The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Ark?” said Ostros, blinking at the younger man. “Is…that truly you? You’re not dead?”

  “It is,” said Ark.

  “How do I know you’re not a demon, come to trick me?” said Ostros, his voice beginning to tremble again.

  “I swear it to you,” said Ark. “And not on the name of any gods.” He lifted his left hand, touched the cheap ring on the third finger. “I will swear it to you on Tanya’s name, Ostros. You know what that means to me. I swear on her name that I am telling you the truth.”

  Ostros gave a slow nod. “Yes. It…yes. I know what that name means to you. Not even your shade would lie upon such an oath. I thought…I thought you were dead, though. Like the others. Gods, like all the others.” He rubbed the heels of his hands across his forehead. “I saw them burn, I saw them burn. Oh, Crastia. I heard her scream…”

  “What happened?” Caina grabbed his hands, pulled them away from his face. “Tell us what happened.”

  “It’s so jumbled,” said Ostros. “A nightmare, over and over again.”

  “Then start from the beginning.”

  Ostros nodded, closed his eyes. “It…was a year ago. Yes, I remember. Things weren’t nearly so bad in Rasadda then. We had orders from the Emperor. We were to spy on Lord Nicephorus, to find irrefutable proof of his wrongdoing. Once we had it, the Emperor would remove him from office and bring charges before the Imperial Curia.” He rubbed his chin, the stubble making a rasping noise. “And if we couldn’t find anything, we were to kill him.”

  “What?” said Ark. “You never told me that.”

  “I was the circlemaster,” said Ostros. “Our orders were secret. And it’s easier for one man to keep a secret than seven.”

  “So you were spying on Nicephorus,” said Caina. “When did the murders start?”

  “There were only a few, at first,” said Ostros. “I didn’t think anything of them. Sometimes a murderer will throw his victim’s body into the pyramid pyres to disguise his crimes. But there were more. And Nicephorus’s policies grew harsher. And still more burning murders. The city started to seethe. Something had to be done.” He shuddered. “I heard rumors. The victims…simply caught on fire. Burned with flames that no water could quench.” He giggled. “I thought it foolishness at the time.” He burst into peals of despairing, shaking laughter. “I know better now! Oh, gods, I know better!”

  Caina gave him a violent shake. “Stop that! What did you do then?”

  Ostros’s wild laughter trailed into despondent whimpers. “I…I knew we needed help. Nicephorus’s crimes had pushed the city towards revolt. Those murders were only making things worse. So I…so I sent Ark to request help. A nightfighter, we needed a nightfighter. And I. The Magisterium…”

  “The Magisterium?” said Caina. “What about the Magisterium? Are they behind this?”

  “No,” said Ostros. “In fact, they offered to help. The masters. Ephaeron and Kalastus. They both feared that some Saddai priest had rediscovered the Ashbringers’ lost art…pyromancy, they called it. Fire sorcery.”

  “But the Ghosts and the Magisterium have been enemies for centuries,” said Caina.

  Ostros shook his head. “They said pyromancy was incredibly dangerous. So dangerous that they would set aside our differences to stamp it out. Ephaeron especially.” He shook his head. “They thought…they thought that this pyromancer, this new Ashbringer, was someone in Gaidan’s rebel band. A Son of Corazain. We began to investigate. And then…and then…”

  Ostros curled into a ball and began to weep.

  “What happened?” said Caina. “Tell us.”

  “My circle,” said Ostros. “They killed my circle. All of them. Everyone except Ark, I suppose.”

  “How were they killed?” said Caina.

  “They burned,” whispered Ostros.

  “We know that,” said Caina. “But how?”

  “Sorcery,” said Ostros. “Too strong. The Magisterium couldn’t stop it. We are just men of flesh and blood. How can we battle sorcery?” He turned panicked eyes towards Caina. “You must flee the city! You must! Otherwise they’ll kill you too, they’ll kill you too…”

  “Listen to me!” said Caina, grabbing his shoulders, suddenly angry. “Sorcery can be fought. I have done it. A magus once tried to kill me, but I killed her first. I swear to you, on the name of my father, that I will find this murderer, and he will answer for what he has done! Do you hear me?”

  Ostros nodded, still trembling.

  “Now, how were they killed?” said Caina. A breeze blew through the narrow alley, set her tattered skirt and cloak to dancing. “How were they burned to death?”

  “I…I don’t rightly know,” said Ostros. “They…burned. Gods, how they burned. One moment they were alive. The next they were burning. I watched Crastia burn to death, Ark. Oh, gods, the screams.” He pawed at his dirty sleeve suddenly, revealing a shallow cut. “They took their blood, I see it now. For the spell. Don’t you see? They took my blood, too.” His voice rose to a shriek. “They took my blood, too!”

  Caina opened her mouth to ask a question, and all at once she felt it.

  Her skin crawled, the hair on her neck standing up on end, and she felt the electric snarl of unseen power crackling in the air, like lighting about to strike. She jumped to her feet, drawing knives in either hand. The breeze picked up to a steady wind, and the air seemed to buzz around her.

  Sorcery.

  “No!” shrieked Ostros, clawing to his feet. “No, no, gods, please, no, not like this, not like this…”

  He took a step towards her, then another.

  The howling power in the air surged.

  And Ostros exploded into raging flames.

  Sheets of fire erupted from his arms, his chest, his face, and yet even over their roar Caina heard Ostros’s scream of agony. He flung himself against the wall, trying to beat out of the flames, but still they chewed into his flesh. Caina saw his clothes dissolve into cinders, his hair wither into ashes, his eyes shrivel. And still Ostros screamed and screamed.

  “Move, damn you!” Ark shoved her aside, a barrel of rainwater in his arms, and flung it over Ostros. It did nothing. The flames did not even flicker as the water splashed over him, did not even steam. Ostros lurched towards Ark, arms outstretched in supplication, and stumbled. Caina tried to get out of the way, but the burning man fell against her.

  She expected the agony of heat, expected her clothes to catch fire, but nothing happened. She felt no heat, not pain. To her horror, she felt Ostros’s arm shriveling and twisting beneath her hand, felt the blackened skin crumbling beneath her fingers, but still she felt no heat. The black smoke poured off him in waves, but she could not smell it.

  Ostros stumbled away from her, the unnatural flames still eating into his flesh. He crumpled to the ground, mercifully, and did not move. Smoke poured from the blackened ruins of his face. The crackling power drained from the air, and all at once the smell, the awful, reeking smell, struck Caina like a fist.

  A charred, ruined husk lay at her feet, just like Vanio.

  Chapter 10 - The Sons of Corazain

  “Countess,” said Ark.

  Caina stared at Ostros’s smoking corpse, unable to look away.

  “Countess.”

  She had seen death before, more than she cared to remember. She had killed men, watched them die on the end of her knife. She had even seen her father and mother die in the space of a few hours.

  But she had never seen anyone die so horribly.

  “Countess!” Ark seized her arm. His eyes were wild and fierce. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

  Caina looked at the corpse, at Ark, back at the corpse.

  “Someone will have seen the smoke, heard the screams,” said Ark. “If we are still here when the militia arrives that will be bad. We have to go. Now!”

  “Yes,” said Caina. “Yes, you’re right. But…oh, gods, to die like that…”

  “I know,” said Ark. “But we have to go.
”

  Caina nodded. She tore her eyes from Ostros’s smoldering husk, suddenly grateful that she had not eaten breakfast. “Which…which way?”

  “Anywhere but here,” said Ark. He broke into a run, and Caina urged her aching legs to follow him. They rounded a corner, crossed a street, and raced down a narrow alley between sagging, black-painted apartment buildings. Caina heard a sudden scream behind her, followed by a frantic voice calling for the militia. Ark kept running, and at last they came to a courtyard behind between a pair of crumbling warehouses. Abandoned crates and barrels lay strewn across the ground, weathered and splintered, and weeds poked between cracked flagstones. Two of the smaller black pyramids rose in the background, their tops crowned with fire.

  “This ought to be far enough,” said Ark. “Give me a moment. I need to catch my breath.”

  Caina nodded and leaned against a wall, raking a hand through her sweaty hair. The stench of Ostros’s burned flesh saturated her clothing. She could still hear his hideous scream, the ghastly sizzle as the flames consumed his flesh.

  “So,” said Ark, “you’re not made of ice after all.”

  Caina blinked. “I’ve seen men die before. But…but I’ve never seen anyone burn to death before, Ark.”

  “I have.” His voice was quiet. “Boiling oil, poured from a wall. It’s not the sort of thing you forget. The scream. The smell.” His voice got even quieter. “Gods, the smell.”

  “No.” Caina took a ragged breath. “I hope no one saw us chasing him.”

  “We’ll say he knocked you down and stole some jewelry from you,” said Ark. “If anyone noticed.”

  “Yes, of course.” Caina should have thought of that herself.

  “You covered your face, at least. Which was clever. Your clothes are so torn up that you look like a thief.”

  “At least we know one thing,” said Caina. “Sorcery was used to kill these men.”

  Ark stared at her.

  “You saw it, didn’t you?” said Caina. “You dumped a barrel of water on him. Nothing. No steam, not even a sizzle. And he fell onto me, Ark. I should have been burned. But I didn’t feel any heat.” Her hands rolled into fists. “The Magisterium will pay for this.”

  “The Magisterium?” said Ark, incredulous.

  “Do you know any others who use sorcery?” said Caina.

  “You heard Ostros. He thought Gaidan, or one of Gaidan’s disciples, was behind it. So do Kalastus and Ephaeron. I’ve seen Ephaeron in action, and he’s no fool. If he thinks the Sons of Corazain are behind these murders, I’m inclined to believe him.”

  “Of course the Magisterium would say that,” said Caina, more scorn in her voice than she would have liked. “How better to conceal their crimes?”

  “Indeed,” said Ark. “What basis do you have for accusing the Magisterium? The victims all burned to death. The Saddai worship a god called the Living Flame. The Ashbringers used to practice fire sorcery. Both the magi and Ostros thought the Sons of Corazain were behind the murders. And we just saw a man killed with pyromancy in front of our eyes. So tell me, clever Countess. How does this evidence damn the Magisterium?”

  “If you won’t see their villainy, then you are blind,” said Caina.

  “And you are blind to anything else,” said Ark.

  Caina took a deep breath, tried to still the rage and pain. “Enough. Enough! We cannot quarrel among ourselves. If we do, we are lost.”

  Ark’s scowl did not waver, but he nodded. “Very well.”

  “Let’s get back to the Inn,” said Caina. “The sooner we’re off the streets, the better…”

  She heard footsteps, and turned.

  Ark’s broadsword rasped from its scabbard.

  A half-dozen Saddai peasants walked into the courtyard, clad in ragged clothes. They stared at Caina with hard, glittering eyes, clubs in their hands. The lead man’s shirt hung open, and Caina saw the flame tattoo upon his chest.

  “You’ll want to idle elsewhere,” said Ark.

  “I know you,” said the lead man in Saddaic. “I saw you in the plaza, below great Corazain’s tomb. Gaidan renounced you, whore of the Empire.”

  Caina said nothing.

  He looked her over and laughed. “What’s this, then? Out for a tumble with your guardsman? Perhaps a feather bed wasn’t good enough for you?” His followers laughed. “Or maybe you wanted to do it on a hard surface, since he wasn’t hard enough to please you.”

  “What wrong I have ever done you?” said Caina. “I have never even spoken to you before this day. If my presence so offends you, I’ll go.”

  The Saddai laughed. “Oh, no. We’ll burn the infection of the Empire from our ancestral lands. Starting with you.”

  “Try it,” said Ark, lifting his broadsword, “and you’ll be face to face with your precious Living Flame before this day is done.”

  The Saddai laughed again. “The Living Flame? A false and corrupt god, a lie told to weaklings. We follow the Burning Flame, the true Saddai god.”

  The Burning Flame? Caina had not heard that one before.

  “We’ll kill her in front of you,” said the Saddai man, the other Sons of Corazain fanning out behind him, “make her squeal and beg for her life…”

  Any other time, Caina might have tried to talk her way out of it, or just run. But Ostros’s death had filled her with a vicious fury, and that fury had found an outlet.

  “Throw down your weapons and run,” said Caina, her voice ice. “Once chance is all I’ll give you. Otherwise I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  The leader blinked, then began to laugh with his followers.

  Caina slipped a knife from a sheath and stepped forward, her back arched, her arm swinging back. Her entire body snapped like a bowstring, sending the knife hurtling at the leader. He had titled back his head to laugh, which meant Caina had a lovely path to his neck. Her blade ripped his throat open and slashed the major vein. Blood gushed over his tattered cloak, and the leader fell to his knees, drowning in his own blood.

  Ark gave her a surprised glance. The Sons of Corazain gaped at their dying leader.

  “Well?” snapped Caina. She snatched the dagger from her right boot and raised her weapons, dagger in right hand, and knife in her left. “Who’s next?”

  “She has murdered Baizair!” shouted one. “Kill them!”

  The Sons of Corazain came in a rush. Ark roared a war cry in Caerish and ran to meet them, his broadsword blurring in a steely arc. One of the Saddai tried to parry with his club, and Ark’s blow shattered the crude weapon and tore a gash down the man’s side. Ark twisted, and his spinning backhand opened another man’s belly. The man fell with a strangled shriek, clutching his dislocated innards, while the other three backed off in a wary circle. They did not look at Caina at all, which gave her a marvelous opportunity to throw another knife, which she did. Another man toppled, his lifeblood soaking into the cracks between the flagstones.

  “Last chance,” growled Ark. “Run away, now, or you’ll get to join your precious Living or Burning Flame or whatever the hell you call it.”

  The last two men backed away. The man on the left glanced at Caina, and then looked at a stack of crates leaning against the warehouse wall. Caina followed his gaze, saw the flash of metal atop the crate.

  “Ark!” she shouted, diving for the ground, “down!”

  Ark threw himself sideways just as two crossbow quarrels stabbed down from the crates. The first one shattered against the ground. The second ripped past Ark’s flank, and he grunted in sudden pain, landing on one knee. The surviving Sons of Corazain rushed him.

  Caina leapt back to her feet, saw two Saddai men in militia garb standing atop the stack of crates, reloading their crossbows. She ran at the stack, and the nearest militiaman cursed and swung his bow around to face her. Caina jumped and threw out her legs, her feet smacking into the crate. The entire stack shuddered, and the crossbowman lost his balance, his bolt flying wild. Caina kicked out again, and the stack of crates b
egan to lean sideways. One of the men jumped off the stack, while the other fell backwards with a scream.

  She sprang to her feet as the militiaman swung his bow to face her. She slashed with her dagger, and the man dropped the crossbow with a snarl of pain, blood welling from his hand. He pawed for the dagger at his belt, but Caina stepped forward and drove her blade into his throat. She heard noise behind her, and ducked as the second militiaman came at her, using the stock of his crossbow as a club. Caina spun and kicked him in the knee as he went past. Something snapped, and the militiaman spilled to the ground, screaming. Caina stomped on his wrist as he reached for his dagger, and he flopped onto his back, moaning.

  “You can fight,” gasped the astonished Saddai. “But…you’re just a woman, and you can fight!”

  Caina looked down at him and drew the dagger from her left boot.

  “I swear I won’t tell,” he babbled, “I swear, I swear…”

  “You won’t,” said Caina, and she bought his silence with steel.

  His gurgling scream ended, and Caina looked for Ark. She found him kneeling besides one of the dead Saddai peasants, and for a moment she thought he had been killed. But he was only cleaning his sword on the dead man’s shirt.

  “Are you hurt?” said Caina.

  Ark looked up at her without blinking, and Caina glanced down at herself. Her clothes were splashed with blood, and shredded almost to the point of indecency. Suddenly self-conscious, she tugged her dirty cloak closer.

  “No,” said Ark, standing. He fingered a gash in his leather jerkin, his mail shirt visible through the tear. “That bolt almost skewered me, but the mail turned it.” He frowned at her. “I’ve never seen anyone throw a knife like that.”

  “Thank you.” Caina began collecting her knives from the corpses.

  “Where did you learn how to throw like that?”

  Caina glanced at him. “Remember when you saw me practicing open-handed forms in the morning? I told you that they weren’t useless.” She crossed to the dead militiamen. “Militiamen? Why would militiamen try to kill us?”