Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 06 - Ghost in the Forge Read online

  Basil snorted. “Don’t be absurd, boy. Sometimes it is necessary to hurt people. Even people you love.” He shrugged. “And I am not her father. Her father was murdered. I am…merely the man who turned her into what she is.”

  They lapsed into silence. Corvalis realized that he saw Caina reflected in some of Basil’s movements, his patterns of speech, his methods of thought. Basil Callenius might not have been Caina’s father, but he had left a greater impact on her than anyone else.

  Save, perhaps, the man who had murdered her father.

  “She is not my daughter,” said Basil at last, “but she is the best decision I have ever made.”

  “What do you mean?” said Corvalis.

  “I didn’t know what to do with her at first,” said Basil, “when I found her. I thought to send her to the temple of Minaerys to become a scholar-priestess, or to have one of the Ghosts’ friends among the noble houses adopt her. Instead, I made her into a Ghost nightfighter. I had my doubts, but if not for her…well, I would be dead.”

  “She saved your life,” said Corvalis.

  “The Empire would be dust upon the wind,” said Basil, “if not for Caina Amalas.” He looked at Corvalis, his eyes hard, all trace of the friendly jewel merchant gone. “If not for her, every man, woman, and child in Malarae would have perished. Rasadda would have burned to ashes. Demons would have risen from the pit to devour Marsis, and you know what happened in Cyrioch. Two million people live in those four cities, Corvalis. All those people, all their lives, all their children, all the children they would have ever had…dead, if not for Caina Amalas. And gods know how many more dead in the civil war that would have followed the destruction of Malarae. All those people live and breathe because of her…and they will never know it. So hear me well, boy.” His voice remained calm, the tone of a man discussing a pleasant dinner. “If you hurt her in a way that is not necessary, I swear upon every god that ever was that I will give you such a death that even the First Magus will blanch when he hears of it. Is that what you were expecting?”

  “I think,” said Corvalis, “that I believe you. And I will not hurt her, not if I can help it. If not for her, Claudia would be a statue and I would be a corpse.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” said Basil, turning from the railing. “Come! Let us have some wine. Death threats are such thirsty work.”

  “Killing is thirstier,” said Corvalis, reaching for the door.

  “Mmm. Well, threatening sometimes…”

  A flash of white light came through the doors, and Corvalis heard Claudia shout in alarm.

  Corvalis drew his sword and dagger and dashed into the sitting room, Basil a half-step behind.

  Caina, Claudia, and Theodosia stood around the table. Caina had her curved ghostsilver dagger in hand, her blue eyes narrowed, while Theodosia held a throwing knife. All three women stared at the table.

  At the empty table.

  “What is it?” said Basil.

  “The mask and rod,” said Caina, her voice calm, though her eyes roved everywhere, seeking for foes. “They’re gone.”

  “They just…vanished,” said Theodosia. “Marina said she felt a spell, the rod and the mask started to glow, and then they simply…disappeared.”

  “Did they turn invisible?” said Corvalis.

  Claudia cast a spell to sense the presence of arcane force. “No. Corvalis, they’re just…gone. I don’t understand.”

  “Could the Masked Ones have been spying on us?” said Caina. “Through the rod and the mask? If the Masked Ones plan to sell this weapon of sorcery, they must have known the Ghosts would get involved. Perhaps that Masked One attacked me to plant the rod and the mask.”

  “But how would they have known you were a Ghost?” said Theodosia.

  Claudia shook her head. “The spells upon the rod and the mask were not divinatory, I am certain of it. Spells of defense and attack, yes. But not of far-seeing or far-hearing.” She again cast the spell to sense the presence of arcane force, and Corvalis saw the faintest twitch go across Caina’s face.

  She hated sorcery, hated it the way Corvalis hated his father.

  “Perhaps they destroyed themselves,” said Theodosia, “now that their master is slain.”

  “I think,” said Claudia, “I think they returned to their master.”

  “Their master is dead,” said Caina. “Marzhod dumped his body in the harbor.”

  “Then to their master’s superior, then?” said Claudia. “The other Masked Ones? I fear without examining the objects closer, I can only offer theories.”

  “And the objects,” said Caina, “are gone.”

  “This changes nothing,” said Basil. “Most likely Claudia is correct, and the mask and the rod were created return to the Masked Ones if their bearer was slain. And if they could spy on us, well, we are leaving tomorrow. Any information they have will soon be out of date. Meanwhile, I suggest we get to work.”

  Basil left, followed by Theodosia and Claudia, leaving Corvalis alone with Caina. She gazed at the empty spot on the table, rolling her throwing knife over her fingers.

  “Basil is most likely right,” said Corvalis. “The Masked Ones likely enspelled the mask and the rod to return to Catekharon.”

  “I know,” murmured Caina, her eyes distant. “Yet if they would go to such trouble to secure two relatively minor artifacts…then why offer a potent weapon of sorcery for sale to the highest bidder?”

  Corvalis did not know.

  “It must be a trick of some sort,” said Caina. Her eyes met his. “But if such a weapon exists…I am going to destroy it.”

  Corvalis frowned. “Wouldn’t Basil like to bring it back to the Emperor?”

  “I doubt it,” said Caina. “The task of the Ghosts is to serve the Emperor and to defend the people of the Empire. Even if it means protecting the Emperor from himself. Corvalis…I’ve seen spells that have that kind of power. Sorcery strong enough to destroy cities.” He remembered what Basil had said about the people Caina had saved. “No one should have that kind of power. If that weapon exists, I’m going to destroy it.”

  Corvalis nodded. “You shall have my help.”

  She smiled at him and took his hand. Yes, Basil had been right. Corvalis needed a challenge, a fight in a worthy cause.

  And helping Caina Amalas to destroy a weapon of fell sorcery…well, Corvalis could think of none better.

  Chapter 4 - Stormdancer

  Kylon, the High Seat of House Kardamnos and thalarchon of New Kyre’s seventh fleet, stood upon the trireme’s prow, his sword of storm-forged steel in his right hand, the wind blowing salt spray across his face. Part of his mind noted the lines of the Imperial fleet across the expanse of blue-gray waves, counted the number of ships, a number that exceeded those under his command.

  But another part of his mind considered his memories of Marsis.

  Some part of his mind always remembered Marsis.

  Andromache’s lightning ripping from the sky, scattering Legionaries like toys.

  The mocking sneer on Sicarion’s face as he plotted his betrayal.

  Andromache’s face distorting as Scorikhon’s spirit donned her flesh, the pain on her face as Kylon’s sword sank into her chest.

  And the Ghost most of all. The Ghost with eyes like blue ice, her mind like a weapon. She had warned Kylon and Andromache both, and Andromache had ignored her warnings.

  And now Kylon would continue to pay the price for that failure.

  “Thalarchon?” said a man’s voice.

  “I see them,” said Kylon without turning.

  How things had changed in the months since Andromache had been slain. Once she had been the High Seat of House Kardamnos, one of the nine Archons of New Kyre, and in all things Kylon obeyed her without question. He left strategy and tactics up to her, and he had merely carried out her designs.

  But now he was the High Seat of House Kardamnos and the thalarchon of the seventh fleet…and the burden of command fell to him
.

  He turned and looked at the two men standing on the trireme’s bow. The first, like Kylon, wore the gray leather of a stormdancer of New Kyre, sword ready at his waist. His expression was grim, but it always was. Cimon of House Siltarides was Kylon’s senior by ten years, but he obeyed without question.

  The second man did not. Alcios was the High Seat of House Kallias, a vigorous gray-haired man in his fifties. He wore the armor and plumed helm of the ashtairoi, an ashtair, the sword of the Kyracian foot soldiers, hanging at his belt. Alcios thought he should have been made the thalarchon of the seventh fleet, and he made no secret of that fact.

  But he had not been disobedient. Which was just as well. Kylon would have regretted executing him.

  “Yes, lord thalarchon,” said Alcios. “I am pleased you see the foe. It would be beneath the dignity of a thalarchon for his underlings to point out the obvious to him.”

  “Indeed it would, my lord High Seat,” said Kylon.

  “The enemy has twice our ships,” said Alcios. “And their vessels are quinqueremes, heavier and better armed than ours.”

  “You are stating facts,” said Kylon. “I assume you intend to draw a conclusion from them.”

  “Aye,” said Alcios. “I suggest, my lord thalarchon,” he said with the faintest hint of condescension, “that we break formation and sail north. With the stormsingers to command the winds, we can strike the villages south of Marsis and bring chaos to the Empire.”

  “We’ve already picked clean the villages south of Marsis,” said Cimon with a frown. “The only target left of any value along the Empire’s western shore is Marsis itself. And we cannot take the city.”

  “No,” said Kylon. “We already tried.”

  “And your sister failed,” said Alcios.

  Kylon looked at him.

  “Though I do not mean to speak ill of the dead,” said Alcios.

  Kylon shrugged. “Why not? She did fail, did she not? She stared this war.” He wondered how the Assembly would react if they knew Andromache had started the war with the Empire at the behest of the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror. “But she stared it, and we must finish it.”

  “Indeed,” said Alcios. “Which we will not do if the Empire’s fleet destroys us here.”

  “Or,” said Kylon, “we will destroy the Imperial fleet.”

  “Why would we take such a foolish risk?” said Alcios.

  “Because,” said Kylon, “this is all that remains of the Empire’s western fleet. We’ve hit them too hard, my lord High Seat, and destroyed too many of their warships. We cannot overcome them on land…but they cannot overcome us on the open sea. So they have gathered their remaining ships to crush us in one solid blow.” He pointed with his sword. “Instead, we shall reverse their trap and crush them in turn.”

  “It would be better,” said Alcios, “to withdraw to New Kyre. The fleets are the city’s only line of defense against the Empire. If we are slain and the ships destroyed, we will leave New Kyre defenseless. My lord thalarchon, if I may be blunt?”

  Kylon nodded.

  “You are young,” said Alcios, “and eager for fame and renown. This is understandable. Laudable, even. But do not let your pride lead you astray. For the loss of our fleet would be a crippling blow to New Kyre.”

  For a moment Kylon wavered. Perhaps Alcios was right. Andromache been defeated at Marsis, and it now fell to Kylon to succeed where she had failed. Perhaps Kylon’s grief had led him astray. Perhaps he was driving his fleet to destruction.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and drew upon his sorcery, the power to command wind and wave, water and storm. He was a stormdancer, and while he lacked the raw power of a stormsinger, he could use his sorcery to move with the speed of a hurricane and strike with the force of a tidal wave. Kylon’s talents gave him an affinity for the element of water, and this gift let him sense things hidden to other men.

  For men, after all, were fashioned of water.

  A storm of emotion washed over him. He felt the fears and grim determination of the men in his fleet. Across the water, he sensed the emotions of the men crewing the ships of the Empire of Nighmar. He felt their fear, far more fear than his own men. And he sensed loci of sorcerous power aboard one of the other ships. Magi, sorcerers in service to the Imperial Magisterium, come to counter the powers of the stormsingers and the stormdancers.

  And Kylon knew his pride had not let him astray.

  He could crush this fleet and inflict a staggering defeat upon the Empire.

  He opened his eyes and faced Cimon and Alcios.

  “We attack,” said Kylon. Cimon nodded, and Alcios sighed…but both men drew themselves up. “Issue the following commands.”

  The signal drums boomed out from the flagship, and the Kyracian fleet arranged itself for battle.

  ###

  “Row, you bastards!” roared the hortator, thundering upon his drums. “Row, damn you! Show these weak-livered dogs of the Empire how the men of New Kyre fight!”

  Kylon braced himself on the bow as the trireme spun about, the oarsmen working in perfect harmony. The navies of Anshan and Istarinmul used slaves to man their oars. In New Kyre, only free men wielded the oars of a warship, and they achieved a degree of skill and prowess that slaves lacked.

  Of course, the Nighmarian Empire used free men to crew its ships as well.

  “I hope, my lord thalarchon,” murmured Alcios, “that you know what you are doing.”

  “As do I, my lord High Seat,” said Kylon, gazing at the enemy ships.

  The Kyracian fleet split into three squadrons, two attempting to flank the line of Imperial ships, while the third squadron, gathered around Kylon’s flagship, drove at the heart of the Nighmarian fleet. Kylon’s arcane senses told him that the enemy magi waited upon the flagship, a huge quinquereme bristling with catapults and ballistae.

  His plan banked upon killing those magi. The stormsingers could use their spells to drive their ships far faster than the bulky Imperial warships…but only if the magi did not interfere.

  And to keep them from interfering, Kylon would simply have to kill them all.

  “High Seat,” said Kylon. “Now.”

  Alcios turned to the polemarch in command of the ship. “Ramming speed!”

  The polemarch relayed the order to the hortator, who howled imprecations at the oarsmen. The oarsmen grunted, faces red with strain, sweat pouring down their chests. Yet the trireme picked up speed and made for the port side of the Imperial flagship, the waters foaming white around them.

  The Imperial flagship tried to turn, its five banks of oars lashing at the waters, but the vessel was too heavy, its oarsmen too unskilled. The Legions of the Nighmarian Empire were the finest infantry in the world, but the Kyracians were masters of the sea. The men of Old Kyrace had ruled a maritime empire, and their descendants of New Kyre were the best sailors in the world. The catapults on the quinqueremes spat balls of burning pitch, but the trireme came too fast, the shots missing to splash in the waves.

  “Brace yourselves!” shouted Alcios, hand on the hilt of his ashtair. “Prepare to board the foe!”

  “Cimon,” said Kylon, and the second stormdancer stepped to his side.

  “I am with you, my lord thalarchon,” said the older man.

  “Good,” said Kylon, lifting his sword. “Follow my lead. Remember, slay the magi first.”

  Cimon nodded, and the trireme hurtled towards the Imperial flagship. Kylon saw soldiers scrambling across the deck, clad in chain mail, shields on their arms and spears in their hands. Auxiliaries, then - the Legions themselves rarely fought aboard ships.

  And in their midst Kylon saw the black armor of battle magi.

  A heartbeat later the massive steel spike of the trireme’s prow plunged into the side of the quinquereme. The shock of the impact traveled through both ships, accompanied by the sound of shattering wood, and Kylon saw men stagger as the decks trembled beneath their boots and sandals.

&nb
sp; And in that instant, Kylon moved.

  He drew upon his power and leaped into the air, the sorcery of water lending his muscles the power of a roaring river. He soared over the trireme’s prow, over the railing of the Imperial flagship, and hurtled towards the startled auxiliaries.

  “Stormdancer!” a man screamed, but it was too late.

  Kylon landed among them like a thunderbolt, and the killing began.

  He struck left and right, the sorcery of air giving his arms the speed of a hurricane wind. White mist swirled around his blade, a rime of frost spreading over the steel. Kylon’s storm-driven strength drove the blade through armor and flesh alike. Men fell dead from his blows, his frost-wreathed sword turning their blood to ice. Cimon fought behind him, driving into the auxiliaries. He moved slower than Kylon, but blue-white lightning snarled up and down his sword, and crackling daggers of lightning leapt from his blows to encircle his foes.

  Behind them the ashtairoi scrambled aboard, Alcios at their head. For all his bluster, the High Seat of House Kallias was no craven, and wielded his ashtair and shield with vigor, shouting exhortations to his men. The auxiliaries, already scattered by the stormdancers, crumbled beneath the assault of the ashtairoi.

  Kylon whirled, cut down another soldier, and found himself face to face with the magi.

  There were four of them, all wearing the black plate armor of the battle magi, black maces and swords in their hands. A black cloak with a purple fringe hung from their leader’s shoulders. A master magus, then, no doubt skilled in both arms and battle sorcery.

  Even as the thought crossed Kylon’s mind, all four men lifted their hands and released arcane power.

  A fist of invisible force slammed into Kylon and threw him backwards towards one of the masts. But Kylon drew on his own sorcery, filling his limbs with the power of a surging torrent. His boots slammed into the mast, but his enhanced strength absorbed the impact, and he shoved off the mast, hurtling at the magi.

  The eyes of the magi widened in astonishment, and Kylon’s sword shot forward in a white blur. One of the magi fell dead, his face covered in frost, and the others backed away and raised their weapons.