GHOST SWORD
Jonathan Moeller
Description
Kylon of House Kardamnos is a stormdancer of New Kyre, and his city has survived both the war with the Empire and the fury of an ancient sorceress.
But now a new enemy comes, alien and implacable and terrifying.
And unless Kylon summons all his skill and strength, New Kyre will drown in blood…
Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.
Cover image copyright Katalinks | Dreamstime.com & Elena Schweitzer | Dreamstime.com.
Ebook edition published March 2014.
Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
Ghost Sword
“You are thoughtful today, husband,” said Thalastre, joining Kylon on the balcony.
“Am I not always?” said Kylon.
His wife could command the sorcery of water, and as a consequence she always knew Kylon’s mood. It was just as well he had no secrets from her, since he would not have been able to keep them anyway.
“What are you thinking about?” said Thalastre. Today she wore a sleeveless stola of blue-green silk, her curly black hair bound with combs of jade. Her bare arms were lean and toned, a result of her preferred recreation of hunting the feral seals that haunted the coasts near New Kyre.
“The war,” said Kylon.
“The war is over, husband,” said Thalastre.
It was. So Kylon of House Kardamnos stood on the balcony and watched as the city of New Kyre rebuilt itself, watched the expanse of ziggurats and canals and the crowded harbor.
Though the city had taken no damage in the fighting itself. Most of the war between the Kyracian people and the Empire of Nighmar had been waged between ships, on the endless gray and blue waves of the western sea and the Cyrican sea. Kylon himself had led New Kyre’s seventh fleet to a crushing victory over the western Imperial fleet.
But despite their victories at sea, the Kyracians had nearly lost the war. Trade was the city’s lifeblood, and the Empire had strangled it off. At last a peace had been negotiated, and the Emperor himself had traveled to New Kyre to sign the peace.
And then the Moroaica had opened the burning rift in the sky over the Pyramid of Storm, and the golden dead had risen and nearly destroyed New Kyre.
They had nearly destroyed the world.
But the city had survived, the golden dead defeated as the Kyracian ashtairoi and the Imperial Guard fought side by side. Caina Amalas of the Ghosts had slain the Moroaica, though her enemies within the Empire had arranged her banishment as a reward for her valor.
That still left a sour taste in Kylon’s mouth.
“Ah,” said Thalastre. “You are thinking of her.”
“Some,” said Kylon. Once, Thalastre would have been jealous. That was before the golden fire, before Caina had defeated the Moroaica. “I wish she would have stayed here. We could have sheltered her. We both owe her that much, and much more.”
“We do,” said Thalastre, “but she has made her choice, and we have our own duties.”
“Yes,” said Kylon. “And the war is over, but another one continues.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
Kylon waved a hand at the city, at the towering ziggurats of the noble Houses. “We are Kyracian, my love, and the noble Houses of New Kyre have always competed viciously against each other. We held together in the face of the Empire, because to do otherwise meant destruction. But now that the Starfall Straits are open to trade once more, every merchant and every noble in the city is striving to be the first to turn a profit…and to undercut his rivals. Or to seize control of his House.”
Thalastre laughed. “Surely you do not mean your half-brothers? You are an Archon of the Assembly and the High Seat of a noble House. They are not a threat to you.”
“Andromache was an Archon of the Assembly and a High Seat of a House,” said Kylon, “and look what happened to her.”
His sister had been the most powerful and respected woman in New Kyre…and she had perished in Marsis nonetheless, led to her destruction by the Moroaica.
The wheel of fortune never stopped turning.
And Kylon’s horde of half-brothers might be the one to turn it for him. His father had sired two trueborn children, Andromache and Kylon. Kylon's father had also been quite fond of female company, with over a dozen concubines and mistresses of varying rank, and had sired a score of bastards. Some had no interest in House Kardamnos, and had left New Kyre to make their fortunes elsewhere. Others were older than Kylon, and made no secret of their interest in deposing Kylon and claiming the lordship of House Kardamnos for themselves.
When Andromache had still been alive, she had kept the bastards in line by assassinating any that grew too ambitious. But Kylon could not be as ruthless as his sister. He had seen the fate her ambition had given her…and Caina had left too much of an impact on Kylon for that.
On the other hand, if Thalastre became pregnant, his ambitious half-siblings might try to murder her to prevent a trueborn heir of House Kardamnos. That thought filled him with terror.
Thalastre touched his arm. “You worry too much, husband.”
“Perhaps,” said Kylon. “We live in unsettled times.” He gazed at the crowd in the courtyard as the slaves and freedmen of House Kardamnos went about their duties. “The Assembly sits later today, to greet the new ambassador from Anub-Kha.” A flicker of red in the courtyard below caught his eye. “I should…”
He froze, a bolt of fear and astonishment burning through him.
“Kylon?” said Thalastre, her arcane senses detecting his mood. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He could not answer.
Andromache walked through the courtyard.
It was impossible. Utterly impossible.
He had seen her die in the Tomb of Scorikhon below the Citadel of Marsis, struggling as Scorikhon’s corrupted spirit tried to claim her flesh for his own. Yet it was Andromache, wearing her usual crimson gown with a black vest, her hair bound in a long black braid, her expression aloof and imperious.
“She’s dead,” said Kylon. “I saw her die. She cannot be here.”
“Kylon,” said Thalastre, and he felt the surge of power as she gathered sorcerous force for a spell. “What is it? Who do you see?”
“She’s dead,” said Kylon, but by then his mind caught up to his shock.
Andromache was dead, but someone was masquerading as her. Sicarion had done so, using an amulet that reflected the worst fears of anyone who looked at him. He was slain, but there was no reason another assassin could not follow his tactics.
“Something is wrong,” said Kylon, the habits of battle taking over. “Guards!” The door to the bedchamber burst open, and four of the guards of House Kardamnos hurried inside. “You. Go sound the alarm. There is an intruder in the Tower. The rest of you, stay with Lady Thalastre, and let no harm come to her.”
“My lord,” said the guard, sprinting from the room.
“What is wrong?” said Thalastre, her voice cool. To Kylon’s regret, she had been in battle often enough to know how to handle herself in a crisis. Already he felt the spike as she gathered arcane power to strike down any attackers.
“I saw my sister,” said Kylon.
“She’s dead,” said Thalastre.
“Yes,” said
Kylon, turning back to the railing. “Which means an intruder has employed her appearance as a disguise. Wait here.”
Without another word, he turned, grabbed the stone railing, and jumped off the balcony.
It was a long way down to the courtyard, but Kylon called upon his own sorcery. The sorcery of air slowed his descent, and the sorcery of water filled his limbs with strength. He landed in the courtyard, his legs flexing to absorb the impact, and drew stunned glances from the slaves and freedmen going about their business.
“My lord High Seat?” said one of the slaves.
The alarm bell rang out from the ziggurat, calling the guards to their posts.
“There is an intruder among us,” said Kylon, “using sorcery to appear as my late sister.”
The slaves and freedmen had been well trained, and they rushed to their duties, congregating in groups to seal off the entrances to the courtyard and stand watch over the gates. Kylon hastened to the main doors to the ziggurat, reaching out with his arcane senses. He felt the ancient wards against hostile spells over the Tower of Kardamnos, laid long ago when his ancestor Rykon had led the survivors of Old Kyrace to New Kyre. Andromache had been walking towards the doors. Why hadn’t the slaves or the freedmen noticed her? Many of them had been in service to House Kardamnos since the time of Kylon’s father, had known Andromache well.
He stepped through the main doors and into the great hall of the Tower of Kardamnos, where the High Seat of the House entertained guests and conducted public business. A long, low table ran the length of the hall, and banners from ancient wars hung from the ceiling. The hall was deserted, and yet…
Kylon felt something strange against his arcane senses, something peculiar. A spell, perhaps, one recently broken? It reminded him a little of the earth elemental he had battled below the walls of Caer Magia a year past, yet this sensation was somehow worse. The earth elemental, for all its power, had been a spirit indifferent to mortal men, and would have not taken any notice of them had it not been bound by a sorcerer. This aura felt…
Hostile. Malignant, even.
A spot of crimson caught his eye.
There was a small guardroom near the doors, where slaves and bodyguards could wait while their masters feasted. The door was closed, and a spreading crimson pool leaked from beneath it.
Kylon cursed, strode across the room, and yanked the door open.
Inside the guardroom stood a wooden table and a pair of benches. The headless corpse of a woman in a slave’s tunic slumped over the table. To judge from the crimson spatters across the wall, she had been beheaded with a single powerful blow. Her head sat next to her body, eyes open with shock, her black hair trailing into the pool of blood.
He recognized her. She was one of the slaves of his half-brother Ramphias, one of the oldest and most accomplished of his father’s bastards. He had fought with distinction in the war, destroying several Imperial warships, and had more than once mentioned that he thought himself the rightful heir of House Kardamnos, not Kylon.
And now one of his slaves had been murdered on Kylon’s roof.
He cursed and called for the guards.
###
Several hours later Kylon stood in the great hall, Thalastre at his side, and faced his half-brother.
Or, more precisely, two of them.
Ramphias was in his middle thirties, tall and strong with a face seamed like leather. At the start of the war, he had captained a trireme, and by the end of the fighting he had risen to thalarchon of the ninth fleet. He wore the traditional robes of a Kyracian nobleman, sword and dagger at his belt. His younger brother Xenarro waited with him. Both had been born to the same mother, a minor noblewoman of Anshan, and both men had the same dark eyes, prominent noses, and jutting chins. Xenarro had followed his brother’s rise, and now captained the ninth fleet’s flagship.
“This is an outrage, Kylon,” spat Ramphias. “An utter and unforgiveable outrage.”
His emotions pulsed against Kylon’s senses, brittle with rage. Xenarro felt much calmer, almost placid. Peculiar, that. But perhaps Xenarro simply did not care.
“You will address my husband,” said Thalastre with icy calm, “as the Lord High Seat of House Kardamnos.”
Behind them the slaves labored, cleaning the blood of the murdered woman.
Ramphias scowled. “Do you need women to speak in your defense, Kylon? Does the mighty Kylon Shipbreaker huddle behind the skirts of his wife and wait for her to save him?” Xenarro laughed.
Thalastre smiled. “Certainly not. But it would be beneath the dignity of the Lord High Seat of House Kardamnos to address himself to the bastard spawn of a foreign concubine.”
Ramphias’s scowl darkened.
“If you insult my wife,” said Kylon, “I will challenge you, here and now, before these witnesses.” Ramphias opened his mouth. “Remember that Andromache killed men for far less. Apologize.”
“Forgive me, Lady Thalastre,” said Ramphias, though he looked just short of murder. “My temper has gotten the better of me.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Thalastre airily. “One cannot expect a man to act beyond his limitations.”
Ramphias’s frown deepened as he tried to work out whether or not she had insulted him.
“Regardless,” said Ramphias at last, “this is still an outrage.”
“I agree,” said Kylon. “An innocent woman has been murdered.”
“My property has been killed without my permission!” said Ramphias, pointing at the guardroom. “They said you had gone soft, Lord High Seat, and this only proves it.”
“Oh?” said Kylon.
“You are so concerned about your slaves now,” said Ramphias, a note of mockery in his voice. “That Ghost madwoman corrupted your mind with foolish, outlandish ideas. House Kardamnos now has more freedmen than slaves.”
“You were at the Agora of Nations, Ramphias,” said Kylon. “You know that Ghost madwoman saved our lives. Are we Istarish emirs or the sons of Old Kyrace? Shall we take delight in brutalizing our slaves as the Istarish do?”
“Or shall we wait upon them hand and foot,” said Ramphias, “and bring them wine while they recline upon cushions? As you seem to prefer.”
“Does this have a point, Ramphias?” said Kylon. “While I am sure others have nothing better to do than to listen to your tedious rhetoric, I have duties.”
“You should not speak to him, so,” said Xenarro. “He is the thalarchon of the ninth fleet.”
Again the younger man’s emotions remained unfailingly placid.
“And the High Seat is an Archon of the Assembly of the Kyracian people,” said Thalastre. “One office carries more respect than another.”
“My property was killed under your roof, High Seat,” said Ramphias. “I shall bring this matter before the Assembly.”
Kylon shrugged. “Very well. We shall report the death to the Assembly. The murder was under my roof, so it is my responsibility, and I shall pay you the full market price for the slave. Double, even, if it will salve your wounded pride.”
“Very well,” said Ramphias. “But the price of the slave is irrelevant…”
“What was her name?” said Kylon.
“What?” said Ramphias. “Whose name?”
“The slave woman,” said Kylon. “The one who was murdered. What was her name?”
Irritation flushed through Ramphias’s emotional sense. “I fail to see how that is relevant. She was one of my cooks, and I needed to know nothing else about her. That is…”
“Anthippa,” said Xenarro, his voice quiet. A strange sense went through his emotional aura. He felt almost…tired. “Her name was Anthippa.”
“Her name is not the point,” said Ramphias. “Her death is indicative of a larger problem.”
“Which is?” said Kylon.
Ramphias pointed a finger at Kylon. “That you, my lord High Seat and Archon, no longer have the necessary spine to act as a capable leader. That you are unable to lead the Kyrac
ian people effectively. That you have been…infected with the foreign ideas of this Ghost madwoman who seems to have infatuated you so.” A deep pulse of anger went through Thalastre’s sense. “That you are no longer fit for the office of Archon.”
“Ah,” said Kylon. “So that is what this is about, hmm? Never mind that a woman has been murdered, and that a killer wanders uncaught through our city.”
Ramphias’s lip curled in disdain. “You have gone soft, Kylon.” The anger from Thalastre redoubled. “I will raise this matter in the Assembly when we sit this afternoon. They will see as I do. Perhaps I will convince them that you are no longer fit to be High Seat of House Kardamnos.”
“I am sure,” said Thalastre, voice calm despite the anger Kylon sensed simmering within her, “that they will hold the murder of slaves as unimportant as you do. Given how many of those men and women were raised by slaves, taught by slaves, and looked after by slaves. I am certain that they shall take their deaths just as lightly as you do, and will strive with might and main to heed the words of a dead nobleman’s bastard son.” She shrugged. “Though I know little enough of politics.”
“You ought to control your wife’s tongue, Lord High Seat,” said Ramphias with disdain. “It could wash the barnacles from the hull of my ship. Else…”
“I warned you,” said Kylon, “that if you did not refrain from insulting Lady Thalastre, that I would challenge you.”
Ramphias look taken aback. “What? You are a stormdancer, and I am not. You would crush me in a moment.”
“Then I will fight you without sorcery,” said Kylon.
“Perhaps this is unwise, brother,” said Xenarro. “To challenge the High Seat so openly. I…”
“No!” snarled Ramphias. “You want a fight, you arrogant whelp? Fine! Your sister, now, she was a High Seat. She knew what it meant to be an Archon of the Assembly! She would not have let herself listen to counsels of weakness.”
“If she had been willing to listen to counsels of weakness,” said Kylon, “then perhaps she would not have led New Kyre in to a ruinous war, a war our nation only barely survived. Perhaps she would not have perished in Marsis!”
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