The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  So she would not fight fair.

  A moment later someone knocked at the barred door.

  “Miss?” came a man’s rough voice. “Come out. We’ve got a surprise for you.”

  She heard the laughter through the door.

  The door shuddered against the bar.

  “The little whore barred it,” snarled another man.

  “Well, you’ve got that axe, haven’t you? Use it!”

  There was a crack, and an axe blade came through the door. Caina waited as they chopped through the thick wood. Finally the men crashed into the suite, weapons in hand.

  “Come here,” said the first man, lifting his axe. “We’ll have ourselves a good time, won’t we?” They laughed. “She’s hiding somewhere. Find her.”

  Two of the men entered the bedroom. The man with the axe turned towards the wardrobe, frowning. He grinned, and reached for the wardrobe doors.

  He never once looked up. People never looked up.

  Caina shoved off the wardrobe and fell upon him, her boots smashing into his chest. The man hit the floor with a stunned grunt, the axe flying from his hand. Caina landed upon him, throwing her momentum into her shoulder and arm. She just had a chance to glimpse his eyes, shocked and terrified, before her dagger plunged into his throat. Hot blood splashed over her gloved hand, his boots drumming his death spasm against the floor.

  Caina sprang to her feet, snatched up the fallen axe, and hurried across the room. She pressed herself to the wall besides the bedroom door.

  Laughter came from the bedroom. “Eh? What’s that? She’s putting up a fight, is she?” The other two men walked back into the parlor, grinning.

  The grins vanished as they saw the corpse upon the floor.

  “What the devil…”

  Caina pushed away from the wall, axe in both hands, and buried it in the nearest man’s neck. He stumbled forward with a choking gurgle, blood pouring from his mouth. Caina shoved him, and he stumbled into the last man. Both went down in a heap. She dropped to one knee, right hand dipping into her boot, and came up holding another dagger.

  The last man didn’t even have time to scream.

  Caina retrieved her blades and wiped them clean, trying to ignore the churning nausea. The men had been slave traders. They would have killed her, after torturing and raping her for sport. Surely they had deserved to die. Yet still she wanted to drop to her knees and throw up. She remembered the dead men lying upon the floor of Maglarion’s lair…

  Enough. Sooner or later Tigrane and Icaraeus would realize that something had gone wrong. She had to put that time to good use. Doubtless Icaraeus had letters with him, documents that could bring him down, and all his clients and allies as well. If Caina could escape with those documents, Icaraeus would pay. And if her path should cross Naelon Icaraeus’s before the night was done…well, he had sold hundreds, perhaps thousands, into slavery in the lands beyond the Empire.

  His death would not trouble her in the least.

  Caina retrieved the axe from the dead man’s neck and slipped out the window, marking her slow way along the ledge. She rounded a corner and stopped, peering into the courtyard. A man stood guard before a set of sunken stairs, no doubt leading into the Inn’s cellar. He was clever enough not to hold a torch, keeping his night vision intact, and kept watch upon the road.

  But he didn’t look up. People never looked up.

  Caina dropped the axe. It struck the back of the guard’s skull with crack, and the man collapsed. She climbed down the wall as fast as she dared, hurried over, and gave him a quick look. The back of his head was wet with blood, and he would not be waking up anytime soon, if ever. She pulled a set of keys from his belt, hurried down the stairs, and unlocked the cellar door.

  The smell of blood and excrement hit her in the face.

  Wine casks stood against the walls, secure in their wooden racks. Fifteen men, women, and children sat chained wrist and ankle to the racks, gags stuffed into their mouths. The only light came from a pair of lanterns on a table against the far wall. Another set of stairs no doubt led to the common room.

  The captives, Icaraeus’s “inventory”, looked at her with wide and terrified eyes.

  “Do not speak,” said Caina, disguising her voice. Her words rasped and snarled like something inhuman. The captives flinched away even further. “Obey my commands, and you may yet live through this night.”

  She knelt besides the nearest man, unlocked his shackles, and wrenched the gag from his mouth.

  “Who…who are you?” whispered the man. He was fat, his clothes rank with sweat. “Are you a demon, come to drag us down to hell?”

  “Your name?” said Caina.

  “Oscar, keeper of the White Road Inn.”

  “Lord Naelon Icaraeus. The man who took you captive,” said Caina. “He has some papers in his possession. Where are they?”

  “I…I…”

  Caina hissed, lowered her shadowed face closer to his. “Where are they?”

  “In my room, under the stairs,” said Oscar, “I saw him writing in there.”

  “Good,” said Caina, handing him one of the keys. “Get to work. The rest of you, remain silent.”

  The innkeeper understood and started to work. Caina moved down the line of captives, loosing their chains.

  “Who are you, sir?” said one of the women, rubbing her wrists. Oscar’s daughter, to judge from the resemblance.

  “That is not your concern,” said Caina. “Depart this cellar, and take the road south to Marsis as quickly as you are able.”

  “What of the slavers?” demanded Oscar. “Won’t they just recapture us?”

  Caina shook her head. “They’ve a ship waiting in a cove a few miles north of here. You were to have been loaded aboard that ship at dawn. Instead the slavers will flee to it shortly.”

  “Why would they retreat to their ship?” said Oscar. “They have no reason to flee.”

  “No, no reason,” said Caina. “Not until I burn the building down.”

  “My inn! You can’t!”

  “You can either run for your life,” said Caina, “or you can spend the rest of your life tending some Istarish emir’s harem. After they make a eunuch of you.”

  That got his attention.

  Shouts of alarm came from above, followed by the stamp of running feet. Someone must have found the bodies.

  “Go, now,” said Caina.

  Oscar herded the others towards the cellar door. Caina snatched up both of the lanterns from the table and followed them. The captives stumbled into the night, fleeing towards the southward road. Caina crossed to the nearest ground-floor window, kicked open the shutters, and flung the lantern inside.

  It shattered against the wall, hot glass and burning oil falling onto the bed. The blankets caught fire, embers falling onto the rich carpet. Caina kicked open another window and flung in the second lantern. Again the blankets caught fire, the flames spreading to the carpet and the tapestries. Caina vaulted through the window, dodged around the flames, and pushed open the door.

  The fire spread to the hallway, licking at the varnished wooden walls.

  Caina had no time to watch its progress. She hurried to the common room and looked around. The men had vanished, no doubt in search of whoever had killed their fellows. Caina ripped a tapestry from the wall and threw half of it into the fireplace, leaving the other half to dangle upon the floorboards.

  As the flames spread, she ran across the room and opened the door under the stairs. It opened into the innkeeper’s richly furnished room, lit by a single lantern on the table. A writing desk sat near the door, covered with papers.

  Icaraeus’s papers.

  Caina seized them. There was a ledger, and something that looked like a journal, and she took them both. A leather satchel lay against the wall, and she dropped the papers, books and all, into it. Men began shouting, and Caina heard the heavy thud of running footsteps on the stairs. No doubt someone had noticed the fires, and the slavers had
come to the conclusion that they were under attack.

  She ran back into the common room, surprised by how quickly the fire had spread. A pair of mercenaries ran down the stairs, taking no notice of her, and escaped into the night. Tigrane’s angry bellow rang down the stairs, followed by Icaraeus’s cold voice giving rapid orders. Caina hurried back into the hallway, ducking low to avoid the thick black smoke billowing from the bedrooms. She entered a room still untouched by the spreading flames and went out the window.

  The drum of hooves came to her ears, galloping away to the north. The slavers were making a run for it. Caina slipped around the inn, saw the horsemen pounding towards the road.

  And then, for just a moment, she saw Lord Naelon Icaraeus himself.

  He sat atop a horse not twenty feet away, turning his head to shout something at Tigrane. His sword was in its sheath, his whole attention diverted away from Caina, and he wore no armor.

  Perfect.

  Her hand plunged to her belt, coming up with a throwing knife. She stepped towards him, arm and shoulder flung back, blade clenched between gloved fingers. Her whole body snapped like a bowstring and sent the knife hurtling towards Icaraeus.

  The blade flew true and plunged into Icaraeus’s exposed neck.

  Or it would have, had it not bounced away with a green flash. For a moment the bracers on his arms flickered with the same eerie light, the strange sigils shining with a sickly emerald glow. Pins and needles erupted over Caina, her skin crawling. She knew that feeling.

  Sorcery. Some sort of sorcery to turn aside steel had been laid upon those bracers.

  Icaraeus turned in the saddle, face tight with anger, his eyes falling upon Caina.

  “My lord!” shouted Tigrane, “we must go, they’ll be upon us at any moment!”

  Icaraeus jerked the reins and slammed his heels into the horse. The beast galloped into the night, Tigrane close behind. Caina stared after them for a moment, and stooped to retrieve her throwing knife. The blade had been warped, almost as if it had been thrust into a forge and left to melt.

  So the rumors had been true.

  She shoved the ruined weapon into the satchel.

  It was time to go. She doubted Icaraeus and his gang would return. But the fire would be visible for miles, and sooner or later someone would come to investigate. Caina had no wish to be found. Besides, she had come here to seize Icaraeus’s papers, and she had them.

  Caina grinned.

  Freeing the slaves had been a bonus.

  One of Icaraeus’s men had taken her horse, so Caina walked into the night, her cloak blending with the darkness.

  Chapter 2 - The Circlemaster

  Caina entered the woods and came to the dead tree where she had hidden her supplies.

  She had thought the situation might turn sour, so she had hidden a store of useful items beforehand. Food, water, some additional weapons. And a new disguise, since her old one had burned to ash with the Inn.

  But first, some rest. After eating some dried meat and bread and drinking some water, she drew out a heavy woolen cloak. The shadow-cloak was useful for concealment, but did nothing to keep away the chill.

  Caina wrapped herself in the cloak, lay down, and went to sleep.

  ###

  She had nightmares.

  Caina often had nightmares. She was used to them. Halfdan had told her just as flesh bore scars, so too did the mind bear nightmares. And Caina had seen many things to leave scars upon her mind.

  The dead men in Maglarion’s library. Her father, slack and glassy-eyed in his chair. Her mother, screaming with hatred. Maglarion standing over Caina’s naked flesh, knives glittering in his hands. A man burning alive, begging as sorcerous fire turned his skin to ash.

  All these things made frequent appearances in her nightmares.

  But tonight, she dreamed something new.

  A girl stood before her, no more than eight or nine years old. She wore a gray dress, her hair held in place with a silver comb. The child’s face was solemn, her eyes haunted and grim.

  “Who are you?” said Caina.

  The girl said nothing.

  “What do you want?” said Caina. “Are you lost?”

  The girl raised her hand and pointed.

  Caina looked, and caught a brief glimpse of a bottomless black pit, a pit filled with everlasting darkness. Then Caina was falling, the crawling shadows reaching up to devour her whole…

  ###

  Caina awoke with a shudder, her heart racing. She sat up in alarm, expecting to see the gray-clad child or the yawning black pit.

  But there was nothing but the woods, silent and filled with chill dawn mist. The dream had been so vivid, even beyond her usual nightmares. She almost expected to see the solemn girl in the gray dress waiting for her.

  But the woods were empty and silent. And Caina had work to do.

  She rose to practice her forms. She had learned open-handed fighting from some very skilled teachers, and had practiced every day for years. The movements had become reflexes. Open-palm strike, closed fist, high kick, sweeping kick, the left dodge, the right throw, followed by the throat strike and the wrist throw. She started slow, and then went through the movements faster.

  When she had finished, her heart raced beneath her ribs, sweat stood out on her forehead, and she felt much better.

  Caina pulled the rest of her supplies from the dead tree and sorted through them. She could not very well walk about in her nightfighter clothes, and some men viewed a woman traveling alone as an invitation.

  So she dressed as a man, in heavy boots, rough trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a steel-studded leather jerkin. A sword and a dagger in battered scabbard hung from her belt, and the woolen cloak went over her shoulders. She rubbed the sweat from her brow into her black hair, letting it fall in a greasy curtain over her face, and scooped up some dirt and rubbed it over her jaw and cheeks. When it was done, she looked like any other ragged, unemployed mercenary, a man too poor and too violent to rob.

  The heavy gold ring, her father’s signet ring, hung from a cord around her neck.

  Her shadow-cloak and nightfighter gear went into a pack. Caina scooped up the pack, slung the satchel with Icaraeus’s documents over her shoulder, and set off.

  ###

  The Emperor’s Legions had built the broad paved road, and Caina started south. To the east stood the woods, empty and silent, and to the west stretched the great blue expanse of the sea. A plume of black smoke stained the sky to the north. Caina wondered how much longer the White Road Inn would smolder.

  About eight miles later the Ragman’s Inn came into sight, perched on the bluffs overlooking the beach. It looked nowhere near as fine as the White Road Inn. Countless winter storms had battered the place, and it looked on the verge of falling to pieces. From what Caina had heard, the place was notorious for bad food, vermin-infested rooms, and unscrupulous patrons.

  But it was cheap. And the innkeeper knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  Caina opened the door and stepped into the gloomy common room, the boards creaking beneath her boots. A few men sat in corners, watching the door. The innkeeper, a gaunt man in a greasy apron, walked towards her, asking questions in Szaldic.

  “Piss off,” snarled Caina in accented Caerish, keeping her voice disguised, “or speak a proper tongue.”

  The innkeeper glared, but switched to Caerish. “What’s your business here?”

  “My business?” said Caina. “I want something to drink, that’s what I bloody want.”

  The innkeeper eyes flicked to her satchel. “Courier?”

  “Not that it’s any of your concern, but aye,” said Caina. “Running messages to the city for some lord. Fat fool doesn’t pay me enough to walk all day. So, a drink. Or do you just serve horse piss?”

  The man sneered, but produced a clay cup of mixed wine. Caina handed him a copper coin and took a sip. She did not care for wine, and this stuff was particularly bitter. Grimacing at the taste, she glanced o
ver the common room, and crossed to a table in the corner.

  A man in his middle fifties sat there, staring into his wine. His lank gray hair had been pulled into a tail, and he wore the rough clothes of a common laborer. Muscle corded his arms, and ugly red scars marked his hands and forearms. His disguise was perfect, but Caina recognized him at once. She would have known him anywhere.

  She sat across from him.

  His gray eyes narrowed. Then a corner of his mouth twisted.

  “Should I fear the shadows?” he muttered, speaking in High Nighmarian, the formal language of the Imperial court.

  “There are Ghosts in the shadows,” said Caina, reciting the countersign in High Nighmarian, “and let the tyrants tremble in their beds, for the shadows are ever watchful.”

  “Indeed,” said the Halfdan, circlemaster of the Ghosts, Caina’s oldest teacher. He switched to Caerish. “Let take a walk along the beach. The air will do me good.” He downed the rest of his wine. “Vile swill. And the fewer secrets our friendly innkeeper knows, the happier we all shall be.”

  Caina nodded, left her wine on the table, and followed Halfdan outside. They walked in silence down the bluffs until they reached the shore. The air here smelled of salt and seagull dung, and the constant roar of the surf would stymie any eavesdroppers.

  “That is a good disguise, girl,” said Halfdan. “I didn’t recognize you at first. Though you make for an ugly man.”

  She laughed. “That is the point.”

  “By the by,” said Halfdan, “last night I saw a fire to the north. Sometime after that, I saw the master of the White Road Inn making for Marsis as fast as his legs could carry him, with his family and all his servants.” He looked at her. “You smell like smoke.”