Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge (5 page)

Psychokinetic force blasted in all directions, the deck creaking, the sorcery flinging both auxiliaries and ashtairoi to the planks. Kylon drew on the power of water and held his ground, but the blast flung Cimon to the deck. The magus loomed over him, mace raised for the killing blow.

Kylon sprang forward, but once again the master magus reacted with greater speed. The huge mace snapped up and deflected his swing, and the black-armored figure pursued him. Kylon dodged and ducked under the magus’s swings. He did not dare to block the blows. The mace would snap his sword in two like a twig.

His mind flashed back to the fighting in Marsis, to pursuing the blue-eyed Ghost through the dockside district’s alleys. She had outwitted him, and almost killed him. One spy, one woman without sorcery, had almost killed a stormdancer of New Kyre. 

She had turned his strength against him. 

Perhaps Kylon could do the same to the master magus. 

The mace came around in a sideways blow, and Kylon dodged, letting the edge of his blade tap the mace. The sheer force of the blow knocked him off balance, almost ripping the sword from his fingers, and Kylon let himself fall. The magus sneered and stepped forward, his cloak billowing as he raised the mace for a massive overhand blow. 

Kylon drew on his power, and the mace’s black head shot towards him like a falling mountain. 

At the last moment he threw himself to the side. The mace missed him by a few inches and slammed into the deck. The planks shattered…including the plank resting beneath the magus’s armored left boot.

The master magus fell to one knee with a grunt of surprise. He raised his mace, but it was too late. Kylon surged to his feet, all his strength and sorcery driving his blade in a two-handed swing.

The master magus’s head jumped off his head and rolled across the deck, black icicles of frozen blood jutting from the stump of his neck. The armored body fell to the splintered deck with a clang. Kylon stepped back, breathing hard, seeking for additional foes. 

But the fighting was over. 

Most of the auxiliaries had been killed, and the survivors had shed their armor and jumped into the water, hoping to escape to the other Nighmarian ships. The Imperial flagship belonged to the Kyracians. 

But the rest of the quinqueremes had turned to face them.

Cimon got to his feet with groan. “I thank you, lord thalarchon. That magus had the better of me.”

“New Kyre has too few stormdancers to lose even one,” said Kylon. “Lord High Seat?”

“The ship is ours,” said Alcios, blood dripping from his ashtair, his round shield dented. “But little good it will do us.” He pointed his blade over the railing. “The enemy moves to meet us. I suggest we withdraw to the trireme and sink this vessel. Otherwise we shall be overrun.”

Kylon looked up, felt the stirring power in the air. “We will withdraw to the trireme and sink this ship. But there’s no need to flee.”

“Why?” said Alcios.

“Because,” said Kylon. “The day is ours.”

Even as he spoke, the remaining squadrons of the seventh fleet crashed into the line of Imperial ships. Without the magi to disrupt their spells, the stormsingers summoned wind to fill the triremes’ sails, driving them faster than the oarsmen could row unaided. The smaller, faster Kyracian ships avoided the catapults and ballistae of the quinqueremes and rammed into them, their prows tearing gaping holes in the Nighmarian ships. 

One by one, the Imperial warships sank or burned.

###

The battle was over by afternoon.

Kylon stood at the bow, watching his ships maneuver back into formation. Here and there one of the quinqueremes still burned, the hulks slipping below the waves. Other triremes circled through the floating wreckage, looking for loot and picking up survivors. The Imperial sailors and auxiliaries who survived the hundreds of frenzied sharks swimming through the waters would be sold as slaves in New Kyre. 

Kylon remembered how the blue-eyed Ghost burned with rage against slavers. Would she try to kill him now, if she saw what his men did? 

Of course she would. She was a servant of the Emperor…and he had just destroyed the Emperor’s fleet. 

“A great victory, my lord thalarchon,” said Alcios. There was more respect in his voice now. “An utterly crushing victory. The Empire of Nighmar has a handful of warships left in the western sea. We can launch raids into the Cyrican Sea with impunity, perhaps even to the harbor of Malarae itself.” 

“Yes,” said Kylon. “A great victory.” 

Thousands of men dead, and all because Andromache had launched a useless war at the Moroaica’s bidding.

“A great victory,” said Kylon, “but futile.”

Both Cimon and Alcios frowned. “Lord thalarchon?” 

“We have destroyed the fleet, aye,” said Kylon, “but we cannot conquer the Empire. The Nighmarian Empire is vast, and New Kyre is but one city and a dozen colonies. We could destroy a dozen fleets and it would not matter. Commerce is New Kyre’s lifeblood…and the Empire will slowly strangle us.”

“They cannot stop our ships,” said Alcios.

“No,” said Kylon. “But they can deny our merchants entrance to their harbors, and they can persuade others to do the same. The Assembly of New Kyre cannot wage war if there are no funds to pay the oarsmen and the ashtairoi.”

New Kyre needed peace. The Istarish had proven to be useless allies, and now the Empire and New Kyre were stalemated, like two men with death grips on each other. This war was a waste.

But for the defense of his city and the honor of House Kardamnos, Kylon would wage it.

“We will return to New Kyre,” said Kylon. “The fleet must be resupplied, the prisoners sold, and the men have earned some rest. We shall see what new commands the Archons and the Assembly have for us.” 

###

Six days later the seventh fleet returned to New Kyre.

Kylon stood upon the prow and gazed at his home. The city rose at the edge of the water, its fortified walls guarding one of the best natural harbors in the world. Twin colossal statues of armored ashtairoi stood atop towers at either side of the entrance to the harbor, catapults and ballistae waiting at their feet. Past the harbor rose great ziggurats of gleaming stone, home to the noble Kyracian Houses, and beyond them the stone slopes of the Pyramid of the Storm, where the Assembly and the Archons met to govern the Kyracian people. At the feet of the ziggurats and the Pyramid stood the dwellings of low-born Kyracians, of merchants and tradesmen and foreigners. 

New Kyre housed half a million people within its walls, and was the richest city in the world, its vessels trading in every port and nation, its navy the most powerful upon the seas. Yet that wealth and strength were fragile. The city did not control enough farmland to feed itself, and if the Empire convinced the Anshani and the petty lords of the free cities not to sell their grain to the Kyracians, the Empire could strangle New Kyre within a year. 

He wished Andromache were here. She had led House Kardamnos for years, and she would have the foresight and wisdom to find a way out of this trap.

But her folly had created the trap in the first place. 

“Put us into the harbor,” said Kylon. “The men have liberty for three days. The Assembly will have new commands for us by then.”

“My lord thalarchon,” said Alcios, and relayed the commands. 

The trireme pulled alongside one of the great stone quays in the harbor, and Kylon strode ashore. A young slave in the livery of the Assembly itself waited for him on one knee. 

“Lord Kylon,” said the slave, “High Seat of House Kardamnos and thalarchon of the seventh fleet?”

“I am,” said Kylon.

“The Assembly commands your presence at once,” said the slave.

“Good,” said Alcios. “They will congratulate you on your triumph.”

Or the Assembly would execute him. Throughout the history of the city the Assembly had sometimes executed successful generals, lest they try to make themselves tyrants. But Kylon lacked Andromache’s political skill, and he had neither the ability nor the desire to overthrow the Assembly. Most likely the Assembly intended him to return to battle with the seventh fleet.

“Lead the way,” said Kylon.

###

As the sun set, Kylon left the Pyramid of the Storm and strode into the Agora of the Archons. The temples to the gods of Old Kyrace, the gods of storm and sea, lined the Plaza. Few people came here, save during the ceremonies of the nobles and Archons. Most of the city’s population conducted business in the sprawling Agora of Merchants, or amused themselves watching the trials of combat in the gladiatorial rings, a barbarous custom imported from the Fourth Empire.

Cimon and Alcios waited him at the foot of the Pyramid. 

“It seems,” said Kylon, “the Assembly has chosen us for a new task.”

“Battle against the Empire?” said Alcios. 

“No,” said Kylon. “I am now New Kyre’s Lord Ambassador to the city of Catekharon. And you, my lord High Seat, will accompany me as the High Seat of one of the oldest Kyracian noble houses.”

Alcios scowled. “A Lord Ambassador? Why? We crushed the Imperial fleet! What have we done to merit such a…a useless sinecure?”

“It seems,” said Kylon, voice quiet, “that it is not so useless. The Masked Ones of Catekharon claim to have created a weapon of sorcery so potent that its bearer will have dominion over the entire world.”

Alcios’s scowl deepened. “And the Masked Ones expect us to grovel?”

“No,” said Kylon. “They expect us to bid. Apparently they are offering this weapon for sale to the highest bidder…and they have sent emissaries making the same offer to every kingdom and realm upon the earth. Including the Empire of Nighmar.” 

“This is madness,” said Cimon. “If the Masked Ones have such a weapon, why sell it? Why not use it to rule the world themselves?” 

“I don’t know,” said Kylon. “But if the Empire claims the weapon, they will use it to destroy us at once. The Assembly has charged us to keep that weapon from the Empire, regardless of what we must do. Even if it means war with Catekharon.”

Alcios shook his head. “That would be folly. Old Kyrace tried to conquer Catekharon, and our ancestors were utterly defeated.”

“I know,” said Kylon. “But the Empire cannot have that weapon.”

And Kylon would make sure of that. Andromache had started this war…and unless Kylon took action, the war would destroy New Kyre. If the Empire gained the Masked Ones’ weapon of sorcery, if it really existed, the Emperor would certainly destroy New Kyre.

But what would happen if Kylon brought that weapon back to New Kyre?

He remembered how Andromache had sought the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon, power that had destroyed her. Would the Masked Ones’ weapon destroy whoever wielded it?

“Come,” said Kylon. “The embassy leaves tomorrow.”

Chapter 5 - Caravan

The embassy of Lord Titus Iconias left Cyrioch and traveled southwest. 

Caina had not expected the embassy to include so many men. 

Titus Iconias, a stout, scowling man in his forties, rode an impressive-looking stallion at the head of the column. A steady stream of pages followed him, leading remounts for Titus and his entourage. Lord Titus’s personal guards, hard-eyed men in chain mail, surrounded him. Behind them rode Titus’s scribes, seneschals, and a petulant noblewoman Caina suspected served as Lord Titus’s mistress. 

After them marched an entire cohort of the Imperial Guard, men clad in black plate armor and purple cloaks. As an ambassador of the Emperor, Lord Titus was entitled to protection from the Emperor’s own Guard. So the six hundred black-armored soldiers marched in orderly precision around Lord Titus’s men, and the tribune in command sent mounted patrols ranging seeking for any bandits foolish enough to assault the Emperor’s ambassador. 

Hangers-on followed the Imperial Guard. Merchants on their way to Anshan, New Kyre, or the free cities. Other merchants who hoped to sell their goods to the men of the Imperial Guard. And Halfdan, disguised as the master merchant Basil Callenius of the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers. Caina traveled with him as his daughter Anna Callenius, while Corvalis took the name of Cormark, acting as a mercenary Basil hired to protect his merchandise and his daughters. 

That Caina fully intended to share a blanket with Corvalis during the journey only added verisimilitude to the disguise. It was not uncommon for a master merchant’s guard to seduce the master merchant’s daughter.

She smiled at the thought. 

Claudia took the name of Irene Callenius, Basil’s older daughter. She played the part of the spoiled merchant’s daughter very well, clad in a rich green gown chosen to match her eyes and ordering anyone in her path with arrogant hauteur. 

“She is better,” murmured Corvalis to Caina, “at playing a part than I thought she would be.”

“Aye,” said Caina, though she wondered how much of it was a masquerade. Claudia had been a magus. Surely she was accustomed to giving orders. Sometimes Caina wondered if Corvalis’s opinion of Claudia was correct, or if the years of pain spent trying to rescue her had caused him to idealize her. 

But that was Halfdan’s concern, not hers. 

Halfdan himself drove a wagon laden with goods and supplies, surrounded by a ring of thirty grim Sarbian mercenaries in their sand-colored robes. Their leader, a towering man named Saddiq, was a Ghost. He was one of Marzhod’s lieutenants, and Caina admired his level head. 

Of course, Caina had rescued him after Nicasia and the Defender had turned him to stone, so Saddiq admired her, too. 

In the end, over a thousand men marched south towards the low mountains dividing the fertile coastlands of Cyrica from the harsh land of the Sarbian desert. They passed hundreds of plantations growing wheat and tea and rice on land owned by Lord Khosrau Asurius or another powerful Cyrican noble. Caina saw countless slaves toiling among the crops, men from Caeria and the Szaldic provinces and Istarinmul and Anshan and Alqaarin, men kidnapped from every nation under the sun. 

Gods, but Caina hated slavers. 

“So many of them,” said Claudia. They sat in Halfdan’s wagon, Corvalis striding alongside them. Caina would have preferred to walk, but the haughty daughter of a wealthy merchant would not walk. Later, she could find an excuse to stretch her legs. 

“Aye,” said Caina. “It was part of the treaty that ended the War of the Fourth Empire. The Cyricans wanted to keep their slaves in exchange for rejoining the Empire. The Emperor was in no position to refuse, so he accepted. And this was allowed to continue.”

“I see why you oppose it so strongly,” said Claudia, staring at a Szaldic man naked but for an orange kilt wrapped around his waist. The layers of whip scars covering his back flexed as he walked. “This is vile. Men should not be chained and driven as beasts.” 

“It is the way of the world,” said Corvalis. “The strong do as they like, and the weak suffer as they must. Or are turned into weapons to serve the strong.” He looked utterly weary as he said it, and Caina wanted to take his hands. But it would not do for Master Basil’s daughter to show affection to Master Basil’s guards.

“Nevertheless, it is still wrong,” said Claudia. “It ought to be stopped.”

Caina felt her opinion of Claudia rise a notch.

Claudia sighed. “I only wish the high magi of the Magisterium could be made to see reason. They could take the nobles in hand and force them to end these corrupt practices. The magi could do so much good for the Empire.”

“Then,” said Caina, keeping her voice mild, “you think the magi should rule the Empire?” 

Corvalis shot her a look.

“No, of course not,” said Claudia. “Certainly not with men like my…”

Halfdan cleared his throat.

“With men like the First Magus ruling the Magisterium,” said Claudia. “But if better men governed the magi, the Magisterium could shepherd the Empire, could guide the nobles and the commoners to be better than they are.”

“To force others,” said Caina, “to do as the magi will?”

She had heard similar speeches from the magi before.

“Yes,” said Claudia. “But only in the name of the greater good.” 

“Pardon,” said Caina. “I need to stretch my legs.”

She dropped from the wagon seat and walked away without another word. 

###

Thankfully, Caina and Claudia had separate tents, so that night Corvalis was able to sneak into Caina’s. 

After they finished, Caina rolled off him and flopped against the blanket, her skin beaded with sweat. She rested her head against Corvalis’s chest as he caught his breath.

“I have taken,” he said at last, wiping sweat from his forehead, “many journeys across the eastern Empire. Never have I had something so pleasant to look forward to at the end of the day’s traveling.”

Caina laughed. “Nor I. I have been to Marsis in the west, Rasadda in the east, and Cyrioch in the south…and you are right. This is more pleasant by far than a cold blanket at the end of the day.”

“Then you are better traveled than I,” said Corvalis. “I have never been farther west than Malarae.” 

“I’ve never been to Artifel,” said Caina, “nor to the northern provinces.”

Corvalis snorted. “You haven’t missed much. The Magisterium’s Motherhouse dominates Artifel, and the magi rule the city in all but name. The northern provinces are nothing but cold forests and mountains. Not many towns. The Ulkaari and the Iazns keep to their villages and don’t go out at night for fear of the things that haunt the forests.”

She traced one of the tattoos spiraling over the muscles of his chest. “Where you got these from an Ulkaari witchfinder.”

“Aye,” said Corvalis. “The Ulkaari hate sorcery. Too many creatures in the forest. Sometimes Iazn shamans call up beast-demons and invite them into their bodies to transform themselves into monsters. And the Magisterium has hardly endeared itself to the people of the northern provinces.”

“Too many magi eager to do things to them for their own good, I suppose,” said Caina, “much like Claudia.”

She felt Corvalis tense, and regretted the words. 

“She means well,” said Corvalis at last. “They are not just empty words for her. She used her powers to aid people in Artifel. Warding grain warehouses against rats, using her spells to help heal.”

“They all say that,” said Caina. “Every magus that goes bad says…” She made herself stop. “No. Let’s not argue about this. Not now.” 

“Very well,” said Corvalis.

They lay in silence.

“That ring,” said Corvalis at last. His hand slid down her shoulders to where the gold signet ring rested on its cord against her chest. “You never take it off. Who did it belong to?”

“Jealous?” said Caina.

Corvalis smirked. “If you are not as satisfied as you look right now…well, then you are a better actress than any I have ever met.” 

Caina laughed. “A fine argument.” Her laughter faded away. “It belonged to my father.” 

“Ah,” said Corvalis. “Then you wear it to remember.”

“Yes,” said Caina. “My mother murdered him.” She sighed. “She was an initiate of the Magisterium, but they expelled her because she wasn’t strong enough to become a full magus. So she made a pact with a renegade necromancer named Maglarion. My father found an old Maatish scroll, and my mother sold it, and me, to Maglarion in exchange for his teachings. When he found out, my father tried to stop her. So she wiped his mind, and Maglarion killed him and used his blood for his spells.” 

“Maglarion?” said Corvalis. 

“You knew him?” said Caina. 

“I knew of him,” said Corvalis. “He was a legend among the high magi. He had some sort of pact with the magi, teaching them in exchange for service.”

“It was a trick,” said Caina, remembering that dark day when Maglarion had almost killed everyone in Malarae. “He would have killed them along with everyone else.” 

Again Corvalis paused. 

“Then…you killed Maglarion?” he said.

Caina nodded, her hair sliding over his chest.

He laughed. 

Caina looked at him. “It wasn’t funny.”

“No,” said Corvalis. “But, gods…that was three years ago?” Caina nodded. “That was right before Claudia convinced me to leave the Kindred. My father was furious when someone killed Maglarion. I’d never seen him so angry.” He laughed again. “And all the time it was you.” 

“Well,” said Caina, pushing aside the memories. “I am pleased I could discomfort him on your behalf.” 

“Basil praised you,” said Corvalis, “but if you killed a man like Maglarion, then he was too modest by far.”

“I was lucky,” murmured Caina, resting her head back on his chest. She had defeated powerful foes…but had she been lucky. If she had been a half-second slower, if she had been a touch less clever, then she would have been killed.

Along with millions of others.

Someday, she knew, she would be killed. Someday she would be too slow, someday she would face a foe she could not outwit. 

But not today.

“Let’s not talk about the magi,” said Caina, “or about killing. I am weary of them both.”

“I’ll have to go,” said Corvalis, “before dawn. Else there will be talk.”

“Let them talk,” said Caina, smiling. “A mercenary seducing his employer’s daughter? What better disguise do we have?”

They drifted to sleep.

###

Dreams filled Caina’s mind as she slept. 

She often had nightmares. She had seen too many terrible things not to have nightmares. Sometimes she saw them over and over again, or her memories blurred together in a scattered haze of twisted images.

And occasionally she dreamed of the Moroaica.

Caina stood in a field of gloomy gray mist, wearing a blue gown with black trim. Six paces away stood a Szaldic woman of about twenty, clad in a crimson gown, her hair and eyes black. She looked young, younger even than Caina, but her eyes were heavy with age and power. 

She called herself Jadriga, but the Szaldic legends named her the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of terror and might.

And her spirit was trapped within Caina. 

“You,” said Caina. 

“So I am,” said Jadriga. 

“What is it now?” said Caina. “Trying to convince me to join your great work, whatever it is? Or to warn me about another of your disciples?” She frowned. “The Masked One that attacked me in Cyrioch. He was one of your disciples.”

“No,” said Jadriga. “He is an old, old enemy of mine. I’m surprised he found you. Still, I should not have underestimated him.”

“Then what is it?” said Caina.

The Moroaica stared at her for a long time, and to Caina’s astonishment, sadness flickered over the pale face.

“Child of the Ghosts,” murmured Jadriga. “You should beware love. Betrayal is a blade that cuts deeper than any other.”

She gestured, and the dream dissolved into mist.

###

Two days south of Cyrioch, Lord Titus’s column crossed Cyrica’s low mountains and entered the Sarbian desert.

And for the first time in her twenty-one years, Caina left the Empire of Nighmar. 

Cyrica had been hot but wet. The desert was dry as a centuries-old bone. The road led southwest, the arid wastes stretching in all directions, bleak and empty. 

“If this is your homeland,” said Caina to Saddiq, “I understand why your people seek employment elsewhere.” 

Saddiq chuckled, his voice a basso rumble. “The desert is a harsh mother, mistress, and she raises harsh sons. There are only two things to do in the desert. We can fight each other, or we fight outlanders in exchange for pay. One is more profitable than the other. But when we are bored, we fight each other.”

“I wonder if the Catekhari sent an ambassador to the Sarbian tribes,” said Caina, “and offered to sell them the weapon.”

Saddiq’s white teeth flashed in his dark face. “More likely that my kinsmen would agree to purchase the weapon…only to ambush the Masked Ones, steal the weapon, and use it to extort tribute from the Empire, Anshan, and Istarinmul.”

“Do you think the tribesmen will attack us?” said Caina.

“I doubt it,” said Saddiq. “There are too many of us, and the tribes prefer easier prey. But if they choose the path of folly, we shall simply have to teach them wisdom.” 

Saddiq proved correct. From time to time to the scouts saw Sarbian horsemen in the distance, but the tribesmen always moved one. 

Four days later the caravan crossed the desert and entered the borders of Anshan. 

###

“This is egregious,” grumbled Lord Titus. 

“Think of it, my lord,” said Halfdan, “not as an escort, but as an honor guard to see you safely through the Shahenshah’s lands.” 

Caina watched the exchange. Halfdan stood alongside Titus’s horse, and Lord Titus seemed to know that Halfdan was a Ghost. Certainly he seemed more willing to accept a jewel merchant’s advice than Caina would have expected from a lord of high Nighmarian birth. Corvalis stood a discreet distance behind Halfdan, hands near his weapons.