The Ghosts Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

“They have a very low chance of getting through my door,” said Radast.

  Caina and Ark shared a look.

  “They don’t have to go through the door,” said Caina. “They’re going to set the building on fire, and kill us as we come down the stairs.”

  “Oh,” said Radast. He frowned. “I had not calculated that possibility.”

  “Too late now,” said Ducas.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Halfdan. “Radast, is the door the only way in and out of here?”

  “No,” said Jiri. “In the bedroom, there’s a trapdoor with a ladder to the roof.”

  “Good,” said Halfdan. “We’ll go from roof to roof, make our way to the docks. I have a safehouse there.”

  “A safehouse? You never told me about that,” said Ducas.

  “I’m a Ghost circlemaster,” said Halfdan. “I’m hardly going to share all my secrets with you.”

  “What if they have someone on the roof?” said Jiri, hugging herself.

  “Then we’ll just have to cut our way through,” said Ark.

  That would be a fine trick, if all of Icaraeus’s men had been equipped with those steel-warding bracers. Caina gave Jiri and Radast a dubious look. She doubted either of them would be much use in a straight fight. She hoped that Ducas really did know how to use that broadsword.

  “Enough talk,” said Halfdan. “Radast, Jiri, grab what weapons you can. Cover your faces, as well.” Radast nodded and grabbed a bundle from his table. The others pulled on improvised masks. “Let’s get moving before we burn to death. Arlann, you have your shield? Good. You’ll be first up the ladder.” Ark nodded and readied his battle-scarred shield on his left arm. Caina tugged her mask into place and pulled up her cowl. “Let’s move.”

  They crowded into the bedroom. A ladder rested against one wall, leading to a heavy steel trapdoor. Ark scaled the ladder, shield and sword ready. He unlocked the trapdoor, thrust it open, and sprang onto the roof, shield leading.

  Caina heard him grunt, heard steel bite into the shield.

  She scrambled up the ladder and leapt onto the roof. Ark faced off against a man wielding a dagger and a sword, bracers flickering with green light on his forearms. Caina stepped past Ark's attacker, arched her back, and plunged both her fists onto the back of his neck. The man stumbled, and Ark’s shield slammed into his face. Caina swept the swordsman’s legs out from under him, and his head cracked against the shingles.

  The bracers might ward steel, but they did little against fists and stout oak.

  Two more men ran at her and Ark, swords ready. Ark caught the blow upon his shield, staggering back towards the trapdoor. Caina dodged a thrust aimed at her head, the sword plunging past her shoulder. Her attacker overbalanced, and Caina’s hands darted out and seized his wrist.

  A harsh tingle shot up her arms as her gloved fingers brushed against the rune-scribed bracers.

  She twisted, and the sword fell from the man’s hand. He growled, swinging his free fist at her face. Caina twisted around him, pinned his arm behind him, planted a boot in his lower back, and shoved. He lurched away, stumbling a half-dozen steps to regain his balance.

  The last step took him right over the edge of the roof. He had time to scream, and then Caina heard the sickening crack of bone shattering against the street.

  Caina whirled, saw Ark send his opponent reeling back with a bash from his shield. Another blow, and the man crumpled, stunned. Ducas was already on the roof, and Halfdan scrambled up the ladder, followed by Radast and Jiri.

  “Here,” said Radast. He held a pair of oak rods. “Use these. The bracers can turn steel, but not wood.”

  “A stick?” said Ducas, snatching one. “You expect me to fight a swordsman with a damned stick?”

  “Shut up,” said Halfdan, helping himself to the other rod. He squinted at the street for a moment, then nodded. “This way. Go.”

  They ran, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. It reminded Caina of stalking Tigrane through the docks…but no one had been chasing her then. She saw Icaraeus’s mercenaries keeping pace below. Sooner or later the mercenaries would cut them off, or send a group to the rooftops.

  That was bad. Caina had no trouble running and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, and neither did Ark or Ducas. But Radast was falling behind, Jiri was starting to limp, and Halfdan’s breath was coming sharp and hard.

  Unless Caina did something clever soon, they were probably going to die.

  She saw the man with the crossbow lift his weapon.

  “Down!” Caina shouted, ducking. She dodged to the side, letting her cloak billow to present a larger target. The others ducked as well.

  All save for Jiri, who stumbled with a cry of pain, hand clutching her right hip.

  “Jiri!” shouted Radast, taking her arms as she sagged.

  “It’s not, it’s not bad,” said Jiri, eyes wide. “It only clipped me.” A lot of blood was coming from the wound, though, and her face had gone gray with pain.

  “Can you walk?” said Halfdan. “We have to keep moving.”

  “No,” said Jiri with a tight shake of her head. “Go without me.”

  “I will not leave you here,” said Radast

  A pair of mercenaries emerged on the rooftop of a neighboring house, weapons in hand.

  “Too late,” she said.

  Ducas swore and gave his oaken rod a dubious look. More mercenaries filed onto the rooftop, swords ready. Eight of them, including the man with the crossbow.

  “We fight, then,” said Halfdan. “Get ready.”

  Caina watched them come, cursing herself. She should never have stayed alone with Jadriga. And Ducas was right. An oaken rod against a competent swordsman was not a winning tactic. Caina knew how to fight unarmed, but she could not possibly defeat an armed, skillful foe.

  Then the mercenaries rushed them, and Caina had no more time for thought. Two men came at her, driving her back towards the edge of the roof with vigorous blows of their swords. Caina parried with a dagger, dodging and weaving. She couldn’t keep this up forever, and the mercenaries knew it. Sooner or later one of them would score a hit, or she would lose her footing and plunge to her death.

  She saw Radast staring at her, his eyes bright with calculation. He knelt and rummaged through his bundle, looking for something. Then he stood, bright metal gleaming in his hand.

  “Take this!” he yelled. “It will balance the equation!”

  He threw the shining thing at her head.

  Caina caught it on instinct. Her hand closed around the hilt of a curved Kyracian dagger, the blade written with flowing characters. It shone in the moonlight, seeming to glow.

  Ghostsilver.

  The blade had been plated with ghostsilver. Ghostsilver was proof against certain kinds of arcane attack…

  Her eyes widened with the realization.

  The nearest mercenary thrust, and Caina sidestepped, moving inside his guard. He wore no armor. None of the mercenaries did. Why bother, after all, when their enspelled bracers would protect them from steel weapons? He wore no armor, and there was nothing to stop Caina from burying the ghostsilver dagger to the hilt in his throat.

  The wound drew no blood. Instead it smoked and charred, as if she had plunged a hot iron into his throat, and the hilt grew hot beneath her hand. The man staggered, mouth open in a silent scream. Caina yanked the curved dagger free and kicked out. Her enemy lost his balance and crashed into the second man. Caina spun around them and drove the dagger into the second man’s neck. Again the wound burned black with smoke, the dagger warming, and the man fell.

  Caina wrenched the weapon free and turned. She saw Ark and Halfdan fighting back to back, Halfdan with the rod, Ark with his shield. They were losing, but they were holding their own for the moment.

  There was a brilliant green flash. Ducas fell in a roll across the rooftop, the shattered remnants of his broadsword falling from his hand. Caina realized what had happened. In desperation he had drawn his sword, striking his op
ponent…and the enspelled bracers had shattered his weapon, just as they had shattered the knife Caina had flung at Icaraeus’s throat.

  Ducas clawed at the shingles and managed to stop his tumble a few inches from the edge of the roof. Two pursuers bounded after him, blades raised for the kill. They paid no attention to Caina whatsoever. Evidently they had not seen the fate of their comrades.

  Caina let them go past, spun on her heel, and drove the dagger into the nearest man’s right kidney with all her strength. He stumbled to a stop with a sudden agonized gasp of pain, eyes bulging, arms flailing for balance. Caina kicked him in the back of the knee and he went over the edge of the roof. The second man turned towards her, eyes wide with surprised alarm.

  “You can’t hurt us!” he whispered.

  Caina spun the ghostsilver dagger in a showy flourish, smoke still rising from the blade, and waited.

  It didn’t take very long. Ducas tackled the man from behind, driving him to the shingles. The man fell with a thump, the wind bursting from his lungs. Caina dropped to one knee and plunged the dagger into his throat, the wound sizzling.

  “How did you…” Ducas began.

  “Not now,” said Caina, turning back to Ark and Halfdan. Radast had produced another of those ghostsilver Kyracian daggers from his bundle and gotten it to Ark. Even as Caina watched, Ark sent another man falling, smoke rising from his torn throat. Caina stepped up, reversed her dagger, and rammed it into the back of the nearest mercenary.

  The fight was over a short time later. Caina looked around, breathing hard. The streets were empty, and she saw no sign of any other mercenaries. Or of any Legionaries, for that matter. Apparently the wealthier districts were not so well patrolled after all.

  “How?” said Ducas. “How did you hurt them? My sword…” He looked at the splintered remnants of his broadsword and scowled.

  “Ghostsilver,” said Caina, lifting her weapon. “The dagger is silvered.” She looked at Radast. “How did you know ghostsilver weapons could pierce their protections?”

  “I…I did not,” said Radast, helping Jiri to her feet. “I calculated. Four years, seven months, and nineteen days ago I constructed a special chest for a brother of the Magisterium. He insisted that dozens of sigils be carved into the sides and filled with ghostsilver. I calculated that he intended the sigils to deflect sorcery. So it seemed an excellent chance that silver could pierce the mercenaries’ sorcerous protections.”

  “Good thing that you were right,” said Ark.

  “Yes,” said Caina, looking at the corpses. That had been close. “It was. Where did you get that much ghostsilver? It costs a fortune."

  Radast shrugged. "I told the magus the job would require more ghostsilver than it actually did."

  Jiri closed her eyes and managed a soft laugh. "You rogue."

  “Those bracers,” said Ducas, kneeling besides a corpse. “Those will come in handy.”

  “No!” said Caina. Suddenly she remembered the misshapen wolves from her dream. “Don’t touch them.”

  “Why not?” said Ducas.

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “I…think they might do bad things to you.” She pointed at the dead man. “Knife wounds aren’t supposed to…smoke like that.”

  Ducas swallowed and lifted his hands from the bracers.

  “We can discuss this later,” said Halfdan, his breath still coming hard. “I want to get off the streets before more of Icaraeus’s men come along. Jiri, can you move?”

  Jiri stood, leaning against Radast, and winced. “I…can limp.”

  “That’ll have to do,” said Halfdan. He looked around and spotted the trapdoor in the roof. “This way.”

  “Ducas,” said Caina, “make sure you take one of their swords. We might need it before we get to the safehouse.”

  Ducas scowled at her, but did as she ordered.

  ###

  They made it unmolested to the docks, and stopped before an abandoned warehouse. A heavy chain held the doors shut, pinned in place by a steel lock. A rather complex, sturdy lock, come to think of it.

  “Ah,” said Radast. “So that is why you ordered that lock.”

  Halfdan produced an equally complex-looking key, opened the lock, and drew back the chain. After throwing a quick glance around the street, he pushed open the door, and waved them inside. Caina stood in the darkness, waiting until Halfdan began lighting candles. A trio of tables stood in the darkness, covered with tools, weapon racks standing nearby. Barrels of wine had been stacked in the corner, and Caina saw bundles of dried food dangling from the ceiling, hung up to protect them from rats.

  “A cozy little hole you’ve got here, Basil,” said Ducas.

  “The warehouse is registered to a Anshani emir who died three years ago,” said Halfdan. “None of his heirs or his seneschals bothered to claim the place. So I thought I’d put it to better use.” He glanced at Caina. “And since Anna didn’t know about, there’s no way Jadriga could have stolen the knowledge from her thoughts. Icaraeus can’t find us here.”

  “Clever,” grunted Ducas. He snatched a wooden cup from the tables and walked to the wine casks. Radast helped Jiri to one of the cots.

  “Anna,” said Halfdan, “help him with her wound.”

  “Let Arlann do it,” said Caina. “I’m going out again.”

  “Are you insane?” said Ducas.

  “Perhaps,” said Caina, “but I have good reason.”

  “Which is?” said Halfdan.

  “I want to check on Zorgi’s inn,” said Caina. “If Jadriga and Agria knew about Radast’s workshop, then they probably know about the inn as well. I don’t want Zorgi or his workers to get killed on our account. And if Icaraeus has sent men to the inn, I might learn something useful from them.”

  “Madness,” muttered Ducas.

  “I know how to move unseen,” said Caina.

  This time Ducas did not argue. Perhaps he knew better, having seen her fight.

  “Do it,” said Halfdan. “Get back here before dawn, though. And if Icaraeus’s men are attacking the inn, don’t try to get involved. Alert the Legion and get out of there. Oh, and check on Radast’s workshop, if you get a chance. Understand?”

  Caina nodded, and slipped into the night.

  Chapter 15 - Counsels

  Caina moved slowly and carefully through the docks, keeping out of sight, pausing to hide whenever groups of drunken sailors wandered near. Caina didn’t mind. It gave her time to think.

  That damnable dream. Somehow it had warned her of Icaraeus’s mercenaries. But how was that even possible? A reaction to Jadriga’s attack upon her mind, perhaps? But that made no sense. Undoubtedly Jadriga had sent those men to kill Caina.

  Was the dream a message of some kind? But from who?

  Or what?

  Caina remembered of the dream-image of her mother and shuddered. Whatever that thing had been, it hadn’t been her mother. Nicorus had said that the scars from the necromancers made her more sensitive to the presence of sorcery, to necromantic energies. Was she sensing something?

  If so, then what?

  Caina gave her head a shake. Too many questions, and not enough answers. Perhaps she could find answers when they took down Icaraeus. Yet she doubted that even Icaraeus’s death would resolve this. She had started this hunt to find a slave trader and a traitor to the Empire…and she had found worse things. Agria Palaegus and her sorcery. And Jadriga. A sorceress of power, unlike any Caina had ever met before. What did she want?

  Whoever Jadriga was, whatever Jadriga was, Caina suspected that she was far more dangerous than Icaraeus ever could be. Caina had gotten lucky. Jadriga could have shattered her mind, reducing her to a drooling simpleton, or simply killed her on the spot. No wonder Nicorus had been terrified of her.

  Caina pushed her questions aside. Chewing endlessly over them would achieve nothing. Besides, it might distract her, and she needed to focus.

  She returned to the market plaza below Radast’s workshop, keeping to th
e shadows of an alley. The plaza now crawled with Legionaries. She saw the insignia on their shields. Ninth Cohort, Twentieth Legion.

  Hiram Palaegus’s cohort.

  She spotted Hiram a short distance away, talking with a man in the plumed helmet of a middle-ranked centurion.

  “A messy business,” said Hiram. “These damned mercenaries. Brawling in the streets.”

  “But their wounds, sir,” said the centurion. “Not a single drop of blood. It looks as if they were burned.”

  “They must have done it to themselves,” said Hiram. “There are no other bodies.”

  Caina scooped up a pebble and threw. It bounced off Hiram’s armored shoulder. Hiram turned, frowning, and saw Caina. She beckoned at him with a gloved hand, and then melted into the darkness of the alley.

  “Centurion,” said Hiram, “I’m going to have a look around. Keep an eye on the cleanup, will you?”

  “Aye, Tribune.”

  Hiram walked into the alley, hand resting on his sword hilt, and squinted at Caina.

  “So. You’re back,” said Hiram. “I suppose you had something to do with this?”

  “These men worked for Icaraeus,” rasped Caina in her disguised voice. “He discovered our location. We just managed to escape.”

  “Gods,” muttered Hiram. “Those wounds. What did you do to them?”

  “The bracers,” said Caina. “Their bracers were enspelled to turn aside steel weapons. Ghostsilver can penetrate the spell, and fortunately we had silvered weapons on hand. The burns come from the reaction of the warding spell to the ghostsilver. Don’t let any of your men loot the bracers. They might have unpleasant side effects.”

  “Sorcery?” said Hiram. “Where would Icaraeus obtain enspelled bracers?”

  “We knew Icaraeus had access to some level of sorcery,” said Caina. “At first we thought the Magisterium was aiding him, or that he had allied with a rogue foreign sorcerer. After I witnessed Agria Palaegus’s abilities, I thought that she had created the bracers. But I was wrong. And there are worse people in Marsis than slave traders and Icaraeus.”

  Hiram frowned. “Such as?”