeller

  The men and women were dead, yet they moved anyway.

  “Gods,” whispered Corvalis. Through all the dangers they had faced together, she had never seen him look so shaken. “So many of them.”

  The dead milled through the square, disappearing into the houses and alleys.

  “There were a hundred thousand people in Caer Magia,” said Caina, “when it was destroyed.”

  “It looks like you were right,” said Corvalis. “They can’t see us with the shadow-cloaks.”

  Caina nodded. “If they could, I think they would have ripped us apart the moment we stepped through the gate.”

  A pair of dead children appeared in the door of a house, gazing over the square. They stared at nothing for a moment, and then wandered into the house. How long had their corpses haunted the ruins of Caer Magia?

  Determination forced its way through her horror. Caer Magia had been destroyed, and the same fate would befall more cities if either or Anashir or Maena uncovered the secrets of the ruins.

  Besides, her amulet was getting hotter. She did not know how much longer it would last.

  “Let’s go,” said Caina.

  She started across the plaza, not bothering to muffle her footfalls.

  “You don’t think they can hear us?” said Corvalis, keeping a wary eye on the Dust Shades and the animated corpses.

  “I doubt it,” said Caina. “The Dust Shades don’t have ears. And the corpses…you have to be alive to hear things, I think. They must be able to see or sense life energy. Which is why they can’t see us. The shadow-cloaks are hiding us.”

  “They would make clumsy fighters,” said Corvalis.

  “That must be why the magi never bothered to make an army of them,” said Caina. “A Legion in formation could hold its own against these things.” She shook her head. “But they’d be deadly in an individual fight. They don’t feel pain or fear, can’t be tricked or fooled. If we didn’t have our shadow-cloaks, they would kill us.”

  A wide avenue led deeper into the ruined city. Stately mansions lined the street, and she saw dozens of domed towers rising over the rooftops. Those had once been the homes of Caer Magia’s high magi. The high magi preferred to live in towers. Caina had heard them claim it permitted easier astronomical observation, that the position of the moon and certain planets altered the results of spells, but she suspected the towers actually served as a monument to their pride.

  At the end of the avenue, in the center of the city, she saw a huge domed structure of black stone, a cross between a magistrate’s basilica and a temple. It looked a bit like a chapterhouse of the Magisterium, but much larger and grander.

  And unless Caina missed her guess, the aura was radiating from beneath the dome.

  “There,” she said, pointing at the basilica. “The aura…whatever it is, is coming from that building.”

  Corvalis nodded. “It looks a lot like the Motherhouse in Artifel.”

  “But bigger?” said Caina.

  “Smaller, actually,” said Corvalis. “The First Magi have never been known for their humility.”

  “Let’s take a closer look,” said Caina.

  “What are we looking for, exactly?” said Corvalis.

  Caina shrugged. “Anything unusual.”

  “We’re in a ruined city filled with walking corpses,” said Corvalis, “and anyone living who sets foot inside it dies after seven hundred and seventy-seven heartbeats. We are well past unusual.”

  “Anything unusual for Caer Magia, then,” said Caina. “A weapon of sorcery that would explain why the Moroaica’s disciples are investigating the city. Some signs of what they truly intend. A blue bloodcrystal for Kylon’s betrothed. The source of the Dustblades that Jurius and Ephaltus found.” She hesitated. “And I think we may have found them. Look.”

  She pointed at a passing dead man. The man wore the black armor of a Magisterial Guard. The armor had weathered the passage of the decades well, though the leather of the Guard’s belt and boots was crumbling, his sheathed sword swinging from one remaining strap. A dagger rested in his belt, its black hilt rising from the rotten leather.

  Caina snatched the dagger from its sheath. The undead Guard did not notice, and continued his steady march to nowhere. Black steel flashed in the dim sunlight, and Caina saw the bloodcrystal in the blade glow in response to her touch.

  A Dustblade.

  “Gods,” muttered Corvalis. “Do all the Guards have them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. She regarded the weapon for a moment, and then drew her ghostsilver dagger. She rammed the silvery dagger into the Dustblade’s bloodcrystal, and both weapons shivered in her hands. The bloodcrystal crumbled into black ash, the glow fading, and Caina felt the sorcery fade from the Dustblade.

  She tossed the ruined weapon aside.

  “If Jurius had a way to mask his presence from the corpses,” said Corvalis, “I suppose he could have just walked up and taken a Dustblade.”

  “Aye,” said Caina. “Though he doesn’t explain how he and Ephaltus came to believe a long-forgotten Maatish god is going to rise again and rebuild the Kingdom of the Rising Sun.” She returned her dagger to its sheath. “Let’s take a closer look at that basilica.”

  They kept walking, and soon came to the plaza at Caer Magia’s heart. Statues lined the plaza, showing solemn men in black robes, diadems on their heads. They were the magus-emperors of the Fourth Empire, the cruel, tyrannical men who had enslaved countless thousands, who had pushed the borders of the Empire to their farthest extent.

  The men who had destroyed themselves in Caer Magia.

  The great black basilica loomed over the square. Its windows were high and narrow, its walls carved with elaborate reliefs showing the triumph of the magi. The walls and doors and windows gleamed in an odd way. At first Caina thought it was merely the reflection of the sunlight off the polished stone, but sunlight would not turn green, nor shape itself into arcane sigils. Warding spells, then. Even in the noon light on a cloudy day, they were visible. At night the basilica’s wards had to light up Caer Magia like a giant lantern.

  Caina stopped, her head swimming. The raw power of the wards washed over her like a tide of flame. This was sorcery beyond anything the magi could wield today, power to match Maglarion and Kalastus and the other mighty sorcerers she had faced. And even through the aura of the wards, she felt the power of whatever lay waiting in the basilica.

  Her amulet had grown hot, painfully hot, against her chest.

  “Corvalis,” she said. “I don’t think…I don’t think I can go any closer.”

  She felt his steadying hand upon her shoulder. “We probably shouldn’t. I could cook breakfast on my amulet.” He squinted at the basilica. “And I think someone has been trying to break into that place.”

  Caina saw what he meant. Scorch marks marred the stone around the closed double doors, and she saw charred gouges in the wood. Someone had been unleashing spells at the doors, chipping away at the wards bit by bit. Caina did not think Maena possessed that kind of arcane strength. Or did she? Or perhaps Anashir had been trying to batter his way into the basilica.

  “We ought to go back,” said Caina. “We’ve seen what we need to see. I don’t know how much longer these amulets will last.”

  Corvalis nodded, turned, and drew his sword and dagger.

  A figure in green stood at the far end of the plaza, blocking the avenue leading back the gate.

  Lady Maena Tulvius.

  Chapter 16 - The Disciple and the Assassin

  Caina drew her ghostsilver dagger in one hand and a throwing knife in the other.

  Maena strolled towards them, unconcerned. She wore a brilliant green gown, her hair arranged perfectly, jewels glittering on her fingers and in her ears. The heels of her boots clicked against the black flagstones as she walked, a smile on her red lips. A black amulet hung from her neck, nestled between her breasts. The corpses and the Dust Shades ignored her. She must have been using a spell to mask her
presence.

  Or, more disturbing, she had the ability to control them.

  She stopped twenty yards away, hands on her hips.

  “Well, well,” she called. “Corvalis Aberon and Caina of the Ghosts! How pleasant to meet you here. Did you fancy an afternoon stroll, too?” She laughed, long and wild. “Or perhaps the lovers thought to slip away for a little tryst, hmm?” Her grin had a manic edge to it. “A macabre place for one, certainly. But perhaps you enjoy that sort of thing.”

  Caina said nothing. If the sorceress started a spell, Caina could throw a knife, and she might land a hit at this distance. But if Maena had warded herself against steel, it would be a useless gesture.

  “You know,” said Maena, “the locksmith in Malarae who sold me that box promised no one could pick the lock. I’ll have to go back and kill him. I assume you stole the amulets? That the little ruse with the weeping plague was for my benefit? Very, very clever, Ghost. But you were always a clever little bitch, weren’t you?”

  “What do you want?” said Caina. Maena hadn’t come here to talk. The conversation had to have some purpose. A distraction, perhaps?

  Caina shot an uneasy glance around the plaza, but saw nothing but the undead.

  “Merely to talk, that’s all,” said Maena, spreading her hands. “We should reacquaint ourselves. It has been a while.”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” said Caina.

  Maena’s smile widened. “You have, Ghost. You have, and you’ve forgotten. Or…no, you’re just too stupid to realize it.” She looked at Corvalis. “What about you, Aberon? You were your father’s pet killer, his hunting hound. Are you cunning enough to see the truth?”

  “I haven’t met you before,” said Corvalis, “and I know I haven’t, because if I had you would be dead.”

  Maena threw back her head and laughed, the cords in her slender neck standing out.

  “Oh, that’s funny,” she said, mastering herself at last. “Too funny. Do you realize the joke yet? No? Well, you will. In the final moments before you die, you will.”

  “Whoever you are,” said Caina, “I know that you are a disciple of the Moroaica.”

  “Obviously. Did you just now realize that?” said Maena.

  “Because,” said Caina, “otherwise you could not know so much about us. Not unless the Moroaica told you.”

  “Or,” said Maena, “I observed you with my own eyes. Well. Not these eyes.”

  “I assume,” said Caina, risking another glance around her plaza, “that you have a purpose for this conversation other than listening to the sound of your own voice.”

  “It’s almost done,” said Maena. “The Moroaica’s great work. You’ve helped her along the way, even if you haven’t realized it. She has two of the three things she needs. The last lies there, behind those doors.”

  “And what,” said Caina, “is her great work?”

  “You should know,” said Maena. “She told you of it enough times. A new world, free of suffering and want. A new world, one where the gods have been pulled from their thrones and made to pay for the suffering of mankind. A world with no death or pain.”

  “Accomplished through sorcery?” said Caina. “Rubbish. Easier to paint a wall with a sword than to use sorcery for good.”

  “As it happens,” said Maena, “I agree with you. The Moroaica is mad, driven by her absurd visions and her thirst for vengeance.”

  “Said the crow to the raven, calling it black,” said Corvalis.

  Maena giggled. “You’re right, you know. I am mad. But you did it to me. And I will take my vengeance upon you.”

  “Or,” said Caina, “we’ll kill you.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Maena. She threw out her arms, like an opera singer declaiming a final thunderous aria. “The great work is almost upon us. The world will burn, the mountains will fall, the cities will wither into ash, and…”

  Caina felt the tingle of sorcery. It was faint, and she could barely feel it through the icy aura radiating from the basilica.

  But it was there.

  And Maena’s conversation had indeed been a distraction.

  “Corvalis!” shouted Caina, throwing herself to the side.

  An instant later a serrated dagger plunged into the air where her back had been. Caina struck the ground, rolled, and came back to her feet. Corvalis spun and moved to her side, sword and dagger ready.

  A short man in a hooded black cloak stood before them, a sword in his right hand, an ugly, serrated dagger in his left. The face within the cowl was hideous, a ghastly patchwork of grotesque scars, as if his features had been stitched together from dead men.

  They likely had been.

  “Sicarion,” spat Corvalis.

  Sicarion’s scarred lips twitched into a ghastly grin. “Aberon.” His eyes narrowed in amusement. His left eye was a steely gray; likely he had replaced it since Caina had seen him last. His right was a venomous orange-yellow, like the eye of some monstrous horror from the netherworld. “I still owe you one death.” His mismatched eyes shifted to Caina. “And you, Ghost…oh, I am going to enjoy killing you.”

  “You’ve tried before,” said Corvalis, “and we’re still here.”

  Sicarion shrugged, his blades glinting. “All men die. And who better to kill them than me?”

  “That’s who you were talking to, isn’t it?” said Caina, circling to Sicarion’s left and glancing at Maena. “In the mirror. It was him.”

  Maena giggled again. “Oh, you were spying on me, were you? You must have gotten an eyeful! The mistress sent her pet killer to watch me, to make sure I don’t rebel against her again.” Again? “But he has his uses. Kill them!”

  Sicarion sprang into motion, dark cloak billowing around him, his sword and dagger a blur. Corvalis met his attack, his weapons striking against Sicarion’s blades. They exchanged a dozen blows in half as many heartbeats, the ring of steel filling Caina’s ears.

  Along with the sound of Maena Tulvius casting a spell.

  Caina sprinted at Maena. Corvalis had held his own against Sicarion before. But that had been in a fair fight, without any distractions. If Maena threw her powers into the fray against Corvalis, Sicarion would cut him down in short order.

  And then Maena and Sicarion would kill Caina.

  She flung the knife in her left hand at Maena. The blade slammed into Maena’s chest and bounced away in a spray of sparks. She had indeed shielded herself from steel. Maena smirked and turned towards Caina, her hands coming up as she finished her spell.

  Even in the aura radiating from the basilica, Caina felt the power of Maena’s sorcery.

  Caina flung herself sideways as Maena pointed, and a blast of invisible force slammed into her left side. The spell only clipped her, but it still sent her spinning into the air. Caina braced herself for the landing, and struck one of the walking corpses. She bounced off the dead man and hit the ground, shadow-cloak pooling around her.

  The corpse looked at her, eyes glowing, and walked away.

  Caina rolled to her feet, and felt arcane force build around Maena as she worked another spell. Caina stepped back, the corpse she had struck walking past her.

  Maena thrust a hand, and Caina ducked behind the walking corpse. This time the spell slammed into the dead man with enough force to lift him into the air and throw him against the basilica’s wall. The warding sigils upon the wall flared to life, and green fire engulfed the corpse and burned it to ashes.

  Caina sprinted at Maena, hand dipping into her belt. Maena sneered and began another spell, making no effort to protect herself. Her wards would turn aside any blades.

  So her surprise was complete when Caina snatched the glass vial of a smoke bomb and flung it into her face. Maena squawked, and her cries turned to screams of rage and pain as her hair and gown caught fire. She tripped over her high heels and fell to the ground, screaming and cursing as she tried to quench the flames.

  Caina drew her ghostsilver dagger, and then felt ano
ther surge of power.

  Sicarion had cast a spell.

  She spun as Corvalis stumbled back, trying to regain his balance. Sicarion pursed, his sword and dagger stabbing. Corvalis managed to block the blows, but Sicarion pursed. If Corvalis did not get his balance back, Sicarion was going to kill him.

  Caina flung another throwing knife. It caught Sicarion in the left thigh, and the scarred assassin stumbled with a snarl. Corvalis caught his balance and resumed his attack, and this time Sicarion was forced on the defense. Caina threw another knife and struck Sicarion in the hip, and Corvalis’s next thrust opened a line of blood across his jaw. Caina lunged at him, and Sicarion just got his sword up to block the slash of her dagger.

  He flung out his hands, and sorcerous force exploded from him. It was not as strong as the blast Maena had unleashed, but it was still enough to send both Caina and Corvalis to the ground. Caina rolled to one knee, dagger in hand, and felt something hot against her chest.

  Her amulet was starting to smoke, its bloodcrystal dimming, and she felt the sorcery around it beginning to unravel.

  They were in trouble, and if Sicarion and Maena failed to kill them, Caer Magia itself would do it.

  “Run!” said Caina, getting to her feet.

  Corvalis looked at her, at the smoke rising from his amulet, and sprinted after her.

  Sicarion spun, and began casting another spell. Caina kept running, shooting a look over her shoulder. Sicarion was a necromancer, though not a powerful one. Yet he knew enough sorcery to wreak havoc. Caina pushed herself faster, Corvalis keeping pace beside her. If they could get out of Caer Magia and rejoin Kylon at the Henge, they had a chance. Maena was powerful and Sicarion deadly, but Kylon was both.

  Sicarion gestured, and pale green flame flickered around his fingers. An instant later Caina felt the surge of power, and pale green flame danced up her arms and legs. She braced herself for the burst of pain that would come from the spell, but nothing happened, save for the icy tingle of the spell itself.