Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Bravely and fiercely, but Kylon had killed many brave and fierce men.

  The Legionaries were no better.

  Kylon thundered through them. The Legionaries could not stand before him, and those that attacked him perished. More Legionaries crowded around him, and Kylon danced around their sword blades, parrying those that came to close. He killed and killed, but more attacked, and soon the press of numbers would crush him down...

  Then the black mass of Immortals crashed into the Legionaries.

  Rezir Shahan led the charge, his scimitar a steely blur in his fist. A Legionary's sword gashed open his cheek, but Rezir did not even flinch. The ring on his hand pulsed with pale green light, Kylon felt the crawling surge of necromantic force, and the cut vanished.

  A heartbeat Rezir killed the Legionary that had marked him.

  The Legionaries were stout fighters, but they were disorganized and the Immortals were not. And the Alchemists' elixirs made the Immortals stronger and faster than the Legionaries. Between Kylon's attacks, the Immortals' assault, and Rezir's invincibility, the Legionaries crumpled, stumbling back toward the far end of the Plaza.

  “After them!” yelled Rezir, pointing his dripping scimitar. “Drive them from the Plaza. Kill them all!”

  More Istarish soldiers flooded over the ramparts, sweeping over the Legionaries. A wave of ashtairoi followed, their shields and cuirasses flashing in the torchlight. Kylon saw Kleistheon leap from the ramparts, his sword a fan of snarling lightning, and strike down two Legionaries when he landed.

  A shout rang out, and Kylon saw Legionaries pouring out of the narrow streets nearby. A second wave of reserves. The battle hung at a critical balance. Even with the aid of the stormdancers, the sheer press of Legionaries might drive back the Istarish and the Kyracians...

  A woman's voice thundered over the Plaza, and Kylon felt arcane power, tremendous arcane power, swirling through the air.

  The sky erupted with lightning.

  Three blasts ripped into the massed Legionaries, tearing apart their formations, cooking men in their own armor. Another blast slammed into the Istarish footmen, killing at least a score of them, and still another bolt fell between the Legionaries and the ashtairoi, slaying a dozen on both sides.

  For a moment a stunned silence hung over the battle.

  “Take them!” screamed Rezir, brandishing his sword. “Attack! Attack!”

  The Kyracian and the Istarish hosts surged forward.

  The Legionaries, their fortifications overrun, their centurions slain by the lightning, their ranks in disarray, fought well.

  But not well enough.

  ###

  After the battle Kylon walked through the ruined Plaza of the Tower, past the bodies of the slain. Some ashtairoi, Istarish footmen, and Immortals lay upon the ground, but far more Legionaries had been killed. Most had been slain by sword and spear, but others lay dead with frost melting on their armor.

  Kylon had killed so many of them.

  He closed his eyes and shivered.

  This should not have troubled him. His sister was High Seat of House Kardamnos and an Archon of the Assembly. She commanded, he fought.

  But he thought of the thousands of chained slaves in the Great Market.

  He looked at the men lying dead at his feet. Perhaps they had been fighting to defend wives and children taken captive by the Istarish.

  And he remembered that moment he had sensed necromantic force swirling around Andromache...

  No. Impossible. He must have imagined it. He shook his head. This battle, this invasion, should have been simple. He should not have suffered these doubts.

  But they refused to go away.

  He walked in search of Andromache, and found Rezir Shahan on the verge of shouting at her.

  His hand shot to his sword.

  “Honored Archon,” said Rezir, voice icy, “perhaps you were mistaken? It seems that your spells slew some of my men.”

  Andromache said nothing. She looked tired, her face drawn. The flickers of exhaustion in her emotional sense had grown sharper and more frequent.

  “Men die in war, my lord emir,” said Andromache. “They die often. I thought you would be accustomed to it by now.”

  “Indeed I am,” said Rezir, taking another step closer. Kylon planted himself at Andromache's right, hand on the hilt of his sword. Rezir glanced at him, and his voice calmed somewhat. “But if my men are to die, they will do it at my command. Not because my ally cannot aim her spells correctly.”

  Andromache shrugged. “Your men and the enemy were mixed together. It was impossible to separate them with any degree of accuracy, and the battle hung in the balance.” Her lip twisted with a hint of contempt. “Would you rather, my lord emir, that I have stayed my hand? Perhaps the Legions would have driven you from the Plaza, forcing you to launch a new assault, with a far greater cost in lives. Or perhaps you would have fallen into the hands of the Legions. That ring I gave you makes you immune to normal steel, so they couldn't have killed you. But they could do other things to you. I wonder how long that ring would keep you alive if they crucified you?”

  Kylon blinked. Andromache had given Rezir that necromantic ring?

  Kleistheon approached, his armor spotted with blood, a frown on his face.

  “Is anything amiss, High Seat?” he said, looking at Rezir.

  “No, nothing is amiss,” said Rezir with a forced smile. “The Archon and I were simply discussing our strategy.”

  “Indeed,” said Andromache. “And our next step is clear.”

  “Yes,” said Rezir. “We march north and seize the gates. The northern gate first, I think. We lured the Legions out of the city. When they return, they will try to enter through the northern gate.”

  “Indeed,” said Andromache, gazing at the dark bulk of the Citadel and Black Angel Tower overhead. “Proceed.”

  “With your aid, Archon,” said Rezir, “we will take the gatehouse easily. After the losses the enemy suffered here,” he waved a hand at the Plaza of corpses, “they cannot have more than a hundred men guarding the gate, if that.”

  Sicarion appeared out of the shadows and bowed before Andromache.

  Kylon flinched, despite himself. He had not sensed the cloaked man's approach. Sicarion straightened up, drawing back his hood to reveal his scarred face. As before, his emotional sense was...strange, blurred. Like trying to read a book that had been soaked in water.

  Or blood.

  “You've returned,” said Andromache. “Have you located the Moroaica?”

  “No, my lady,” said Sicarion with another bow. “I fear I have not. Neither her nor the...imposter.” His thin lips twitched in something like a smile. “The shadow-cloak is most effective.”

  Rezir scowled. “You set him to hunting this Ghost spy?”

  “Yes,” said Andromache. “And a few other tasks, as well. Have you finished them?”

  “I have,” said Sicarion.

  “Good,” said Andromache. “You'll recall, my lord emir, that you promised me some slaves?”

  “I did,” said Rezir.

  “Sicarion has gathered them for me,” said Andromache. “I will inspect them now.”

  Rezir looked stunned. “You will...look over your slaves? Now? The city is almost ours!”

  “Yes,” said Andromache. “You have more than enough men to seize the gates, and Kleistheon will aid you. I will return to you, once my task is complete. Walk with me, brother.”

  Andromache turned and left, and Kylon had no choice but to follow.

  Sicarion trailed after them at a discreet distance, followed by some of his hired thugs.

  “You are troubled,” said Andromache as they began walking down the Avenue of Governors.

  “Yes,” said Kylon.

  “I wish you would speak of it to me,” said Andromache. “You alone, brother, are the only man in trust in all the world. If I cannot rely upon you, then to whom shall I turn?”

  Kylon looked at the ground, his e
motions swirling through him. He, too, trusted Andromache, trusted her more than anyone. Yet there was Rezir's ring. The flickers of necromancy he had sensed from Andromache. The senseless slaughter of this battle.

  “Rezir's ring,” said Kylon at last.

  “You sensed it?” said Andromache. “It is an object of necromancy. The bloodcrystal in the ring stores a reservoir of life energy stolen from Rezir's victims. That same energy is fed back into him to heal his wounds and protect him from weapons.”

  “Where did he get such a thing?” said Kylon.

  “I gave it to him,” said Andromache.

  “Did you make it?” said Kylon, shuddering. If Andromache had been practicing necromancy, the entire Assembly would turn against her.

  “Of course not,” said Andromache. “The Moroaica made it and gave it to me. I had no use for it, so I in turn gave it to Rezir.” She smiled. “It helped seal our alliance.”

  “The Moroaica made this thing of necromancy,” said Kylon, “and she was your teacher.”

  “She was,” said Andromache.

  “Gods of storm and wind,” said Kylon, looking away. That did no good – he only saw the corpses scattered on the broad Avenue of Governors, the smashed windows and the broken doors, the smoke rising from the occasional burned house. He closed his eyes for a moment, waited until he could speak with some semblance of calm. “Necromancy, sister? That is...that is madness, there is no other word for it.”

  “You misunderstand me,” said Andromache, her voice distant. “You remember the weeks after our parents were murdered? You were too young to understand, but House Kardamnos almost fell. Enemies encircled us. I could only rely upon myself, and I was certain I would fail. And then the Moroaica came to the Tower of Kardamnos.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She needed a...sanctuary, a place where she could rest without fear of attack. I offered her to let her stay, and in exchange, she made me her disciple. And I learned many things from her.”

  “Such as necromancy?” said Kylon.

  “Hardly,” said Andromache. “I am not a fool, brother. She taught me how to enhance my spells, to wield the sorcery of wind and wave to far greater effect. You have seen the results. And the Moroaica promised me one other payment.”

  “What?” said Kylon.

  “The Tomb of Scorikhon,” said Andromache.

  “Why? What in that tomb could possibly be worth all this death?” said Kylon.

  Sicarion snickered. Kylon glared at the scarred man, and Sicarion met his gaze, his mismatched eyes glinting beneath his hood.

  “Power,” said Andromache. “Scorikhon was a skilled adept of the Red Circle, the school of necromancers destroyed by our ancestors of Old Kyrace. Yet his power remained, sealed within that Tomb. The Magisterium has never been able to claim it.”

  “Why not?” said Kylon. “Marsis has been part of the Empire for centuries. Surely they should have been able to break the wards around the Tomb.”

  “Because,” said Andromache, “the Moroaica herself sealed the Tomb. Scorikhon was one of her disciples. After he perished, she preserved his power, intending to bestow it upon someone more worthy.”

  “You,” said Kylon.

  “Me,” agreed Andromache.

  “All this death,” said Kylon, “for more power?”

  “Yes,” said Andromache. “It is necessary, brother. I require the power. Everything I have done, I have done it to secure House Kardamnos against our enemies. Already I am an Archon, but I need more power. With the power from the Tomb of Scorikhon, no one will be able to challenge me. No one will dare assail House Kardamnos ever again.” She reached over and took his hand, her fingers cold and thin against his. “Your children, Kylon. One day you will wed and have children, and those children will never fear as we have. Is that not a noble goal?”

  Kylon nodded.

  “Good.” She released his hand. “Do you sense anyone nearby?”

  Kylon reached out with his water sorcery. Other than Andromache, the mercenaries, and Sicarion's strange, blurred sense, no one was nearby. He shook his head.

  “Sicarion?” said Andromache.

  “We are alone, mistress,” said Sicarion. “And I am a devoted servant of the Moroaica. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “How very splendid,” said Andromache. “Assuming you can ever find the Moroaica, that is.” She turned to face Kylon. “We may have to abandon Rezir Shahan and the Istarish.”

  “Why?” said Kylon.

  “Taking the city of Marsis was never my goal,” said Andromache. “A bonus, to be sure. But hardly necessary.” She looked at the Citadel. “I came for the Tomb of Scorikhon, not the city. If Rezir manages to secure the gates, well and good. If not...we should seize the Citadel ourselves.”

  “Just us?” said Kylon.

  “Yes,” said Andromache. “My powers and yours, combined, shall be enough to overwhelm the Citadel's defenders, if we act carefully. And then I know how to enter the Tomb of Scorikhon.” She scowled. “The Moroaica could have simply dissolved the wards with ease, had Sicarion been able to find her. But she showed me how to release the wards myself, if necessary.”

  “Do not give up hope, mistress,” said Sicarion. “I will find the Moroaica.”

  “All you found was that spy who claimed to have slain the Moroaica,” said Andromache, voice sharp.

  “She could have done it,” said Kylon, remembering how the Ghost had come within a heartbeat of burning him alive. “If anyone could have slain the Moroaica, that Ghost would have found a way to do it.”

  “Regardless,” said Andromache. “Will you aid me in this, brother?”

  Kylon hesitated. “You are exhausted, sister.”

  “I am,” said Andromache. “But if I meditate for a few hours, using the techniques the Moroaica taught me, I shall recover my powers. I will have more than enough to deal with the defenders of the Citadel. Will you aid me, brother?”

  “Of course,” said Kylon. “I always have.”

  “Good,” said Andromache. She looked at Sicarion. “You have prepared things as I instructed?”

  “I have indeed, mistress,” said Sicarion.

  Andromache nodded. “Then let us proceed at once.”

  She strode with renewed purpose along the Avenue of Governors, Kylon following. Everything Andromache had said made sense. Yet still his doubts lingered. The Moroaica had been a necromancer. Her student Scorikhon had been a necromancer.

  What kind of power awaited Andromache in his Tomb?

  Chapter 16 - Sacrifices

  The eastern sky brightened as Caina prowled the edges of the Great Market.

  Thousands of bound captives filled the Market. The Istarish had simply rounded them up, herded them into the Market, and left them there. Caina doubted the Istarish had bothered to plan adequate food and drink for their captives. Certainly they had not troubled themselves with sanitation. Already the smell was considerable.

  If the Istarish did nothing, very soon their slaves would start dying of thirst or disease even before they were loaded upon the slave ships.

  Rage flooded through Caina, and her hand curled into a fist...

  Later. She could think of a way to help the captives later. Right now she needed to find Nicolai. She would not leave anyone in the clutches if the Istarish, not if she could help it, but she had to find Nicolai.

  But first, she needed a way into the Great Market. Her nightfighter clothes were excellent for creeping through the shadows. But dawn was not far away, and the shadows would soon vanish.

  Once the sun came up, a black-clad figure wearing a shadow-cloak would be rather conspicuous in the Great Market.

  She would have to try a disguise again. It had not worked so well the first time, but now Caina had her shadow-cloak. With any luck, it would keep Kylon and Sicarion from using their sorcery to locate her.

  Her target came into sight, and Caina ducked behind a barrel.

  An Istarish soldier, an older man with a slight limp. Rezir Shaha
n had left his older and wounded soldiers behind to guard the captives. The soldier wore the typical scale mail of the Istarish infantry, a spiked helmet sitting upon his head. Behind him walked a younger Istarish soldier with a bored expression.