Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask

by Jonathan Moeller

  The same green flame danced around Corvalis.

  “What did he do?” said Corvalis.

  “Keep running,” said Caina. “I don’t think it did anything. We…”

  Every single animated corpse and Dust Shade in the plaza went motionless at once.

  Then they turned to face Caina and Corvalis.

  “Oh,” said Caina. “That’s clever.”

  “What is?” said Corvalis.

  “His spell,” said Caina. “It’s letting the undead see us through the shadow-cloaks.”

  Maena pushed herself to her feet, most of her hair scorched away, her face red from the flames. Every Dust Shade and corpse in the plaza began heading towards Caina.

  “We should probably run faster,” said Corvalis.

  Caina nodded and raced for the avenue leading back to the gate. Soon they left the plaza behind, the great mass of undead trailing after them. The gates yawned in the distance, still standing open. Caina pushed herself harder. Just a little further, and then…

  Animated corpses boiled out of the alleys between the houses, blocking off the gate.

  They couldn’t cut their way through the mass of corpses and Dust Shades blocking the avenue. Her ghostsilver dagger could disperse the shades, but she didn’t know if it could dispel the spells binding the corpses, and this was not the time to find out.

  That left…

  “The door!” said Caina, veering towards one of the black houses.

  Corvalis nodded and threw himself against the door. The old wood splintered, and with a fierce kick he ripped the door free of its frame. The house beyond looked as if it had once belonged to a lower-ranking brother of the Magisterium. A long table ran the length of a hall, its surface still set with food and drink. Yet the food had withered into dry husks long ago, the air reeking of decay. An animated corpse wearing the ragged black robe a magus lunged towards them, the green light in its eyes flashing. Corvalis took his sword in both hands and swung. The gray head jumped off the black-robed shoulders and rolled across the floor. No blood came from the stump, only a few puffs of gray dust. The body lurched back and forth across the room, arms reaching.

  “Gods,” said Corvalis. “Will nothing kill those things?”

  “Can’t kill something that’s already dead,” said Caina. “The stairs!”

  She ran up the stairs, and came to the house’s fourth and top floor. The outer walls might have been built of black stone, but the house’s interior had been constructed of wood, and the aged boards groaned and creaked. Caina looked back and forth along the corridor running along the upper floor. If she had judged wrong, they had run into a dead end and were about to die.

  A ladder stood in the far wall, going to the house’s roof.

  She had not judged wrong.

  Caina ran to the ladder and started climbing.

  “Always with the roofs,” said Corvalis.

  “At least I haven’t burned down the building yet,” said Caina.

  She shoved at the trapdoor in the ceiling, and it opened with a squeal. Caina pulled herself up onto the roof. The clay tiles were cracked and crumbled, the footing treacherous, yet the roof held up beneath their weight. Caina ran across the roof, jumped over the alley, and landed on the next house.

  Below them the undead milled through the street.

  And Caina noticed the tingling of Sicarion’s spell had vanished.

  “Look,” said Corvalis. “The green flames are gone.”

  “I didn’t think the spell would last,” said Caina. “Now we just need to get away before Sicarion and Maena find us.”

  “We could try to ambush them,” said Corvalis.

  “No,” said Caina. “I don’t want to face those two in anything like a fair fight. We’ll come back with allies and when we’re better prepared to deal with them.”

  Corvalis nodded, and they came to one of the houses overlooking the plaza below the gate. Caina checked her amulet and muttered a curse. The metal disk had begun to warp, dark patches appearing in the bloodcrystal. She did not know how much longer the thing would last.

  They descended through the house and into the plaza. The corpses and the Dust Shades milled back and forth, perhaps seeking Caina and Corvalis, or perhaps simply wandering. She saw no sign of Maena or Sicarion, and they crossed through the city’s gate. Beyond she saw the menhir-studded line of the Henge, the camps of Anashir and Maena, Calvarium atop its hill, and the rocky hills of the moor spreading away in all directions.

  “Good view from up here,” said Corvalis.

  “Aye,” said Caina. “I hope never to enjoy it again. One more run!”

  They ran from the gates, making their way down the slope of Caer Magia’s hill. She heard a crackling, hissing noise from her amulet, felt its aura start to sputter and collapse beneath Caer Magia’s power.

  And then she heard a drumming noise.

  Hoofbeats.

  She whirled as two riders emerged from the gates of Caer Magia.

  Sicarion and Maena had brought horses with them.

  Caina cursed and set herself, throwing knife in her left hand and ghostsilver dagger in her right. Amulets had been pinned to the horses’ saddles, shielding them from the life-stealing aura. She saw the flash of Sicarion’s smile, heard Maena’s wild laughter as she began a spell.

  “We can’t outrun them,” said Caina.

  “No,” said Corvalis. “Aim for the horses. Try to kill or at disable them. If Sicarion or Maena lose their saddle, it might stun them, give us a chance to land a killing blow.”

  Caina nodded and set herself.

  One final hiss, and her amulet crumbled into dust. The icy aura of Caer Magia’s sorcery reached into her, felt its cold fingers wrapping around her heart.

  She did not have long to live.

  And as that realization came to her, Maena and Sicarion stopped. Then they wheeled their horses around and galloped in the opposite direction, making their way down the slope.

  “They’re going back to Maena’s camp,” said Corvalis, bewildered. “I don’t understand. They had us.”

  “Perhaps we frightened them off,” said Caina. How many heartbeats had passed since their amulets had crumbled? Twenty? Thirty? She was not sure. “We can figure it out later.” She turned. “We’ve got to get back over the Henge right…”

  Her words trailed off.

  Sicarion and Maena had not been running from her or Corvalis.

  The occultist Anashir of Anshan walked towards them, a serene smile on his face, the scarred, silent bulk of his seset-kadahn following him.

  Chapter 17 - The Occultist

  Caina considered throwing a knife. If she struck now, she might be able to wound Anashir and escape over the Henge before the occultist recovered.

  Instead Anashir stopped and titled his head to the side, his red and black robes rippling in the wind, the jewels in his turban flashing. The seset-kadahn waited behind him, the hooked blade of his khopesh glittering in one massive fist.

  “Ah,” said Anashir. “I see your protections failed. Not surprising. Maena’s efforts are amateurish. I suggest you follow me back across the Henge immediately. I wish to have words with you, and it will be harder to do so if you are dead.”

  He strode towards the Henge, his hulking bodyguard following.

  Caina looked at Corvalis, shrugged, and they ran for the Henge.

  A few hundred heartbeats later, Caina scrambled past one of the standing stones. At once the horrible aura of Caer Magia faded away, the icy chill vanishing from her chest, and she let out a long sigh of relief.

  “You look better,” Corvalis said. “Most of the time you were in there, you looked as if you wanted to faint or vomit.”

  Caina shrugged. “Kylon is coming.”

  They had crossed the Henge a half-mile south of where they had entered it, and Kylon hurried towards them. Anashir descended at a leisurely place down the slope, his seset-kadahn trailing him like a shadow. Neither man bore any warding amulets, s
o they must have had their own forms of protection.

  A moment later Kylon joined them, sword in hand.

  “Ghost,” he said. “You survived.”

  “If barely,” said Caina. She lifted the smoking cord that had once held her amulet, shook her head, and tossed it aside.

  “What happened?” said Kylon. “I saw you running from the gates, with horsemen in pursuit.”

  “I walked into a trap,” said Caina. “Lady Maena was waiting for us, and so was Sicarion.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Sicarion?” He blamed the scarred assassin for the death of his sister. “Where is he?”

  “He fled with Maena back towards her camp,” said Corvalis. “If you had any doubts that she was truly a disciple of the Moroaica, I think you can dispense with them.”

  “We should have died there,” said Caina. She would not mind dying alongside Corvalis. But she wanted him to live, and she wanted to ensure that the thing waiting inside the black basilica never came to light. “Sicarion and Maena had us. But we had help.”

  Kylon frowned as Anashir picked his way down the slope.

  “Ah, good,” said Anashir, stepping over the boundary of the Henge. “You have returned to safety. The aura within the bounds of the Henge is rather…deleterious to living flesh, shall we say.”

  He smiled at them, light glinting off the seset-kadahn’s bronze mask.

  “Living flesh?” said Caina at last. “Do you mean to tell me that you are not alive?”

  Anashir laughed and brushed some dust from the sleeve of his robe. “Not yet, madam, not yet. Though I suppose we all die, do we not?”

  “Some of us sooner than others,” said Kylon, his sword still in hand.

  Anashir raised a black eyebrow. “Indeed, Lord Kylon. Oh, do not look surprised. Milartes of House Aegios might have fooled poor Lord Martin and his men, but he will not fool me.” His smile faded. “And your disguise certainly will not fool the servants of the great evil you call the Moroaica.”

  “Then let us not try to fool each other,” said Caina. “I think, Master Anashir, that the time has come for blunt speaking.”

  “I welcome it,” said Anashir.

  “So,” said Caina. “Are you a disciple of the Moroaica?”

  Anashir stared at her, his expression blank, and then laughed loud and long. “A disciple of the Moroaica? My dear, I fear you have drawn a conclusion that is almost exactly wrong. I am not a disciple of the Moroaica. I am her most bitter and implacable enemy, even more than that fool Talekhris and his collection of imbeciles within the Order of the Venatorii.”

  “You know Talekhris?” said Caina.

  “I know of him,” said Anashir. “Nine hundred years the fool has been pursuing the Moroaica, and what does he have to show for it? A collection of scars that rival those of my seset-kadahn,” he waved a hand at his hulking bodyguard, “a band of useless fools who call themselves an ‘Order’, and a memory with more holes in it than a cheese grater.” He shrugged. “Perhaps he is the Moroaica’s most implacable enemy, but he is certainly not the most effective. That is a title I take for myself.”

  “A man can give titles to himself,” said Caina, “but they’re more effective when earned.”

  His smile was condescending. “Spoken like a woman who does not understand the nobility of high birth.”

  “A knife through the heart kills a high lord just as quickly as a peasant,” said Caina. “Though I wonder why you wish to claim the title of the Moroaica’s most dangerous enemy?”

  “Because,” said Anashir, “I am a true son of Anshan.” He raised his hand, as if gesturing to an audience. “Do you not know the history of Anshan, and the fall of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun?”

  “Old Maat once ruled a great empire far to the south,” said Caina. “The Anshani, the Saddai, the Cyricans, the Alqaarin, the Nhabati, and scores of other nations were the slaves of the Great Necromancers and their pharaohs. But the Bloodmaiden came, the sorceress the Szalds call the Moroaica, and she cast down the Great Necromancers and destroyed the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. The Anshani fled from the chaos, and founded their own realm north of Maat.”

  “Entirely accurate,” said Anashir.

  “Then I wonder,” said Caina, “why you would be an enemy of the Moroaica? You are a true son of Anshan, as you have said…and Anshan owes its existence to the Moroaica. Had she not destroyed Maat, the Anshani would still be the slaves of the pharaoh and his Great Necromancers.”

  It seemed chilling to speak of centuries and nations so casually, like men discussing the pieces on a chessboard. Yet the Moroaica had lived for millennia, had wreaked havoc on a scale Caina could scarce imagine.

  And her spirit had spent a year inside of Caina’s flesh.

  “An astute question,” said Anashir. “And one that has two answers. First, the Moroaica is insane.”

  “Obviously,” said Caina.

  “I fear you fail to grasp the depth of her madness,” said Anashir. “She destroyed Maat two thousand years ago, yes? She was victorious. So why does she continue? Why does she not lay aside her rage and rest?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. But the few times Caina had seen the Moroaica angry had been when Jadriga spoke of her father, when she spoke of her belief that the gods delighted in the suffering and pain of mankind. Caina understood that kind of rage.

  She could have been living in comfort in Malarae…but instead she was standing in the shadow of Caer Magia, risking her life again and again.

  “She continues because she cannot stop,” said Anashir. “Her rage drives her endlessly. Maat is destroyed, but that did not slake her thirst for vengeance. In every new tyrant, in every new empire, she sees Maat reborn…and throws them down in fury. Yet it is never enough. One day she will destroy the world, and declare war upon the heavens themselves, and still it will not be enough. I would see her stopped before she brings destruction and ruin upon Anshan.”

  “And the second reason?” said Caina.

  “She created the cult of Anubankh,” said Anashir, “and Anshan will not allow the worship of one of the old Maatish gods to rise again. When the Kingdom of the Rising Sun ruled, the Great Necromancers of Anubankh slaughtered tens of thousands of Anshani slaves to fuel their dread sorcery. I will not see these days return.”

  “The Moroaica started the cult?” said Caina. “She hates Maat, and everything to do with it. Why would she encourage the worship of a Maatish god?”

  “You misunderstand me,” said Anashir. “She did not found the cult. Rather, she created it through her actions. One of her enemies started the cult, and plans to seize the weapon of sorcery within Caer Magia and wield it against her.”

  “Which enemy?” said Caina.

  “One of the Great Necromancers of Maat,” said Anashir, “returned to the mortal world after all these centuries through his skill at sorcery. A man named Rhames who was once a priest of Anubankh.”

  “Rhames?” said Caina. “That’s…impossible.”

  It was impossible because she knew the name. She had heard it, and seen its owner, in one of Jadriga’s memories. Jadriga had been chosen to become one of the Undying, to serve the pharaoh for all eternity as a concubine. Her father had hidden avoid that fate, but Rhames had found them, killed Jadriga’s father, and taken her away.

  “A Great Necromancer cannot possibly have survived,” said Caina. “The Moroaica destroyed them all.”

  “A Great Necromancer, if he became one of the Undying, could endure for eternity,” said Anashir. “To achieve their particular form of immortality, a Great Necromancer removed his heart, lungs, stomach, liver, and kidneys, mummified them, and placed each in a prepared stone vessel called a canopic jar. So long as at least one of those seven canopic jars survived, the Great Necromancer’s spirit could inhabit a corpse at will.” Anashir shrugged. “The most probable explanation is that the Moroaica missed one of Rhames’s canopic jars, and he has spent the centuries rebuilding his strength.” He spread his hands. �
��I trust you can see, Ghost, why a son of Anshan would not wish for an ancient Great Necromancer of Maat to come to power?”

  “How do you know all this?” said Caina.

  Anashir smiled. “The occultist is the master of the shadows.” Caina remembered the occultist Nadirah’s whispering, hissing shadow in Cyrioch. “And through the shadows I have observed the cult in its secret sanctuary, heard Rhames preach to his followers. He intends to claim the great weapon hidden in Caer Magia and use it to rebuild the Kingdom of the Rising Sun in his own image.”

  Jurius had said much the same thing. Caina had thought that only the unhinged rambling of a madman, nothing more than a fever dream.

  But a Great Necromancer of Maat, combined with the sorcery of whatever waited within Caer Magia, had the power to make that fever dream a reality.

  “This great weapon of sorcery,” said Caina. “Do you know what it is?”

  “I believe I do,” said Anashir. “I have studied deeply the surviving lore of old Maat, and I recognize the malefic aura surrounding Caer Magia. I suspect an Ascendant Bloodcrystal awaits in the center of the city.”

  “An Ascendant Bloodcrystal?” said Corvalis. “How is that different from any other bloodcrystal?”

  Anashir offered him an indulgent smile. “I presume you know what a bloodcrystal is? There are different degrees and variants of bloodcrystals, just as any other tool. A green bloodcrystal stores stolen life energy. A red one unleashes destructive power when used. A blue crystal unravels sorcery.” Kylon nodded. “A white one can destroy creatures summoned from the netherworld. But an Ascendant Bloodcrystal…ah, the lesser bloodcrystals are to it as a candle’s flame is to the fire of the sun.”

  “What does it do?” said Caina.

  “It transforms its bearer into a god,” said Anashir.

  Maglarion’s great bloodcrystal had been intended to do much the same thing.

  “In itself, the Ascendant Bloodcrystal bestows great powers of sorcery upon its bearer,” said Anashir. “It is so powerful that it has sort of a will of its own, for want of a better word, malevolent and hateful and driven to destroy. But if it is used, if it is activated, the crystal kills every man, woman, and child within five hundred miles. It gathers their slain life force, transforms it into arcane power, and bestows the stolen strength upon its wielder, who is then transformed into a living god. The greatest and mightiest pharaohs of old Maat used Ascendant Bloodcrystals to transform themselves into gods, before the Bloodmaiden destroyed them all.”