Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  He turned to Jiri. She was the circlemaster of Marsis, and she answered to Halfdan. Yet her face was tight and brittle with strain. Why was she so shocked? She had seen violence before.

  Ah. But she had never seen war before, had she?

  Radast was brilliant, but he could barely manage himself, let alone others. Zorgi was an innkeeper, not a soldier or even a spy. Ark realized that while most of his companions had seen violence, none of them had ever seen war. None of them had ever stood in the battle line, heart pounding, sweat pouring down their faces, braced to receive the charge of the enemy.

  But he had. He had served sixteen years in the Eighteenth Legion, fighting the barbarian nations north of the Imperial Pale. He had risen to the rank of first spear centurion, commanding the Eighteenth’s prestigious first cohort. He had grown weary of war, and left when his term of service expired, intending to leave that life behind.

  But that life had found him again.

  He took one final look at the others. The Istarish and the Kyracians were coming, and if anyone was going to take charge, it was going to have to be him.

  “Katerine, Zorgi,” said Ark. “Carry Halfdan. Get as many of your maids to help as you need.” He looked at Radast. “You have arms and armor. Run and get them, and give everyone a weapon. There’s going to be fighting, and we’ll have a better chance if everyone is armed.”

  They all stared at him. They were all used to him remaining silent and carrying out Halfdan’s orders, or Caina’s. Everyone looked surprised. Save for Tanya, for some reason.

  “Get moving!” he bellowed, in the voice he had once used to give stubborn Legionaries one final chance to obey before earning a flogging. “You can either sit here and become slaves, or move!”

  They hastened to obey. Radast and Jiri hurried up the stairs to his workshop, while Zorgi and Katerine tended to Halfdan’s wound. Peter smashed the window to the tailor shop, and some of the maids began improvising a litter from the bolts of cloth.

  Tanya walked to his side.

  “Where will we go now?” said his wife, voice low.

  “We cannot go straightaway to the northern gate,” said Ark. “If Rezir Shahan has an ounce of sense, he’ll send out screening patrols through the side streets, to watch for any ambushes. One of those patrols finds us, we’re finished.” He scratched his jaw, thinking. “We need to get Halfdan and the women to a place of safety. The foundry, I think, on the northern side of the Citadel’s crag.” Hiram Palaegus had taken Ark on a tour of the foundry, and he knew it well. “It’s built like a fortress, to keep any fires from accidentally spreading. The women will be safe enough there.”

  “What if the Istarish attack the foundries?” said Tanya.

  “They won’t,” said Ark. “Rezir has to take the city’s gates. Otherwise the Legions will return and drive him from the city. He’ll only bother with enemies inside the city once he has secured the walls and the Citadel.”

  “And once we’ve got Halfdan safe?” said Tanya.

  Ark took a deep breath. “And then we go to the northern gate and make sure it stays open.”

  He would go by himself, or with Radast, and he would not take Tanya or Jiri with him. The women and Zorgi’s family should be safe enough in the foundry. Ark had not spent five years searching for his wife only to see her killed in front of him, or taken captive by Istarish slavers.

  As might have already happened to his son.

  He pushed aside the thought. Once the gate was secured and the Legions had returned, he would find Nicolai. Caina would keep him safe. She had to.

  She had to.

  Tanya gazed at him for a moment, her blue eyes full of such sadness that Ark wanted to take her in his arms. Then the familiar steel returned to her face, the resolve that had let her survive five years in the Moroaica’s captivity.

  Tanya had been in hopeless situations before.

  “We will do,” she said, “what we must.”

  Ark nodded.

  A few moments later they left the Plaza of the Tower, circling around the rear of Radast’s building. Zorgi, Katerine, Tanya, and Peter carried Halfdan’s litter. Ark walked in front, sword in hand and shield ready, while Radast and Jiri followed behind, crossbows loaded.

  And from the south, they heard the sounds of the Istarish and the Kyracians rampaging through Marsis.

  Chapter 9 - Disciple of the Moroaica

  Kylon frowned.

  He stood beneath the damaged warehouse and its watchtower, watching the Istarish infantry, the Immortals, and the ashtairoi form up to launch the next phase of the attack. Rezir Shahan sat atop his black war horse, barking orders to a steady stream of messengers. Andromache waited nearby with Kleistheon, planning the upcoming assault on the Magisterium chapterhouse.

  Kylon looked over the warehouse.

  Something was wrong. He could feel it. He just didn’t know what, not yet.

  One of the Istarish scouts approached. “I report, my lord emir.”

  Rezir inclined his head. “Speak.”

  “Some of the surviving Legion centuries have gathered in the Plaza of the Tower,” said the scout.

  Rezir nodded. “As I expected. Dispatch scouts to screen the side streets along the Avenue of Governors. I wish no ambushes.”

  “I obey.” The scout ran off.

  Kylon’s frown deepened as emotion washed over his arcane senses. Fear, rage, pain. They filled the stricken city, as he expected. Yet he felt something sharper, something nearby.

  He looked around, expecting to see a fight erupt among the troops.

  Andromache glided to his side, flanked by Kleistheon and her ashtairoi bodyguards. “Brother. Is something amiss?”

  “I do not know,” said Kylon. “I sense a fight nearby, I’m sure of it.”

  Kleistheon scoffed. “You’re jumping at shadows.”

  “No,” said Kylon, “there’s…”

  A blue glow flickered within the ruined warehouse.

  Rezir spun his massive horse around, sword in his hand.

  “What is that? Some sort of sorcery?”

  Kylon shook his head. “No. I don’t sense any arcane power. I don’t know what…”

  Kleistheon burst out laughing.

  “That’s an alcohol fire,” said the older stormdancer. “That warehouse held whiskey, I suspect. A spark must have set one of the kegs ablaze. That was what you sensed, lord stormdancer.” He laughed again. “Perhaps you need a drink?”

  Andromache did not laugh. “Your vigilance is commendable, brother.”

  Kleistheon’s smirk vanished when Sicarion returned with two of his pet thugs, dragging a captive between them.

  ###

  Sicarion’s mercenaries pulled Caina into the Great Market.

  An army filled the Market.

  Caina counted at least five thousand Istarish footmen, their spiked helmets making their ranks look like row after row of knives. She saw thousands of ashtairoi in their gleaming cuirasses and plumed helmets. The Kyracians relied upon the power of their fleets and stormsingers to defend New Kyre, but their small army was skilled and well-trained.

  It was more than a match for the scattered cohorts of a single Legion.

  Sicarion and his men steered Caina to the base of the burned watchtower. Rezir Shahan sat atop his horse, giving orders to his men. Caina saw the black ring upon his right hand, the green gem flickering, and even at this distance she felt the cold, crawling power of necromantic sorcery.

  And the presence of other sorcery, just as potent.

  Three Kyracians waited near Rezir, guarded by a troop of ashtairoi. Two were men, and wore the dark gray leather of stormdancers, sorcerers who used the sorcery of wind and wave to enhance their skill in battle. One the stormdancers was older, with a shaved head and a craggy face heavy with arrogance. The second was younger and slimmer, no more than five years Caina's senior, and watched her with keen brown eyes.

  The woman held Caina's attention.

  She stood as tall
as the men, clad in red gown with black sleeves. Her long black hair hung in a thick braid, and her brown eyes were calm, even serene. Brown eyes identical to those of the younger stormdancer. The woman was his older sister.

  And she had power.

  The crawling presence of sorcery grew sharper as the mercenaries dragged Caina closer, until it felt like tiny needles digging into her skin. The woman was a Kyracian stormsinger. She was not as strong as Maglarion or Jadriga had been, but she nevertheless a sorceress of great power.

  Powerful enough to summon the wind that carried the Kyracian fleet into the harbor, and powerful enough to conjure the lightning bolts that blasted the siege engines from the walls of the Citadel.

  And as the stormsinger looked down at her, Caina felt the presence of necromancy. A master of storm sorcery the woman might have been...but she had used necromancy. Caina was sure of it.

  Caina had sensed it before, more often than she cared to remember.

  Sicarion bowed before the stormsinger. "As you commanded. Here is the one you sought."

  ###

  Kylon gazed at the woman between the mercenaries with disquiet.

  She was a woman, even though she wore the garb and armor of an Istarish soldier. Had she been cleaner, much cleaner, and dressed in proper clothing, she would have been pretty enough.

  Her emotional sense, though...Kylon had never quite sensed anyone like her.

  To his arcane senses, her emotions felt like...ice. Cold and sharp. He sensed fear in her, but the fear did not dominate her. Even as she stood captive and helpless, her mind still worked, still turned and observed and plotted. Yet beneath the cold he sensed fire. Rage burned in this woman's heart, like lava bubbling beneath a glacier. That sort of rage, years of compressed fury, would give her the strength to keep fighting long after another woman would have yielded.

  And her arcane aura was...mangled. Scarred. As if she had been injured by potent sorcery in her past, yet had somehow survived the attack.

  This woman, whoever she was, was dangerous.

  Rezir's voice was quiet. "That...is her?"

  Andromache gave the woman a flat look, and then turned her attention to Sicarion. "I know what the Moroaica looks like, assassin."

  Sicarion smiled. "Appearances can be deceiving."

  For the first time a hint of irritation appeared on Andromache's face. "Do not play word games with me. I have studied at the Moroaica's feet, and that is not her."

  ###

  Caina managed to keep her astonishment hidden.

  Sicarion thought she was the Moroaica? Had Sicarion's necromantic self-mutilation driven him mad? Caina looked nothing like Jadriga. Caina had no sorcerous ability whatsoever, thank the gods. Why would Sicarion mistake her for Jadriga?

  Unless...

  A disturbing thought occurred to Caina.

  She had killed Jadriga. And Jadriga had been inside of her mind at the time, trying to twist Caina into her willing disciple. What if Jadriga's death had left an imprint upon Caina’s mind? A mark that would lead Sicarion to misidentify her as the Moroaica? She did not look like Jadriga, true, but a sorceress of Jadriga’s power could have altered her appearance with ease.

  Another disturbing thought occurred to Caina.

  Sicarion claimed to serve a mistress. Had that been Jadriga? That would explain where he had learned the necromancy that allowed him to claim a severed hand as his own. Yet he was reporting to this stormsinger. And that meant...

  Caina forced her expression to remain calm.

  That meant the stormsinger was one of Jadriga's disciples. Caina had fought some of Jadriga's students in the vaults below Black Angel Tower. But Agria Palaegus and her friends had been vain noblewomen, more interested in eternal youth and beauty than sorcerous secrets. But this stormsinger was obviously a sorceress of power, and if Jadriga's necromantic teachings had enhanced that arcane strength...

  Caina was in trouble.

  ###

  Kylon sensed Andromache’s anger.

  "That is the Moroaica," said Sicarion. "She doesn't know it yet, but she is."

  "You are mistaken," said Andromache, her voice glassy smooth. "Dispose of this woman, and then locate the Moroaica. I came to Marsis to find the Moroaica and receive what she promised me."

  Sicarion shook his head. "I will not lift my hand against my mistress. She would remember."

  "Then," said Andromache, "I will do it myself." She gestured, and Kylon felt her arcane force.

  He grabbed her arm. "Wait."

  "Yes, Kylon?" said Andromache, annoyed.

  "There is something...odd about her," said Kylon. "She has been marked by potent sorcery." He hesitated, remembering the bits and pieces his sister had told him about the “Moroaica.” What sort of woman claimed to be an ancient horror out of Szaldic legend? "Perhaps this is a test of some sort?"

  Andromache's expression did not change, but Kylon knew her well enough to see the faint hint of chagrin in her eyes.

  Slowly, she lowered her hand.

  ###

  Caina kept her face calm.

  Somehow, both Sicarion and Kylon had convinced themselves that Caina was really Jadriga. But what had Kylon meant by a test? Had Jadriga presented tests to her students often? And if the stormsinger assumed that this was a test of some kind, then Caina could use that to her advantage.

  Though if she made one mistake, the stormsinger would kill her.

  "A test," said the woman.

  "A test," said Caina in Kyracian, doing her best to imitate Jadriga's cold tones. "Is not life itself a test, in the end?"

  "You do not know what your own teacher looks like, honored Archon?" said Rezir, scowling at Caina.

  "I know what the Moroaica looks like," said the stormsinger, the Archon. "Yet she can change her form."

  "And flesh," said Sicarion with a yellow grin, "is only a passing thing."

  "Devils of the dry wastes, Andromache," hissed Rezir, his anger plain. So that was the stormsinger's name. "This is a battle, not a school. We do not have time to dally with such foolish..."

  "Silence," said Andromache. "Remember our bargain, my lord emir. I care nothing for the city, only for what it contains. Stay true to our pact, and you shall have wealth and power beyond your wildest dreams. But I will have what I came to claim."

  Kylon frowned, just for a moment.

  "As you say, honored Archon," said Rezir, though his scowl did not fade.

  "And you, child," Caina said to Rezir, still imitating Jadriga’s imperious manner. "You would do well to listen to those wiser than yourself. For a fool may see wisdom and think it only foolishness."

  The older stormdancer snickered, and thunderous fury passed over Rezir's face. His hands tightened on the reins of his horse, the green bloodcrystal flashing in his black ring.

  "Release her," said Andromache.

  The mercenaries let go of Caina's arms. She stepped forward, ignoring them as Jadriga would have. For a moment she considered bolting, but dismissed the idea. Andromache would simply blast her dead. Or the stormsingers would use their supernatural speed to run her down. Rezir's eyes narrowed, and Caina gazed at him, her face blank and icy, until he looked away.

  That convinced Andromache.

  "Honored Moroaica," she said, bowing from the waist. "Forgive my lack of vision. I should have realized the truth sooner."

  "Fear not, Andromache, Archon of New Kyre," said Caina, her heart hammering in her temples. If she was going to escape from this, she would have to talk her way free. "I expect I look rather different."

  "Truly," said Andromache. "May I ask why you changed your form?"

  Caina shrugged. "Some of my enemies found me. This woman tried to slay me. I slew her instead, and it pleased me to take her form."

  "The Ghosts," said Andromache, and Caina cursed herself. She had given too much away. "I warned you that Naelon Icaraeus was an incautious fool."

  "You showed wisdom," said Caina. "Alas, he was a fool. And he has paid for
it with his life. Still," she gave an indifferent glance to Rezir, "one works with the tools that are at hand."

  Rezir's eyes narrowed. The insult had not gone over his head.

  "Now," said Caina, "you have done as I asked, I trust?"