The Grey Ghost: Book Two of the Archaic Ring Series

by Reed R. Stevens

  Not far from the kingdom of Verdure’s southern border, a terrific thunderstorm was ravaging the expansive foothills that the region was known for. Vast forests of towering trees connected all horizons of the hilly landscape, millions of branches whipping about wildly as if in a collective effort to shake off the wind.

  Overlooking the sea of shuffling leaves was a great range of rocky mountains. They gave off a barren impression, with sparsely a copse of starved coniferous trees jutting out amongst the countless rock faces. Large storm clouds filled most of the sky as a thick downpour of rain began to mix with the pelting wind, which enveloped the entire range in a petrifying storm that stole away the last light of the setting sun.

  Deep into these unforgiving mountains, a large group of men and women were idling near one of the smaller peaks, atop a large plateau boxed in by three broad walls of rock that sat at least a league above the lower forests. Up here, the gravity of the storm was much more intense than in the distant foothills. The rain easily slipped through the exposed enclosure and left all of the hooded people drenched to their skin, at least the ones that didn’t care to cover themselves in a layer of inner essence to repel the moisture. Everyone wore the same attire; robes of a muddled black, draped over by an obscuring heavy cloak.

  The plateau was battered by winds strong enough to tip over a regular horse, the rain growing colder and more unrelenting by the second. Giant branches of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder echoed throughout the mountaintops with enough strength to deafen an average person.

  Not a single of the hooded figures appeared bothered by the abysmal weather, most of them keeping to themselves with reserved looks on their shaded faces as the storm continued to grow ever fiercer. Time passed and a particularly dazzling vein of lightning cut across the sky, alongside a sonorous crack thunder. Three new figures appeared at the fringes of the plateau, though nobody paid them any attention, at least on the surface.

  An old man stood quietly along the wall opposite the three newcomers, his short hair coloured a strong grey with traces of walnut brown. He sent them a subtle gaze, his eyes a deep shade of amber. Kanis? I wonder if he’s been in contact with Lord Zaro. Dozens of people were still missing, though if they still hadn’t showed up at this point then they were unlikely to make an appearance. When will the Great Elder arrive?

  Who could have been entrusted to oversee the most important operation in the opening of the sect master’s radical plan? He hoped things wouldn’t be too far out of his expectations, for he was getting on in his years and didn’t enjoy surprises nearly as much as he used to.

  Baelin Marx, the eighty-eighth elder of the Bloodhand Sect, had celebrated his hundred and first birthday just a week ago, at a countryside estate that he’d inherited from his late master. His teacher had directly seized it from a Mourish noble over a hundred years ago during the Acquisition. Despite his age, his tall frame was well-postured and robust, his hair still containing a fair amount of the colour that he missed so dearly. If he looked after himself properly then he would have a good chance at seeing his second century, and would probably retain his current appearance for the next fifty or so years. Still, it was a pity that his younger days were behind him.

  Every person here was an elder of considerable reputation, though Baelin could only count two people that outranked him. The rest averaged in the lower hundreds.

  Like all the others, he waited patiently amid the furious storm until a flash of lightning revealed a middle-aged man standing upright at the centre of the plateau, a casual expression on his smoothly shaven face. His rich robes were a marriage of deep scarlet and heavy black, the red hand embroidered onto his chest encased in a thick layer of golden trim that signified his status as a great elder of the sect.

  To think it would be that punk, Marcus. Youngest of the great elders, he was a low-key and calculating individual known for his unyielding loyalty to the sect and his direct relation to the sect master as a member of the same clan. He became the centre of attention as soon as he appeared, and most of the murmurs abruptly ceased with the others soon to follow.

  Marcus took one look at the people around him. “You all know why you’re here, so let’s get right to it. When I call out your team number, simply respond with ‘success’ or ‘failure.’ Anything else is unacceptable. Am I clear?”

  The chaotic sounds from the storm overrode the silence that would have set in due to the lack of response.

  An oppressive sensation bore down on Baelin and those around him, all of them struggling to remain on their feet as the rocky ground began to crack and shatter beneath them.

  A sinister light twinkled in Marcus’s dark eyes as the pressure abruptly faded. “Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Lord Elder!” Voices echoed throughout the plateau, curt and concise.

  Baelin had been curious as to how the surrounding elders would react after learning that they were to be under this man’s command for the foreseeable future. After experiencing the weight of that aura firsthand, he was convinced that the middle-aged man’s authority had been firmly cemented in place.

  Marcus was the youngest person in attendance by a long shot, and popular opinion throughout the sect was that he’d been given his position purely based upon his relation to the sect master. A mere two years had passed since he’d been elevated to the ninth seat of the Sect Assembly, subsequently gaining the title of Great Elder, during which time he’d shirked his new duties and locked himself away in closed-door training in pursuit of a critical breakthrough. This was likely his first public appearance since going into seclusion, and Baelin had to admit that his aura had grown by quite a great degree.

  “Then let us be on with it,” said Marcus, suddenly businesslike. “We’ll start at the thirty-ninth team and work our way down to the first. Team thirty-nine, report.”

  A grey-haired elder stepped forward and drew back the hood of his cloak to reveal a triangular, pockmarked face marred by a lifetime’s worth of scars. There were two other men behind him, similar in age and stature. Shooting them a quick glance, the elder turned to face Marcus with silent confidence. “Success.” He cupped his hands together and dipped his head in solute, then withdrew back to his companions.

  Marcus gave a curt nod of approval. “Team thirty-eight.”

  A tall woman stepped forward, her shoulders broad and her body muscular, with inky black hair that was styled short like a man’s. There was a weakness to her step that betrayed unseen injuries, and she stood alone at the edge of the crowd. “Failure.”

  “Team thirty-seven.”

  “Success.”

  “Team thirty-six.”

  “Failure.”

  “Team thirty-five. Team thirty-five? Ah, a failure, then. On with it, team thirty-four.”

  As the string of reports continued, Baelin was taken aback by the results of the operation. Elders had seemingly been picked at random and formed into teams regardless of their political alignments within the sect. They were assigned targets of high status within the kingdom of Verdure, several elders to a team. Most people had felt that the majority of these objectives could be taken care of by a single elder, and that assigning any more was just distracting them from the internal struggles that threatened to dismantle the sect from within. In the end, however, only one in every three teams managed to complete their mission.

  “Team four.”

  Finally it was Baelin’s turn to step up.

  “Success.”

  He held his breath. Seven members strong, his squad had been one of the largest, not a weak man among them. Their target had been the lofty nobleman who’d lorded over the entire province of Flora for the past three decades, a dear cousin to the king. Initially, his squad hadn’t worried even for a second that they might face any real danger during the mission. Who would have thought that there would be ten bodyguards at the peak of the Integration stage guarding their target from the shadows? While they succeeded in the end, it had come at the cost of six el
ders. Since when had any of the nearby kingdoms been able to produce experts that could face off against an elder of their sect?

  Marcus gave his deepest nod yet. “Team three.”

  It came as no surprise when nobody stepped forward, for everyone present had already noted the absence of the eight-man team. As a matter of fact, the first, second, and third teams were all absent. It wasn’t hard for Baelin to guess their respective targets; King Oberun would be the first, followed by the Markham Vasalus, the Merchant King, and General Vance Housel, the commander of their military. Considering the difficulty that Baelin’s target had posed, he could understand why they had suffered significant losses this time around. They had underestimated the kingdom of Verdure.

  Now that the results of the operation had been brought to light, everyone waited patiently for Marcus’s orders. His face was a sheet of ice, cold and uninviting, difficult to read. “Return south and report to the sect master. I won’t be the one to inform him of such incompetence.”

  Without waiting for their reply, Marcus leapt from the rocky ledge and disappeared into the raging storm. Nobody moved in the following seconds, not until an incredibly powerful voice blotted out an overhead crack of thunder.

  “DO NOT LINGER!”

  The crowd scattered in the same manner as their commander had done, Baelin waiting a few minutes before taking a back route down the mountain. He tailed a certain elder with masterful silence, an easy task in the din of the storm. It didn’t take long for them to reach the base of the mountain, at which point he decided to reveal himself to Kanis, whose cultivation was six entire levels beneath his.

  The moment that he let his aura spread outward, the cloaked figure up ahead came to a sudden stop and turned around with a guarded gaze. “Baelin? I figured it would be you.” Though he stood amid a heavy downpour, both Kanis’s short hair and fine robes appeared entirely dry beneath his cloak, the rain bouncing to the side whenever it came within a finger’s length of his body.

  The winds in the lower forests were much lighter than they had been up on that rocky plateau, though here the downpour was much heavier. Many of the fatter droplets fell with enough strength to tear the leaves from their branches, and every now and then they’d hear the crash of an old tree topping over from somewhere nearby.

  “Kanis, I hope that I find you well.” Baelin gave him a modest nod. “Before anything else, I’d like to congratulate you on occupying the four hundred and thirtieth seat.”

  “Humph, shall we forego any pointless formalities? You’re here to ask about your grandson, yes?”

  “Not quite, I was wondering if you had heard any word from Lord Zaro. I’ve been trying to meet with him for the past week yet he never seems to be around. If that man’s anything, then he’s difficult to get into contact with.”

  Kanis stared down his crooked nose and pinched at his dark goatee, taking a moment to think. “It’s been the same for me. It seems that he’s being sent into the surrounding lands on unknown business more often lately. What’s more, our faction has lost four elders in just two days.”

  “The pressure’s coming from those among the lower seats. They’re wary of somebody rising to fill the tenth seat that’s been vacant all these years.”

  “What else would you expect from them? Lord Sect Master is nearing the end of his life. The last thing they want is another competitor to enter the stage at the most crucial time, as Marcus has done.” Kanis stared up at the stormy sky and then spat on the ground. “Even if Lord Zaro attains the status of great elder, nothing will change within the sect so long as those four remain in power.”

  Baelin came to stand beside the shrewd-looking man, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. “I’ve often wondered why you chose to follow Lord Zaro when you make no effort to hide the fact that you don’t believe in his cause.”

  Kanis kept his eyes skyward. “Am I wrong? As our generation passes, the young ones will rise up to take our place. It’s then that Zaro’s ambitions will die. Just look at those grandsons of his, and yours too. What do you think will happen when they inherit his ‘cause?’ Do you think little Braxis will stick with Zaro’s faction after you die?”

  “I’d like to hope that he will come around.”

  Baelin looked up at the sky as well, and the two men kept to themselves for a minute as they watched a particularly aweing lightshow through gaps in the leaves above.

  “Zaro’s grandson contacted me with a sound transference talisman just before the meeting was convened. He found the one who killed his younger brother, in a merchant caravan heading east from the city of Greenwall. He’s heading off to pursue them as we speak.”

  “Ah, so Braxis should be well on his way to the sect by now.”

  Crossing his arms, Kanis snorted. “Do you plan on rushing back to receive him?”

  Baelin thought about his only grandson, a quiet young man with a fancy for solitude. In any other life he would have been a normal person, but due to his harsh upbringing he inevitably came to harbour a much darker, sinister personality. He knew that Braxis didn’t have any sense of attachment to him. Even so, I will go check up on him.

  As Baelin remained quiet, Kanis finally looked down from the tempestuous skyscape, at his outstretched hands. Rain pattered against his skin in the sudden absence of the inner essence that had just been outlining his body. “Highborn, lowborn, I’ve killed many of each. Who among those summoned today can’t say the same? Our hands are dirty, Baelin, stained a shade that only devils can see.”

  “Do you forget yourself? This isn’t the place to have that conversation.” What had come over him?

  “Is it so easy to hear through this storm?” Kanis turned to go, his body once again warding off raindrops with the use of inner essence. “You know how the sect has been able to maintain the same policies since the Acquisition.”

  “Your point?”

  “War is inevitable. Zaro will use this opportunity to push for the tenth seat. As members of his faction, we’ll have to earn him favour in the coming conflicts. Only then will he be able to push for the sect master’s position when the old man finally dies.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “This is our opportunity to prove our loyalty to the sect.” His eyes narrowed. “We must go about this conflict in a way that will earn us their absolute trust. I say this to remind you of how we approached the occupation of Mour, and not to forget your obligations to the faction when that time comes.”

  Baelin remained quiet, angry at first, though he took a moment to ponder the strange direction that the conversation had taken. “We haven’t interacted much outside of faction meetings. What brought about this lecture?”

  “For Zaro’s plan to have any chance of success, we’re going to have to turn a blind eye to what happens to our disciples. To all of them. Most likely, they’ll all be among the first wave.”

  Understanding what his associate was getting at, Baelin scoffed. “I assure you, your worries are unfounded. It’s yourself that you should be concerned with. You still have three grandsons remaining, do you not?”

  “After last night’s operations, I don’t. Remember my words. We can’t afford you jeopardizing the mission due to any delusional attachments you might have for your estranged grandson. Don’t forget what we are and what we’re trying to do.”

  Kanis leapt into the air and disappeared from sight, but Baelin wasn’t simply about to just let him leave after he had talked down to him in such a manner. He quickly followed after him but was surprised when he couldn’t detect a single trace of his colleague amid the dense woodland. Just when he was about to give the area a detailed probe, a small talisman floated down from the sky as if delivered by one of the many violent bursts of wind.

  Baelin reached out for the slip of parchment and dispelled the layer of inner essence that protected it from the rain, immediately covering it in his own. A sound transference talisman? This energy…it belongs to Brecht? His gaze penetrated throughout
the stormy night as he finally understood how Kanis had come to be a seated elder despite his lower level of cultivation. He must be using a technique to mask his capabilities, one that even I can’t see through.

  Baelin ran along the breadth of the mountain range as the landscape grew increasingly animated under the effects of the weather. He deposited the sound transference talisman into his spatial bag, intent on using it once he reached the Verdurian lowlands.

  Other Works by Reed R. Stevens

  The Archaic Ring Series

  Tribes of Venara

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VZXGDL7

  Short Stories

  “The Importance of Being Earnesto”

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QKX4XWK