Ghost Sword

by Jonathan Moeller

  He paused in an alley and extended his arcane senses. The emotions of the nearby crowd washed through him, a confusing jumble of hope and depression and lust and exhaustion and hunger and simple boredom, but by long practice he blocked them out. Kylon focused on the distortions over the city, the scars left by the Moroaica’s mighty sorcery.

  He was near the vast maze of New Kyre’s docks, north of the Agora of Nations and close to the Agora of Fishmongers. He sensed the largest scar over the Pyramid of Storm, but there were smaller, fading ones scattered through the city’s poorer districts. At first he thought they were echoes from the larger rift over the Pyramid, but he realized they were traces of the nagataaru’s passage.

  Like footprints. The creature did not belong in this world, and its presence left distortions in its wake, just as waves rippled out from a ship upon the sea. And if Kylon kept his wits about him, he could use those distortions to find the nagataaru and kill its host.

  He followed the distortions across the city until he came to New Kyre’s northern gate and the Agora of the Free Cities. The road from the gate led to the various squabbling city-states of the coast, to Teslyn and Anub-kha and Ulmanost and Catekharon and the others, and endless caravans came through the gate carrying a countless array of goods. Caravanserais and wine houses ringed the Agora, and thousands of foreigners came through here on a daily basis.

  It was the perfect place for a creature like the nagataaru to hunt its prey. No one would notice a few missing foreigners. If some caravan guards went missing, or a foreign prostitute vanished, the magistrates would take note of it, but expend little effort to find the killer.

  But New Kyre was Kylon’s city, and he would not permit a nagataaru to prey upon those within its walls, foreign-born or not.

  The distortions led him to a seedy-looking wine shop, a rickety wooden roof over walls of cracked adobe. It looked like the sort of place where one could buy any sort of vice or hire thugs willing to perform any task. Yet the building was curiously silent. Kylon heard the sounds of drinking and laughing and occasionally fighting from the other wine shops and brothels, but nothing but silence from the shop in front of him.

  He loosened his sword in its scabbard, summoned sorcerous power, and stepped through the wine shop’s door.

  Inside the common room looked like many others he had seen, with trestle tables and benches. A long bar ran the length of one wall, with heavy wine casks sitting upon wooden stands. A fire crackled in the hearth, more for illumination than for heat in New Kyre’s warm nights.

  And the room was deserted.

  Kylon blinked in surprise. The door had been unlocked, and the taverns around the Agora of the Free Cities were overflowing with merchants and travelers. He would have expected a crowd.

  Not empty silence.

  He extended his arcane senses, seeking for the distortions that marked the nagataaru’s passage. The wine shop crawled with them, and a flicker of emotions brushed against Kylon’s senses.

  Fear. Utter terror.

  And something else, a peculiar tangle of gloating exultation and fury and madness tangled together in a burning knot, bound with something alien and strange.

  The nagataaru, perhaps?

  It was coming from beneath his boots.

  Kylon crossed the common room and drew his sword, the storm-forged steel glinting in the firelight. He found the door to the kitchen, and beyond the door to the cellar. Behind the door he saw a worn set of stone steps descending into the earth, the pale light of a lantern flickering ahead.

  And a familiar smell flooded his nostrils.

  Spilled blood. Quite a lot of it, in fact.

  He descended the stairs, both his ears and his arcane senses straining to detect any sign of foes. The stairs ended in a broad cellar, the ceiling supported by rafters and thick brick pillars, the floor hard-packed dirt. It was deeper and wider than Kylon expected, and in the far wall he saw a tunnel leading into darkness. A smuggler’s den, where illicit goods could be hidden from the Assembly’s customs inspectors, and illegal items could be smuggled in and out of the city.

  Along with criminals, perhaps?

  But for now, that was a secondary consideration.

  The corpses strewn across the floor held Kylon’s full attention.

  There were at least a score of them, all with the rough look of mercenaries and teamsters. Every last one of them lay in a pool of blood, their faces frozen in terror. Some of them had been beheaded. As far as Kylon could tell, they had all been killed with the same weapon. Some sort of sword that dealt impossibly smooth and fine cuts, a blade that sliced through skin and muscle and fat and bone with great ease. What sort of weapon could do that? Kylon himself could behead a man in a single blow using the sorcery of water to augment his strength, but even his storm-forged steel could not deal such an impossibly fine cut.

  A faint murmur reached his ears, and Kylon spun. He saw something moving near a brick pillar, and he circled around it, sword ready to strike. A man lay upon the floor in the midst of the corpses, his wrists and ankles tied together, a gag wrapped around his head.

  Kylon recognized Ramphias at once.

  His half-brother’s eyes rolled towards him, wide and filled with terror. Ramphias began shouting into the gag, his panic and fear rolling over Kylon’s arcane senses.

  Then he went rigid, his eyes turning towards the tunnel, and Kylon felt that strange, alien jangle of emotion once more.

  He stepped around the pillar again and saw Xenarro walking toward him. He bore no weapons, though blood spattered his armor and face. His face twitched and jerked as if worms crawled beneath his skin, and he smiled when he saw Kylon. And as he did, Kylon saw the rippling distortion around him.

  The sign of the nagataaru.

  “You,” said Kylon. “It’s inside you.”

  “Ah, I see, I see,” muttered Xenarro, coming to a stop a dozen paces away. “We thought it might be you. I didn’t believe it. But the voice thought so. The voice said the Surge can see into the netherworld, that sooner or later she would send someone after us.” Xenarro giggled like a child. “I hoped it might be you, High Seat. Oh, I really hoped it would be you. Did you like how I hid from you? Like this.” He gestured, and his emotional aura changed to the peculiar glassy calm Kylon had sensed in the Tower of Kardamnos. “The voice taught me how to do that. The voice showed me how to hide from sorcerers, when I wish it. Or I can hide like this.” He gestured, and his form rippled.

  Andromache stood in his place.

  “Do you remember me, brother?” said Andromache. “The sister you let die?”

  “I have seen this illusion before,” said Kylon, voice cold.

  “Are you sure this is an illusion?” said Andromache.

  “Entirely,” said Kylon. “The illusion the assassin conjured in the Agora of Nations was far more effective. This is just a petty trick.”

  Andromache rippled and disappeared, leaving Xenarro standing in her place. “But the voice, my lord High Seat, the voice has shown me how to do more than simple tricks.”

  “The nagataaru,” said Kylon. “It is the voice in your head.”

  “You can call the voice that, if you like,” said Xenarro. “But it is so much more. It has showed me things, such wonderful things.”

  “Such as this carnage?” said Kylon.

  Xenarro sneered. “You hardly have the right to judge me, Kylon Shipbreaker. The poets sing of the foes you slew in battle, the Imperial soldiers you sent to the bottom of the western sea.”

  “Those were men slain in honest battle,” said Kylon. “Not tied up in a cellar and butchered.”

  Xenarro’s contempt vanished in another fit of giggling laughter. “I know. The voice in my head…it eats screams, you know. The way we eat bread and meat. And some screams are more filling than others. The voice has shown me the way. The voice is not greedy. It feasts…and it shares its strength with me. And I use the strength to bring it more screams. Thus both of us prosper, and grow e
ver stronger.”

  “Such prosperity,” said Kylon, “growing fat off murder.”

  “Fool!” said Xenarro. “You cannot understand.” He jerked his chin in Ramphias’s direction. “He did not understand either. That is why the voice did not choose him. Ramphias thinks himself a strong man. But he is a fool, like you. He lusts for titles and gold and towers. Useless, meaningless baubles! Neither you nor he understood. The screams, the pain, that is what matters! That is what makes us strong.”

  “You wretched fool,” said Kylon, making no effort to hide his disgust. “You think the nagataaru is your partner, but it’s using you. It feeds off pain and despair, and it is using you to collect them. You’re nothing but its hunting dog. Renounce it before it brings you to destruction.”

  Xenarro laughed. “Is that a threat, mighty High Seat?”

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “For what you have done, you have already have earned death. And I will kill you to stop you from what you might do in the future.”

  Xenarro’s laughter redoubled, high and wild and mad. “You can try, great High Seat! You can try. Oh, I am glad you were the one who came to stop me. I have wanted to kill you for years. So did Ramphias. How delightful that he shall watch as I succeed where he failed! You see, I understand what you do not. The voice has made me strong. Stronger than all your titles and towers and wealth…and stronger than all your sorcery. Behold!”

  He thrust out his hand, and purple flames blazed to life around his fingers.

  Kylon sidestepped, expecting that Xenarro to throw a blast of sorcerous power. But shadows swirled around Xenarro’s hand, mingling with the flames, and the fire reshaped itself. A heartbeat later Xenarro held a sword wrought of shadow and black flame, and Kylon sensed the alien power radiating from the weapon, similar to the strange emotion burning in the seething madness of Xenarro’s mind.

  “Do you like it, stormdancer?” said Xenarro. “The sword of the nagataaru. They cannot take physical form, so the voice needs me to wield its blade. And with it I shall kill until New Kyre is a city of corpses, until blood fills the canals.”

  “Try it,” said Kylon, raising his own sword and drawing upon his power. Frost wreathed the blade, so potent a single cut could turn a man’s blood to ice. “Try it and see what happens.”

  Xenarro smirked, and Kylon set himself. “As you will.”

  And Kylon almost died then and there.

  Xenarro shot forward in a blur, so fast Kylon could not follow the movement. He had not thought the demon could give its host supernatural speed and strength. The sword lanced towards Kylon’s heart in a blur of purple flame, and he drew upon his own power and jumped to the right. Xenarro’s thrust missed him by bare inches, and the burning blade struck one of the wooden pillars.

  It passed through the thick wood with ease, leaving a smoking gash in the column. Kylon dodged back as Xenarro twisted, the sword of dark power a blur of purple light. He dared not attempt to parry – Kylon was not sure his blade would hold against the nagataaru’s blade. It would cut his sword in half, and then Kylon would be defenseless before Xenarro.

  “Yes,” hissed Xenarro. “Flee, stormdancer! Flee before me!” His voice grew deeper, harsher, as if some other force was speaking through his throat. “Flee from me! The fear shall add spice to my meal, when I hunt you down at last and gorge myself upon your agony.”

  “For an immortal demon predator,” said Kylon, backing away, “you talk entirely too much.”

  Xenarro snarled and pursued, his sword blurring before him. He was hideously fast, faster than even Kylon could move with the aid of the sorcery of air. Kylon drew on all his power and experience, dodging and ducking, keeping himself one step ahead of the possessed noble. His mind sorted through plans. Could he withdraw to the streets, seek aid? No, he would need the help of another stormdancer to overcome the nagataaru, and men armed with normal steel would be overwhelmed in moments. And if Kylon fled, Xenarro would escape to continue his depredations.

  “Pathetic,” spat Xenarro. “I cannot see why you are so feared. The great Kylon Shipbreaker, brought to bay at last.”

  He launched a furious attack, his sword a storm of purple flame…but the exact same sequence and pattern of attacks he had used before. In fact, Kylon found it easier to dodge this time, since he already knew how Xenarro would attack.

  Xenarro might have made a formidable captain of a Kyracian warship, but he was only a mediocre swordsman, no matter how strong and fast the nagataaru made him. Kylon let himself retreat until his back thumped against the brick wall. Xenarro shrieked in delight, drawing back his sword of flame for the kill.

  Exactly as Kylon guessed he would.

  Kylon dodged, the sword plunging into the wall in a flash of purple light, and struck back. Xenarro jerked away, but not before Kylon’s sword slashed across his ribs. The possessed noble screamed in fury, and Kylon expected him to fall back. Instead he slammed his forehead into Kylon’s nose. Pain exploded through Kylon’s face, and he lost his footing and stumbled against the wall.

  Xenarro raised his sword again, and Kylon tried to move, to regain his balance. But the heavy blow had stunned him, and he could not get his sword up in time.

  He expected the blade of flame to plunge into his chest.

  Instead Xenarro shivered, his eyes going wide with pleasure. Like a man who had just taken a sip of exquisite wine.

  Pain. The nagataaru feasted upon pain…and right now Kylon was in pain.

  He slammed the back of his head against the wall, stars flashing before his eyes.

  Again Xenarro shivered, a faint crooning sound escaping his lips. Kylon staggered, grabbing at the wall with his free hand for balance.

  The fingers of his other hand tightened around his sword hilt.

  “Oh,” murmured Xenarro. “I hadn’t realized. The pain of a man with sorcerous power is so much…so much sweeter, more vigorous. Ah, I shall draw out your death for days…”

  Kylon drew on every last scrap of power he could and hurtled himself forward. Xenarro just had time to squawk in surprise, but it was too late. Kylon’s sword blurred and sheared into Xenarro’s neck. It did not leave as neat of a cut as the nagataaru’s blade, but it did the job nonetheless. Xenarro’s head rolled off his shoulders in a spray of blood. The bastard noble’s headless body staggered for a few steps, and then toppled forward.

  The sword of purple fire vanished in a swirl of smoke.

  As it did, a dark form rose from Xenarro’s corpse. It looked like a hunched, hooded shape of shadow and purple fire, its malevolence and hatred rolling off it like smoke from a flame. Arcane power crackled around it, fell and potent.

  The nagataaru.

  Kylon raised his sword with a shaking hand, wreathing the blade in frost, though he wondered what his power could do against the creature.

  But he did not need to find out. The hooded shadow faded away, and Kylon realized it had been drawn back into the netherworld.

  He let out a long breath and leaned upon his sword, breathing hard, his head pulsing with agony.

  Then he doubled over and threw up.

  Kylon straightened up with a grunt, drawing on the power of water sorcery to strengthen himself. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and wait for the pain to subside. But since he likely had a concussion, lying down was a poor idea.

  And he was still an Archon of the Assembly and High Seat of his House, and he had duties to perform.

  He walked to Ramphias and cut the older man loose.

  “I didn’t know,” wheezed Ramphias as he spat out the gag. “I didn’t know, High Seat, I swear I did not know…”

  Kylon blinked, and then realized that Ramphias would think Kylon believed him in league with Xenarro.

  “He changed,” said Ramphias, his eyes full of fear as he looked at Kylon’s frost-wreathed sword. “Right after the golden fire. I thought him shaken by the carnage, we all were. By the gods of storm and sea, I swear I didn’t know that he had been possessed by that…
that thing…”

  “Shut up,” said Kylon.

  And to his mild astonishment, Ramphias stopped talking. Apparently miracles were indeed possible.

  “Go to the nearest watch tower,” said Kylon, “and send a messenger to the Assembly. They need to know what has happened.” He sheathed his sword. “New Kyre is still under threat.”

  ###

  Kylon recovered from his injuries over the next few days, tended by Thalastre, who acted as if they were far more serious than they really were.

  Still, her care and solicitude were pleasant, but when she was gone from the bedchamber, he walked to the balcony and looked at the distortions in the sky.

  New Kyre was still under threat. Kylon was a soldier, and he had always done his duty…and he would continue to defend his city, as he always had.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading GHOST SWORD. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

  Other books by the author

  The Demonsouled Saga

  MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

  Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

  But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.