The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War

by Jonathan Moeller

  Kylon said nothing.

  “You've started a war,” said Caina. “For what? Marsis? New Kyre is the best port on the western sea. Holding Marsis would gain you nothing. For slaves? You could buy all the slaves you needed in Istarinmul. For plunder? Surely there are richer prizes closer to home. What do you hope to gain from this attack?”

  Still Kylon said nothing.

  “The Tomb of Scorikhon,” said Caina. “That's it, isn't it?”

  Kylon sighed.

  “Andromache wants whatever power the necromancers of the Red Circle left behind,” said Caina. “So she started a war to get it. I don't know what she promised Rezir Shahan. Probably Marsis, and as much land as he could carve out of the western Empire. But she's going to abandon him, isn't she? Once she has what she wants.”

  “She has...considered such,” said Kylon.

  “So,” said Caina. “Andromache convinced Rezir to join her in attacking Marsis. She knows the attack might fail, and even if it succeeds, you'll have a hard time holding on to your conquests. But Andromache doesn't care, because she only wants the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon. Once she has it, she intends to leave Rezir and Marsis to their fates. She is willing to slaughter thousands just to increase her arcane power. Have I got it right?”

  Kylon gave a slow, hesitant nod.

  “And does that sound,” said Caina, “like the behavior of a necromancer?”

  A shudder went through Kylon, so violent that he almost cut Caina's throat even as her dagger scraped against his neck.

  “She cannot be,” said Kylon, his voice a hoarse whisper. “She saved our family. She saved me. House Kardamnos would have been ripped apart by our enemies, had she not become High Seat. Necromancy is against the laws of both Old Kyrace and the gods themselves. It is an abomination. She could not do such a thing. She could not.”

  “I saw her do it,” said Caina.

  “You lie,” said Kylon, but there was no heat to his words.

  “You must have your doubts,” said Caina. “Else you would dismiss them out of hand. Yet you've listened.”

  “Because you have a dagger to my throat,” said Kylon, “and your story is a lie.”

  “But you're not sure,” said Caina.

  “How do you know?” said Kylon. “Can you use sorcery to read my emotions? Or to hear my thoughts?”

  “No,” said Caina, “but if you were sure, you would have laughed at me. You wouldn't have gotten angry. Men who are secure in their beliefs laugh at challenges. They do not grow angry.”

  “There was a moment, during our fight with the magi, when I wondered,” said Kylon. From what she had seen of Andromache's and Kylon's prowess, Caina suspected Marsis no longer had any magi. “I thought...I sensed it around her. I must have been mistaken. But what you have said rings true. Too true.” He shook his head. “How am I to know for certain?”

  An idea came to Caina. “Go and see for yourself.”

  “That will be difficult,” said Kylon, “if you cut my throat.”

  “And it would be just as difficult,” said Caina, “for me to find my friend's child if your sword turns my blood to ice. So we have a basis for negotiation.”

  “If I lower my sword,” said Kylon, “you'll kill me.”

  “And if I lower my dagger,” said Caina, “you'll kill me.”

  “Then I suggest we both lower our weapons at the same time,” said Kylon.

  “A bad idea,” said Caina. “Because I can't fight you. If we lower our weapons, you'll cut me down before I can run two steps.”

  Kylon snorted. “And I'm sure you have some cunning plan to make my sword explode or to have a crate full of bricks land on my head.”

  “I left my crate of bricks in my other cloak.”

  “Then a truce,” said Kylon. “We'll bother lower our weapons on the count of three. And then we agree to leave each other alone for five minutes. Long enough for us both to escape without killing each other. Is this acceptable?”

  “It is,” said Caina.

  “On three,” said Kylon. “One, two...”

  Caina tensed.

  “Three!”

  In one smooth motion, she lowered her dagger and stepped back, her boots scraping through the slush around her feet. Kylon did the same, his mist-wreathed sword steady in his hand.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Out of curiosity,” said Kylon, “why does Sicarion think you're the Moroaica?”

  “I have no idea,” said Caina. “Do you really want to discuss this? Those five minutes are fleeting.”

  “I have an idea,” said Kylon.

  “Oh?” said Caina, curious. “What is it? Sicarion can't see properly out of that orange eye of his?”

  “I neither know nor care how well Sicarion's eyes work,” said Kylon. “But I know what you feel like against my arcane senses. There's necromancy in you.”

  “A necromancer...wounded me,” said Caina. For a terrible instant she remembered Maglarion's gloomy lair, his knife glittering in the pale light as it descended toward her skin. “When I was young. It left scars.”

  “This is something else,” said Kylon. “There's necromantic power in you. If you truly slew the Moroaica, I think some of her power lodged in you when she died. That's what Sicarion is sensing.”

  “That's preposterous,” said Caina.

  But she remembered her dreams of Jadriga, and how prophetic those dreams had been.

  “Believe it or believe it not, it matters not to me,” said Kylon. “We part ways now, Ghost. If we see each other again, we shall do our best to kill each other.”

  He turned to go.

  “Kylon,” said Caina.

  He stopped, looked back at her.

  “The Moroaica was indeed a necromancer,” said Caina. “And one of great power. She gathered a circle of women around her and taught them the necromantic sciences.”

  “What of it?” said Kylon.

  “Andromache said she was the Moroaica's student?” said Caina.

  Kylon gave a hesitant nod.

  “What do you think,” said Caina, “that the Moroaica taught her?”

  Again that troubled look passed over Kylon's face, and he walked away without another word.

  Caina left the alley, making her way back to the Great Market. With any luck, Kylon would be busy with his suspicions for a little while. That would give Caina time to retrieve Nicolai and take him to safety.

  She returned to the Great Market just as it filled with panicked Istarish soldiers.

  ###

  Kylon watched as Sicarion and Andromache emerged from the tavern.

  “Brother,” said Andromache with a hint of a frown. “Where did you go?”

  “I thought I saw that Ghost,” said Kylon. “The one that eluded me.”

  It wasn't a lie. Not technically.

  “Ah,” said Sicarion. “Did she blow up another warehouse, perhaps?”

  “Silence,” said Andromache. “Are you all right, brother?”

  Andromache looked rested. When she had disappeared into that tavern, she seemed exhausted from her battle with the magi, almost haggard. Now she looked as fresh and rested as a woman awakening from a long night's sleep.

  In fact, she almost looked younger.

  As if she had stolen the life force of a victim.

  “I am well,” said Kylon. “I...”

  “What the devil?” muttered Sicarion.

  Kylon turned and saw Istarish troops flooding into the Great Market. Some of them had been wounded, and the rest looked almost panicked. More and more hastened into the Market, and Kylon realized that almost the entire Istarish force was in full flight.

  At least he saw no ashtairoi among their number.

  “Rezir has suffered a setback,” said Sicarion.

  Andromache hissed. “The emir is less competent in matters of war than I had hoped.”

  And as Kylon looked over the milling troops and the sea of slaves, something inside him snapped.
/>   All this suffering. All this death. And for what?

  Had the Ghost been telling the truth?

  He dropped his hand to his sword hilt and turned toward the tavern door.

  “Brother?” said Andromache, her tone puzzled. “What is it?”

  “Necromancy,” said Kylon. “I sense necromancy.”

  It was the first time he had ever lied to his sister.

  He had to see it for himself.

  He pushed open the door. The tavern beyond stank, as all such places did, of sweat and cheap beer. Trestle tables and benches stood scattered about the plank floor, and casks of beer and ale rested behind the bar.

  There were no bodies, and he felt no trace of necromancy.

  Andromache stepped beside him. “Anything?”

  If she was lying, neither her face nor her emotional sense held any hint of it.

  “Nothing,” said Kylon. “Forgive me, sister. I am jumping at shadows.”

  She touched his arm. “Your vigilance does you credit. Now, come. Let us see what setback the lord emir has suffered.” Her eyes glinted. “And how we can claim the Tomb of Scorikhon for ourselves.”

  Kylon followed her into the Market, Sicarion trailing after them. There had been no dead women in the tavern, and no hint of necromantic power. Perhaps the Ghost had been wrong.

  But one of the trestle tables had been stained with half-dried blood.

  Perhaps the Ghost hadn't been wrong.

  And Kylon's doubts grew ever tighter around his heart.

  Chapter 19 - Rescue

  Ark caught the scimitar on his shield. The blade bounced away, and he stepped forward, thrusting. His blade ripped along the Istarish soldier’s hip. The soldier stumbled, and the Legionary on Ark's right finished the man with a quick thrust.

  The group of Istarish soldiers, no more than thirty or forty strong, turned and ran. Ark's men started to break formation, moving into pursuit of the fleeing enemy.

  “Hold!” yelled Ark, his voice ringing over the street. “Hold, damn you! Do you want to run into a trap? Hold!”

  His men stopped.

  And not a moment too soon. Even as the Istarish footmen fled, a company of Immortals surged out of an alley, scimitars and chain whips in hand, blue light shining from the eyeholes of their skull masks.

  “Javelins!” said Ark. “Ready!”

  The Immortals charged. Unlike the Istarish regulars, they never showed any hint of fear. Or perhaps it was madness brought on by the alchemical elixirs coursing through their blood.

  “Release!” said Ark.

  His men flung their javelins, unleashing a shower of heavy iron points on the charging Immortals. Three of the black-armored soldiers went down, and two more stumbled with wounds. The remainder crashed into the Legionaries’ shield wall. The Legionary on Ark's right went down, his neck and windpipe shredded by a single lash of a chain whip. But the formation held, and the Legionaries stood fast against the Immortals.

  In a few moments it was all over.

  “Two dead, sir,” said one of the Legionaries, wiping down his sword. “One wounded.”

  “Can he walk?”

  “Aye, for now,” said the Legionary.

  “Then keep him on his feet,” said Ark, sheathing his broadsword. “He can rest once we reach the northern gates. And retrieve as many javelins as you can. The gods know we'll need them soon enough.”

  The Legionary hurried to carry out Ark's commands.

  Ark watched as his men cleaned their swords and retrieved the discarded javelins. This was the third skirmish they had fought since leaving the Avenue of Champions. There were more bands of Istarish soldiers scattered through the side streets than Ark would have liked. He suspected they had fled during the skirmish at the Avenue of Champions, and had only now begun to reorganize.

  At least, he thought that was what had happened. Some of the Istarish bands had seemed downright surprised to see Ark and his men. He got the impression that they were hunting for someone, or something.

  But who?

  Ark didn't know, and he disliked not knowing. A failure to know the goals of the enemy was usually the first step to defeat. Still, it might not matter. If he could hold the northern gate long enough for Lord Commander Hiram to return, no amount of scheming from the Istarish or the Kyracians would hold off the Legions.

  “Sir,” said a Legionary. “We're ready.”

  “Move out,” said Ark.

  The Legionaries sheathed their weapons and marched on, leaving their dead – and the dead Immortals – behind.

  ###

  The street opened into a small square with a fountain, and the sounds of fighting and echoed over the rooftops.

  “A skirmish, sir,” said the Legionary Ark had sent ahead to scout. “Looks like forty or fifty Istarish taking on about twenty of the lads from the Nineteenth. And our lads are getting the worst of it. If we don't move in, they're finished.”

  Ark nodded. Perhaps it would be best to bypass the skirmish. The little square lay on the direct route to North Gate Plaza, but there were other paths. And if he got pulled into a skirmish, it might be more than his men could handle.

  And if he was killed, who would rescue his son from the Istarish?

  But he would not abandon Legionaries to die in a hopeless fight. And another part of his mind, a part that often sounded a great deal like Caina, pointed out that the men of the Nineteenth did not have to follow him. If he abandoned their comrades, would they in turn abandon him?

  And then how would Ark find Nicolai?

  “We attack,” said Ark. He drew his sword and pointed. “In formation! Advance!”

  The Legionaries marched into the square. Small shops and houses ringed the little square, not as wealthy as the businesses of the Plaza of the Tower, but hardly as poor as the tenements of the dockside. A mob of Istarish soldiers pressed at a ragged shield wall of hard-pressed Legionaries. Even as Ark watched, one of the Legionaries went down in a flash of blood and steel.

  Then Ark's men marched calmly into the ragged mass of Istarish soldiers and started killing. A shock went through the Istarish as they wheeled to face the newcomers. But as before, the Istarish attacks were uncoordinated, almost frantic, while Ark's men held their formation and killed with a steady rhythm. Ark raised his shield and caught a swing from an Istarish soldier, while the Legionary on Ark's left raised his sword and split the soldier's head.

  No matter how brave the Istarish soldiers, they lacked the discipline of the Legions, and discipline always defeated individual valor.

  At least until the stormdancers got involved.

  The skirmish was over in a matter of moments, with most of the Istarish dead and the rest fleeing in all directions. Some of Ark's men had taken light wounds, but none had been slain. An easy fight.

  He doubted it would last.

  “Your timing could not have been better,” said one of the Legionaries, an exhausted man in his middle twenties. “The enemy harried us all the way from the Plaza of the Tower. Another few minutes and we'd have been finished.”

  “It was good fortune,” said Ark. “We're making for North Gate Plaza, to hold the gate until Lord Hiram returns with the Twentieth and the Twenty-First. You can join us, or go as you wish, but...”

  “Absurd.”

  A man in black armor and a ragged purple cloak stepped forward.

  For a moment Ark thought the man was an Immortal, and his hilt dropped to the hand of his sword. But it was Imperial armor, not the ornate plate of the Immortals. The man wore no helmet, and his gray eyes lacked the eerie blue glow produced by the Immortals' alchemical elixirs. He was in his middle fifties, with iron-gray hair, and moved with energy despite his age.

  Ark had only seen this man at a distance, but recognized him nonetheless.

  Corbould, Lord of House Maraeus, and the Lord Governor of Marsis.

  ###

  “How are you even still alive, my lord?” asked Ark.

  They stood some distance away
from the Legionaries, speaking in low voices. Lord Corbould had taken one look at Ark, and suggested they speak in private.