Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge (9 page)

But he felt the woman’s icy emotions.

“And many more men died,” said Titus, “when your city and the Padishah of Istarinmul betrayed our treaties and attacked Marsis. Many men, and many women and children, as well.”

“Yes,” said Kylon, still looking at the merchant’s black-haired daughter. “I was there. The plan was my sister’s, for both she and Rezir Shahan sought to seize Marsis in one bold stroke. Yet they failed and are dead. And now the rest of us are left to fight the war they began.” 

“You sound almost as if you disapprove,” said Titus, glancing over his shoulder to see what Kylon was staring at. A brief smirk crossed his face. No doubt he thought Kylon infatuated.

“May I be blunt, my lord?” said Kylon, not waiting for a reply. “This war benefits neither of us.”

Alcios scowled and cleared his throat. 

“A curious thing to say,” said Titus, “given that you have won most of the victories.”

Kylon shrugged. “To what avail? The Empire is vast. We cannot conquer it. And New Kyre is far from the Empire, and your fleets cannot reach us. We bleed each other to little gain.”

For a moment Titus appeared surprised. “I had not expected to hear that, Kylon of House Kardamnos. You speak more wisdom than I expected. Perhaps I shall have glad tidings to bring back to my Emperor.” He scowled. “Unless the weapon of the Masked Ones destroys us all.” 

“Yes,” said Kylon. “That.”

The black-haired woman looked at him.

It was her. She looked nothing like the exhausted, sweaty, bloody, black-clad figure he had seen in Marsis. But he recognized those cold blue eyes.

She was the Ghost. 

“If you will forgive me, my lord,” said Kylon, “may I speak to one of your followers? The merchant and I have had dealings in the past.”

“What?” said Titus. “Yes, of course.”

“My lord High Seat, my lord stormdancer,” said Kylon, “please keep Lord Titus company while I am gone.” 

They blinked at him in astonishment, but nodded. 

Kylon stepped before the merchant, who made a deep bow. The Ghost watched him without expression, and the lean man in chain mail glared at him. 

“My lord High Seat,” said the merchant, “you do me honor. I am Basil Callenius, a master merchant of the Imperial Collegium of jewelers. Once peace returns to our two nations, I would be most honored to offer you my wares.” He gestured at the women. “These are my daughters, Irene and Anna.” 

“Thank you,” said Kylon. Undoubtedly the merchant was a Ghost himself. “I wish to speak with your daughter Anna for a moment.” He hesitated. “She…knew my late sister.”

Basil looked at the Ghost.

“Of course, Father,” she said, her expression calm. “It would be my honor.”

“Please,” said Kylon. “Walk with me.”

###

Caina said nothing as she walked with Kylon along the far wall of the Hall of Assembly. Some of the other ambassadors shot them amused looks. No doubt they thought Kylon infatuated or seeking an easy romantic conquest. 

She knew better. 

He looked different. It had been only a year since the attack on Marsis, but Kylon looked older, his expression grimmer. 

Would he try to kill her for what had happened to Andromache?

“Did you find him?” said Kylon at last in Kyracian.

“Who?” said Caina in the same language. 

“The boy,” said Kylon. “The son of your friend.” She saw his sword hand curl into a fist. “The boy you defeated my sister and slew Rezir Shahan to save.”

“I did,” said Caina. “He lives with his mother and father in Malarae now, and is apprenticed in his father’s foundry.” She paused for a moment. “His father is the Champion of Marsis.” 

Kylon’s response was half-laugh, half-sigh. “Indeed? The gods have peculiar humor. You defeated Andromache and slew Rezir to save the boy, and I assume his father slew Kleistheon to save his son. Had that boy and his father been elsewhere, Marsis would have fallen.”

“Perhaps,” said Caina. “Yet I didn’t defeat Andromache. She defeated herself.”

“I know,” said Kylon. They stopped, the glow from the metal throwing harsh shadows over his face. “I could not blame you. Or myself. Taking vengeance upon either of us would have been pointless.” He took a deep breath. “Andromache…made her own decisions. And those decisions led her to ruin.”

“So instead,” said Caina, “you decided to take vengeance upon the Empire.”

“By destroying the fleets?” said Kylon. “Andromache started the war, but it has outlived her. Your Empire would destroy New Kyre if it could, Ghost. You know that as well as I do. So even though Andromache started the war for nothing, I will fight to defend my city from destruction.” 

“That is why you are here, isn’t it?” said Caina. “To obtain the weapon for New Kyre.”

Kylon scowled. “If I must. And that is the same reason you are here.”

“No,” said Caina. “I will destroy the weapon, if I can.”

“Rather than give it to your Emperor?” said Kylon. “If it is as powerful as the Masked Ones claim, the Emperor could use it to destroy all of his enemies.”

“Andromache thought the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon would her destroy all of her enemies,” said Caina, “and you saw how that ended.”

Kylon said nothing for a moment, and Caina shot a glance over his shoulder. She saw Halfdan speaking with some Istarish merchants as Yaramzod and Callatas conversed, but Corvalis was watching her. Probably ready to aid her if Kylon attacked. 

She appreciated the gesture, but Kylon could cut down both her and Corvalis in a matter of seconds. 

“Perhaps you are right,” said Kylon. “It would be better if the weapon was destroyed. But you and I will be the only ones to think that. Certainly the others will do what is necessary to claim it.” He took a deep breath. “I cannot allow the Empire to have the weapon. Not for any reason. Because if the Empire takes it, New Kyre will be destroyed.” 

“If,” said Caina, “the weapon truly exists.”

Kylon titled his head to the side. “You think it does not?”

“The Masked Ones must have something,” said Caina. “Else why summon us here? But if they have such a powerful weapon, why sell it? Why not keep it?”

“I do not know,” said Kylon. “I will think on what you have said, Ghost.”

He walked back to the other Kyracians. Caina watched him for a moment, and then returned to Halfdan and the others. 

“Who was that?” said Corvalis.

“Kylon Shipbreaker,” said Halfdan. 

Corvalis’s eyes got a little wider. “You know him?”

Caina nodded. “We tried to kill each other in Marsis.” She looked at Halfdan. “We might be able to convince him to help destroy the weapon.”

Claudia frowned. “A Kyracian stormdancer?”

“He has seen firsthand what too much arcane power can do to a woman,” said Caina.  

She expected Claudia to take offense at that, but Claudia had stopped paying attention. She stared at the entrance to the Hall of Assembly, all the blood draining from her face. Caina turned, her hands twitching towards her weapons.

Men in black robes with red sashes strode through the door, flanked by soldiers in ornate black armor. Their breastplates bore the sigil of an opened book with a lidless eye resting upon the pages. 

The sigil of the Imperial Magisterium.

“The magi?” said Corvalis. “What are they doing here?”

That made no sense. The Empire had already sent an embassy with Lord Titus. But the Magisterium considered itself the rightful ruler of the Empire. And if the Magisterium could get its hands on the weapon of the Masked Ones, Caina had no doubt the First Magus would use it to seize control of the Empire.

“Oh, gods,” said Claudia. “Father is here.” 

Corvalis said nothing, but Caina saw the muscles around his eyes tighten.

A fat man in a black robe walked in the midst of the magi, a purple sash around his waist. Even from a distance, Caina saw the family resemblance. The man had the same green eyes and blond hair as Corvalis and Claudia. And he had the same arrogant, cruel expression as Callatas and Yaramzod.

The same utter certainty of his own arcane might.

For the first time Caina looked at Decius Aberon, the First Magus of the Imperial Magisterium.

“Irene, Cormark,” said Halfdan. “We’ve made a mistake. We should have expected the Magisterium to send its own embassy. Get back to our rooms, now, and stay there until I send for you. If the First Magus sees you, we’re…”

The doors to the Hall of Assembly boomed shut, a half-dozen Redhelms standing before the exit.

“My lords and ladies!” said a dry voice, amplified through a spell. “All our guests have arrived, and the doors to the Hall have been sealed! We can now deliberate in privacy…and show you the weapon that will remake the world forever.” 

Chapter 8 - A Demonstration

Caina turned, as did everyone else in the Hall.

A Masked One in a white linen robe stood atop one of the bridges over the river of steel, face hidden behind an ornate jade mask. Unlike the other Masked Ones, the Sage wore a golden collar wrought in the shape of falcon’s wings around his neck. Near him stood a half-dozen other Sages, silvery rods in hand.

Caina saw Khaltep Irzaris standing at the foot of the bridge, watching the Masked Ones. 

“I bid you welcome,” said the Masked One with the golden collar, “in the name of the Sages of the Scholae of Catekharon. I am Zalandris, the Speaker of the Scholae, and it is my task to treat without outsiders. By custom, those who attain the degree of Sage do not remove their masks in public. But since this is not the custom in your lands, I will accommodate your mores.” 

His tone was patronizing. Like a stern teacher condescending to supervise a game among his students. He drew aside his mask, revealing a thin, lined face with a wispy white beard. He looked like a kindly grandfather, and his expression lacked the hardened cruelty Caina had seen in the First Magus and Yaramzod and the others. 

Decius Aberon stepped forward, gazing at the unmasked Sage with hard eyes. 

“You might be wondering,” said Zalandris, “why we have invited you here. The Scholae has only rarely interfered in the affairs of the outside world. We have promised you a weapon of sorcery, a weapon so potent that its wielder shall dominate the world.”

Silence answered him, the lords and sorcerers glancing at each other. 

“Perhaps you thought this a trick or some sort of game,” said Zalandris. “I assure you it is not. The weapon is very real. But we do not sell it for motives of crass profit or mere political power. Rather, we sell it to you for a higher purpose. This weapon will end all war forever.”

Caina blinked in surprise.

“This weapon is so terrible,” said Zalandris, “so potent, that it will put an end to all war. No more will men lift swords and spears against each other. Fear of this weapon will ensure that peace reigns over the world.”

Caina stared at the Sage, incredulous. She had considered theory after theory to explain why the Masked Ones would create such a weapon and then sell it. A ploy to conquer the world? A trick to kill the most powerful sorcerers of neighboring lands?

She had never seriously considered that the Masked Ones were naive.

“These are bold claims, I know,” said Zalandris, “but you shall see the truth of them with your own eyes. Come this way, please.”

He left the bridge and strode deeper into the Tower of Study, and the various ambassadors and sorcerers followed him. 

###

Zalandris led them to the balcony of a smaller hall. No molten rivers of steel flowed through this hall, and dozens of sorcerous lanterns hung suspended on chains from the ceiling. Looking over the balcony’s ornate stone railing, Caina saw dozens men in ragged clothing standing forty feet below. All of them carried weapons and shields, and looked at each other with wary expressions. 

At the other end of the hall stood a peculiar metal statue. 

The thing was twenty feet tall and had been crafted in the shape of a warrior clad head-to-toe in plate armor. Red plate armor, in fact, which explained who had purchased Irzaris’s shipments of red Nhabati iron. Hundreds of Maatish hieroglyphs adorned the statue. The thing must have weighed tons, and Caina wondered if the floor had been reinforced to support the weight.

She felt a potent aura of sorcerous power around the statue. 

Zalandris strode to the railing, and a silence fell over the ambassadors. The ragged men looked up, fear on their faces. 

“Gods,” whispered Caina.

“What is it?” said Corvalis. The First Magus and his party stood twenty yards further down the balcony. As far as Caina could tell, neither the First Magus nor any of the magi had noticed Corvalis and Claudia.

“He’s going to use the weapon on them,” said Caina. “This is…this is a demonstration.”

“My lords and ladies!” said Zalandris. “Look below you. The Redhelms arrested these forty-seven men for capital crimes. Some for murder, some for kidnapping free citizens to unlawfully sell as slaves, some for rape. In Catekharon, men guilty of these crimes go to the gallows. However, a new world is at hand, a world free of war and battle. Therefore, as Speaker of the Scholae, I have decreed that these men shall have a chance to live. They will face our new weapon, and if they can overcome it, I shall set them free. “

“A gladiatorial contest?” said the First Magus. His voice was resonant, commanding, and filled with scorn. “You had us travel all this way to watch a damn gladiatorial contest?”

“Aye!” shouted one of the ragged criminals. “Hope you enjoy the show, you fat bastard! Come down here and I’ll…”

Decius Aberon’s expression did not change as he flicked a single finger, and Caina felt a surge of sorcerous power. The criminal’s throat exploded in a spray of blood beneath a blast of psychokinetic force, and the ragged man collapsed to the white stone floor. 

“Does anyone else,” said the First Magus, “have any other amusing comments? I so enjoy witticisms.” 

None of the other criminals spoke. 

“First Magus,” said Zalandris, “please refrain from killing the prisoners. This will reduce the efficacy of the demonstration.”

“My apologies, my lord Speaker,” said Decius with a florid bow. “Please continue.” 

“The demonstration,” said Zalandris, sweeping his rod over the railing, “will now begin.”

The criminals tensed, and the ambassadors craned their necks.

Nothing happened. 

“This,” said Yaramzod the Black, his voice like the rasp of dead leaves on a tomb floor, “is an utter waste of time.” 

And as the echo of his words died away, the hieroglyphs upon the crimson statue flared with white light.

A spike of arcane power shot through Caina, so fierce that it made her dizzy, and she had to grab Corvalis’s arm to keep from falling over. 

And then the metal statue moved.

It took one step forward, and then another, the stone floor ringing with the impact. The hieroglyphs at its joints flared brighter, and the masked helm of its face swiveled back and forth, examining the prisoners. Caina stared in astonishment. The thing was enormous. It couldn’t possibly move under its own power.

Yet it did.

“Kill it!” screamed one of the prisoners. “Kill the damned thing and we go free!” 

The men charged with yells, weapons raised, and began striking. Metal clanged as they rained blows with their maces and swords upon the statue’s armor. Yet they did no damage to it. She supposed if they hammered enough, they could eventually pry away some of the armor, but…

“A walking statue?” said Decius with a laugh. “Such a wonder, my lord Speaker. Perhaps you can show us a wind-up monkey next? Do…”

The statue moved.

And it moved far faster than anything that large should be able to move.

A steel fist crashed into one of the men. The man’s head, shoulders, and most of his chest exploded into a red mist, and what was left of the criminal fell in a bloody heap to the ground. The statue’s armored foot came down and smashed another man to a gory heap.

For a moment the criminals frozen in stunned silence.

And then the killing began in earnest.

The steel statue moved through the criminals in a whirlwind, killing with every step. Its fists turned men to bloody pulp, its armored boots smashing skulls and ribs. Some of the men screamed and flung themselves at the statue, striking at its cuirass and helmet. But the statue simply reached up and crushed the criminals one by one, like a child squeezing ripe fruit. Others fled and tried to hide beneath the balcony, or fell to their knees and pleaded for mercy.

It did no good. One by one, the animated statue hunted down the men.

The stench of blood and ruptured bowels filled the air. 

Caina watched the carnage with horrified fascination. She was no stranger to violence, yet she had never seen such brutal killing, had never witnessed a weapon that could rip men to bloody pulp. Not even the strongest warrior could fight such a thing. Even a powerful magus could do little against several tons of animated steel. 

She saw Decius Aberon gazing at the spectacle, seeming amused and intrigued. The other ambassadors were fascinated, and Caina saw a few of them casting the spell to sense the presence of sorcery, no doubt hoping to probe the spells binding the moving statue. Kylon watched the bloodletting without expression, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Caina heard a retching noise, and saw that Claudia had ducked into the corner to throw up.

The metal statue caught the last criminal by the leg and lifted the screaming man, letting him dangle over the floor. It gripped his other leg and yanked.

The resultant mess fell in a wet heap to the floor. 

Stunned silence fell over the hall. 

Zalandris clapped his hands once. Hidden doors opened in the hall below, and dozens of orange-clad slaves hurried out to clean up the mess. 

The statue’s faceless helm rotated to stare at him. 

“As you can see,” said Zalandris, “the glypharmor is most potent. These were violent men, accustomed to fighting. Yet they perished in a matter of moments. Weapons of wood and steel cannot harm the glypharmor, and only the most exceedingly potent sorcery can even begin to damage it. An entire Imperial Legion could not stand against it.” 

The slaves labored to clean up the gore, using some sort of powder to soak up the blood. 

“So,” said Yaramzod in his dry voice. His shadows twitched and whispered around him, and the other sorcerers and ambassadors gave him a wide berth. “What manner of creature is this? A spirit bound within steel? Even the most inept occultist could conjure up a spirit and bind it within a simulacra.” 

“Or a summoned elemental?” said the older stormdancer standing next to Kylon. “In ancient times, the stormsingers of Old Kyrace possessed the skill to call up elementals and bind them within material bodies.”

“Skill,” said the First Magus with a smirk, “that New Kyre has lost.”

Yaramzod let out a hissing laugh, his shadows rotating around him. “A skill that your own Magisterium has not yet regained, First Magus.”

“I fear you are both incorrect,” said Zalandris. He lifted his voice. “Mihaela!” 

The red statue shivered, the white light in the hieroglyphs fading away. Caina heard a series of loud clicks, and the statue’s head rolled back, its cuirass splitting apart and swinging open like a door. 

Suddenly she understood. The weapon was not a statue. It was not an elemental spirit bound within material form.

It was a suit of armor.

A woman climbed down from the armor and dropped to the floor, ignoring both the slaves and the blood. She was a tall, lean Szaldic woman of about thirty-five, and wore a peculiar costume of black boots, trousers, and a black leather vest that left her arms bare. Tattoos marked her muscular arms, and her black hair hung in ragged strands to her shoulders. Cool blue eyes swept over the sorcerers and the ambassadors. 

She showed not a hint of emotion, especially given that she had just killed almost fifty men. 

“Master?” said the woman, her Szaldic accent thick.

“This is Mihaela,” said Zalandris, “the most able of my Seekers. The glypharmor was her design. I was dubious, but her success has surpassed my wildest expectations. And in the glypharmor, we have an instrument that will end war for all time.”

“You do, Master,” said Mihaela. “A warrior wearing a suit of glypharmor is impervious to almost all material weapons, can move with the speed of a racing horse, and has the strength of a hundred men. One warrior wearing this armor can destroy an army.”

“An impressive achievement, girl,” said the First Magus. “The spells upon your toy are indeed potent. Yet even the most potent spell can be unraveled.”

Mihaela gave an indifferent shrug. “True, First Magus. A group of sorcerers of sufficient power, working in concert, can unravel the spells upon the glypharmor. But these spells are most difficult to dispel. Any sorcerer attempting to unbind a suit of glypharmor would soon find himself torn to pieces by the others.”

“Others?” said Decius. “What others?”

Mihaela grinned. “Why, the other warriors in suits of glypharmor. For we of the Scholae can make as many of them as we wish. You have seen what one suit of glypharmor can do. Imagine ten. Or a hundred. Or perhaps an entire army?” She grinned. “So. Which one of you gets to conquer the world…”

“Mihaela,” said Zalandris, voice calm. “It is the role of the Speaker to stand for the Scholae. Not for a mere Seeker.”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Mihaela.

But Caina saw the flash of hatred in her blue eyes. 

“You have seen the demonstration, my lords,” said Zalandris. “Let us now return to the Hall of Assembly. Refreshments have been prepared, and we can talk in comfort. And we shall…how do the merchants say it? Ah, yes. We shall let the bidding begin.”