Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ark desperately hoped that Caina had a plan.

  The battle magi finished wreaking mayhem among the golden dead and jumped back to the safety of the Imperial line. Perhaps twenty of the burning dead had fallen, and the rest came in a disorganized rush.

  “Shields!” shouted Ark. The Guards raised their shields, drawing back their swords to strike, and the golden dead attacked in a wall of deformed flesh and golden fire. Ark struck with his storm-forged sword again and again, the blade hewing through necks and limbs with equal facility. For an odd moment it reminded him of his early days working at Legion’s forge, hammering out horseshoes and armor under the supervision of the centurions.

  Then the last of the golden dead fell, and Ark looked around.

  He had lost three more Guards to that charge. But all the golden dead lay strewn and motionless across the ground, their blood pooling on the flagstones of the plaza. Already he saw the dim glimmer of golden fire in their eyes and upon their fingers.

  “Move,” said Ark. “Move! Closer to the Kyracians! Get away from the dead!”

  The Imperial Guards obeyed, moving with the smooth coordination of elite soldiers. The nobles and the Emperor moved in the center, shielded by the Guards. Though there were far fewer Guards now, and every wave of golden dead reduced their numbers a little further…

  “This is madness, Ark,” said Corbould, his sword in hand. He would have fought in the battle line, but Ark had forbidden it. “We cannot prevail! We must find a safe place…”

  “There is no safe place!” said Ark. “Where can we go? You saw that golden flame. Gods, half the world must be overrun with the damned things. We have to fight for as long as we can.”

  “Until what?” said Corbould. The Guards moved closer to the Kyracians, and more mobs of golden dead emerged from the streets, some pursuing terrified slaves and commoners. Ark wished he could send them aid, but if the Guards broke formation they would be overwhelmed.

  “Caina will know what to do,” said Ark.

  Aeolus and the Emperor shared a look.

  “Your damned Ghost,” said Corbould. “You had better be right, Arcion.”

  Ark hoped so, too.

  Then another wave of golden dead attacked, and there was no more time for argument.

  ###

  Kylon moved in a blur before the ashtairoi, the sorcery of air fueling his speed, the sorcery of water granting his blows the power of a flood. He danced through the golden dead, dodging around their clumsy attacks, striking right and left with his sword. The touch of his frost-wreathed blade quenched the golden fires in their flesh, and the reborn men toppled limp and motionless to the ground.

  Yet more kept coming.

  And those he slew rose again, the golden fire healing their wounds. Worse, they came back stronger, with new limbs growing to replace the ones he severed, the strange sorcery warping and deforming their bodies. They got a little stronger and a little faster with every death.

  Sooner or later they were going to overwhelm him.

  The ashtairoi fought with valor, cutting down wave after wave of the golden dead. The stormsingers stood behind them and unleashed their powers. Gusts of hurricane winds flung the golden dead like toys, while blasts of lightning ripped down from the sky to tear the golden dead to smoking shreds. Kylon whirled and took the head off one creature with a powerful slash, and he saw Thalastre standing with the other stormsingers, arms upraised as she called the lightning. He was relieved that she was safe. If she had fallen and been reborn as one of those flame-wreathed corpses, he was not sure he could have borne the sight.

  He struck down another of the golden dead, and another.

  But for every one he killed, two more took its place…and the creatures kept rising again.

  ###

  Caina ducked under a flame-wreathed arm and slashed with her dagger. The ghostsilver blade bit into the throat of the golden dead, blood bursting across her fingers. The creature toppled and fell motionless, and Corvalis struck down two more, the spear a blur of black and silver in his hands.

  The golden fire began to glimmer in the dead men.

  But for a moment, just a moment, she had a clear path to Talekhris.

  Caina sprinted to his side, leaping over a pair of corpses. A ring of motionless dead men surrounded Talekhris, and the Sage’s rod crackled with white fire. Harkus and the remaining Venatorii guarded the Sage, attacking any dead men that got past the barrage of spells. The golden dead struck by Talekhris’s sorcery remained down for longer, and did not rise again so quickly.

  But they still rose eventually.

  Even with Talekhris’s power, sooner or later the golden dead would overwhelm them. Caina wondered what was happening in the rest of the world, how Malarae and Cyrioch and Rasadda and Marsis would fight the golden dead, and put that ghastly thought out of her mind.

  The only way to help them was to stop the Moroaica.

  “Talekhris!” said Caina.

  “Go!” shouted the Sage, his voice hoarse. “I cannot hold them off forever! Go to the Pyramid of Storm, enter the netherworld after the Moroaica, and kill her. It is the only way to end her spells. Go, quickly!”

  “I cannot,” said Caina. “The golden dead fill the streets. I won’t make it halfway to the Pyramid of Storm before I am torn apart. But together with the Imperial Guard and the ashtairoi, we might make it there.”

  Talekhris shook his head, the jade mask glinting. “They will not stand a chance.”

  “If they fight together, they do,” said Caina.

  “They cannot hold off the burning dead long enough to join forces,” said Talekhris.

  “What if you strike all of them at once?” said Caina. “Every one of the golden dead in the Agora?”

  “Even I do not have that kind of power!” said Talekhris. He waved his rod, and a sheet of white fire slammed into a dozen charging dead, throwing them to the ground. Their halos of golden fire vanished, save for a faint glimmer around the eyes. Beyond them the ashtairoi struggled to hold position, surrounded by the burning dead. Kylon attacked, his sword sheathed in freezing white mist…

  “Their swords,” said Caina. “Could you enspell their swords against the golden dead?”

  “I…” His voice trailed off. “Yes, yes, that could work. And that would be far less effort than striking myself. Gods, I am a fool! I should have done this at once.”

  He waved the rod, a surge of arcane power flooding the air, and struck it against the ground. A corona of silver fire snarled around him, and then erupted in all directions. The flames passed through Caina without touching her, but she saw the swords of the Venatorii glow with silver light, the weapons of the Imperial Guard and the ashtairoi gleaming like silver candles.

  ###

  Ark blinked in astonishment.

  His storm-forged sword shone with pale silver light. At first he thought that the sword had always been enspelled, that the fight against the burning dead had awakened some long-dormant arcane property within the blade. But he saw the silver light shining from the weapons of the other men, and realized that something else had happened.

  One of the golden dead, once a lovely young woman, her face now distorted with strange, tumor-like growths, lunged at the shield wall. Ark stabbed with his glowing sword, and the blade scratched across her shoulder. In an instant the golden fire winked out, and the woman’s corpse toppled to the ground.

  The merest touch had been enough to overcome the golden dead. Perhaps one of the magi had devised a counter-spell.

  But he suspected Caina had had something to do with it.

  “Strike hard, men of the Guard!” roared Ark. “The silver light is anathema to the undead! Strike!”

  The Imperial Guards attacked with new vigor, and this time they mowed through the golden dead, driving them across the Agora. Within moments the Imperial Guards had hacked their way clear, leaving a trail of corpses behind them. The ashtairoi did the same, and soon the Agora had been cleared of the golden dead
.

  But Ark saw the golden fire pooling anew in the eyes of the corpses.

  They had won a respite, but not for long.

  Ark faced the Emperor and the other nobles. They had to decide upon a plan of action. Sooner or later the burning dead would rise again, and more and more of the creatures were rampaging through the rest of the city. If they stayed here they would be overwhelmed.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and then heard Caina Amalas shouting.

  ###

  “Hear me!” yelled Caina into the sudden silence, grateful that Theodosia had long ago taught her how to project her voice. Corvalis and Talekhris and the surviving Venatorii followed her, and she saw the tension in Talekhris’s frame as he struggled to maintain the spell he had placed upon the spears and swords of the ashtairoi and the Guards.

  She had to hurry. She had to convince them to follow her plan at once.

  The Guards and the ashtairoi leveled their weapons at her. After all, when they had last seen her face, Sicarion had tried to kill the Emperor.

  “My name is Caina Amalas!” she shouted. “And I was a Ghost nightfighter, and I have fought the enemies of the Empire for half my life. When the Istarish and the Kyracians came to seize Marsis, I killed Rezir Shahan and I liberated the slaves, and I threw his head into his own army!”

  A murmur went through the ashtairoi and the lords of the Assembly.

  They remembered the tales of the Balarigar.

  “I went to Catekharon,” said Caina, “and I stopped the renegade Seeker from unleashing destruction. I have fought sorcerers, slavers, and thrown down corrupt lords. And again and again I have fought the disciples of the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend, the woman the Kyracians call the Bringer of Ashes. But she is no legend! One of her disciples disguised himself as me and conjured a vision of your worst fears. And even now the Moroaica is summoning the golden dead from atop the Pyramid of Storm!” She pointed at the Pyramid, at the snarling, growing vortex to the netherworld.

  They were listening. They hadn’t killed her yet. That was good.

  “My lords, heed me, I beg,” said Caina. “You must join forces and fight your way to the Pyramid of Storm.” She gestured at Talekhris. “The Sage can maintain the spell warding your weapons. Once we get to the Pyramid, I can follow the Moroaica into the netherworld and kill her with this dagger.” She lifted the ghostsilver blade. “This is our only chance, my lords. We must kill the Moroaica. If we do not, the spell will continue. The dead will rise again and again in golden fire, and will not stop until they have transformed New Kyre into a city of living corpses. They will not stop until they have killed the world. My lords, you must heed me. Do with as you will. Kill me if you must.” Corvalis scowled. “But go to the Pyramid of Storm and stop the Moroaica. The fate of New Kyre, of the Empire, of every nation and every generation yet unborn rests upon your shoulders!”

  She fell silent, breathing hard. Theodosia would have been proud. She hoped Theodosia was still alive.

  “Citizens and lords of the Assembly,” said Kylon, stepping away from the ashtairoi ranks. “I urge you to follow her counsel. If not for this woman, we would have been victorious in Marsis. If not for her, the terrible weapons in Catekharon would have drowned the world in blood. And if not for her, my wife would be dead, and ancient Maat would have been born anew in blood and death.” He walked to Caina’s side, and Thalastre joined them. “I would prefer to act with the consent of the Assembly, but if need be I shall do this myself.”

  “You have,” said Lord Tiraedes, “quite convinced us, Kylon.”

  “This woman is a traitor and a murderess,” said Corbould. “I will not rest until I see her dead.”

  “Perhaps she speaks the truth,” said the pale-haired lord near Corbould, “but she might not. Better that we kill her rather than risk of future treachery.”

  Ark snorted. “A fine argument, given that she just saved us from a disciple of the Moroaica.”

  “Enough!” said Lord Titus. “My lords, we must act at once, or we risk ruin darker than any in the history of the Empire. In the history of the world! My lord Emperor, what shall we do?”

  For a moment Alexius Naerius stared at Caina. She had never spoken to him. She had served him for half her life, and Halfdan had always spoken highly of him, but she did not know him at all.

  “My lords,” said the Emperor at last. “In this matter I shall give you one command, and I expect you to obey it diligently.”

  He pointed at Caina, and she took a deep breath. If they came to kill her, she would not resist. They had to stop the Moroaica before she destroyed the world. If her life was the cost for that, so be it.

  “Do whatever that woman tells you,” said the Emperor.

  Caina blinked.

  She had not expected that.

  “My lord Emperor!” said Corbould.

  “Corbould,” said Alexius, and the old lord fell silent, still glaring at Caina.

  She took another deep breath. If they lived through this, she could deal with Corbould later.

  “Ark, Kylon,” said Caina. “Get us to the Pyramid of Storm.”

  Chapter 20 - The Golden Dead

  Ark looked at the sky and frowned.

  The tear in the heavens was getting bigger.

  The Imperial Guards marched deeper into New Kyre, flanked on either side by ashtairoi with their shields and swords. The combined nobles of the Assembly and the Imperial embassy walked in the center of the formation, along with the stormsingers and the magi. Together they guarded Talekhris, who gripped his Sage’s rod in both hands, silver fire flickering around it. They had to keep the golden dead from reaching him. Without him, they would lose the spell enhancing their weapons, and then the golden dead would tear them to pieces.

  They had been attacked three times since leaving the Agora of Nations, mostly by bands of golden dead wandering the streets. All three times they had been victorious at minimal cost, but if Talekhris was killed, the next skirmish would not go as well.

  They did not have much time left.

  Thousands upon thousands of golden dead rose from the harbor, clawing their way free from their watery graves at the bottom of the sea. The creatures had no purpose, no direction, and attacked and wandered at random, moaning and wailing. Sometimes locked doors thwarted them, and other times they stormed into the ziggurats and the tenements, killing everyone within. If the huge mass of golden dead forced the Imperial Guard and the ashtairoi to retreat into one of the ziggurats, they would be trapped until they died of hunger and thirst or the golden dead killed them all.

  Or until the rift in the sky swallowed them.

  When they had left the Agora of Nations, the vortex has been perhaps half the size of the Pyramid of Storm. Now it was large enough to cover the Pyramid itself, and perhaps a third of the Agora of Archons as well. Looking at the rift gave Ark a sense of vertigo, as if he was staring into a chasm that had no bottom.

  He saw Caina looking at him, her ragged caravan guard’s disguise dirty and bloodstained. As always, her ability to change her appearance surprised him. He had seen her as a beautiful young noblewoman, so stunning that she drew half the eyes in the room, or as a scarred, weathered mercenary who had nothing in common with that beautiful woman.

  “The damned thing’s getting bigger, isn’t it?” said Ark.

  Caina nodded. As always, Corvalis walked at her side, the ghostsilver spear ready in his hand.

  “What is it?” said Ark.

  “Talekhris says it’s a gate to the netherworld,” said Caina. “Apparently Jadriga had to open it to draw enough power to raise the golden dead. Then she entered the netherworld to make war upon the gods. But whatever she’s doing in the netherworld is making the gate bigger. It will keep getting bigger until it rips apart our world.”

  “Gods,” said Ark. “And Kalastus just wanted to burn Rasadda to the ground.”

  She almost smiled. “Life was simpler back then, wasn’t it?”

  “Lord
Champion!”

  Ark turned. The men marched up a broad avenue leading to the Agora of Archons, a wide canal flowing down its center. Bridges stretched over the canal every fifty yards, dozens of boats floating abandoned in the water. The people of New Kyre had fled the streets once the golden dead rose. He hoped they had gotten to safety behind locked doors. He hoped the golden dead did not start tearing down those locked doors.

  One of his scouts hurried closer. Ark had asked for volunteers, and the Guards had a goodly number of men who knew how to move quietly. The burning dead, for all their strength and speed, were not terribly clever, and a skilled man could avoid their notice.

  “Lord Champion!” said the scout, breathing hard. “A great mob of the dead march through that side street.” He pointed at a street that branched off from the main avenue, another canal going down its center. “At least five hundred strong.”

  Ark cursed. “Can we get to the Agora of the Archons before they intercept us?”

  “I do not believe so,” said the scout. “They’ll hit us just as we pass the street.”

  “It’s not much farther to the Agora of Archons,” said Kylon. “If we press on, we can perhaps make it.”

  “I agree with Lord Kylon,” said Talekhris, a hint of strain in his voice as he maintained the spell upon the weapons. “This will not end until we get to the Pyramid of Storm and confront the Moroaica.”

  “If we cannot get to the Pyramid,” said Ark, “then we will not end anything. More golden dead rise from the harbor. If we get pinned here, they’ll catch up to us and we’re finished.” He turned to Kylon. “I suggest we fight off the smaller band of golden dead. If we do it quickly enough, we can finish them off and make it to the Agora of Archons before the rest catch us.”

  “Agreed,” said Kylon.

  “Formation!” shouted Ark to the Imperial Guards. “Facing that street! Shield wall, and spears on the flanks. Go!”

  The men hastened to obey, forming a shield wall to block off the side street. The ashtairoi arranged themselves on the flanks, their spears flickering with the silver light of Talekhris’s sorcery. Behind them the magi and the stormsingers readied themselves.