Old Man's Ghosts

by Tom Lloyd

  Somehow he had been saved. Just a fraction further from the nearest building that exploded, chunks of stone had flown just past his eyes. Voro had been bodily hurled from the bridge, afforded only a single glimpse of the horror through the struts he’d somehow been hurled between while his sister-in-flame was cruelly broken around another.

  Despite his burning armour, the fall to the water had nearly killed him. Voro felt his body tense and curl at the memory of striking the surface and being dragged down. The stiffening pain in his knee intensified as he remembered, the piercing sting in his ribs a remorseless reminder. Voro closed his eyes, falling back on the rituals of his training a decade past.

  He pictured a flickering candle, his blade-like hands cupped about the flame. The warmth grew, intensified into pain, but a Firewind could not fear such pain. The fire was part of their very being, the heat and light echoed by the spark in their soul. It settled over his skin, searing hot but not burning – becoming part of him, drawn deep inside.

  Fire and pain he repeated, taking long slow breaths, they are one, we are one.

  He stayed motionless for a long while and when he started off again, the pain was dimmed. Still present, still insistent, but no hindrance to his movements – no distraction to the languid, deceptive grace the big Dragon could bring to bear if they attacked again. Voro pulled his grey spear from its sheath on his back and went to the terrace edge to look over.

  Lord Mereto’s fortress was a solid, unforgiving building that had never before been assaulted, but something told Voro that was about to change. The Astaren of House Dragon were used to being the aggressors, the hammer-blow that stopped a brawl from spreading into a battle. That they had been attacked was unlikely enough; that they had been nearly wiped out was astonishing.

  Such a thing does not happen by chance, he reminded himself, scanning the shadowy streets below. The packed snow and ice gathered every sliver of starlight and illuminated the streets for him, but picking out the details of the dark shapes below required a brief mantra spoken in the quiet of his enclosed helmet.

  Not by chance, he repeated, and given that this has been planned, they will be ready to press their victory.

  Behind him rose a needle-sharp tower, one of two that burst abruptly from the blockish fortress. Two dozen more studded the perimeter of the central keep and the square barbicans that flanked it – almost decorative by comparison, large enough only for a pair of gunners to stand and shoot over the perimeter wall. Embedded into the walls of those towers were long sweeps of glass that faintly shone green and blue, a modest trick of the Astaren the locals marvelled at – ignorant of the wardings that were their true purpose.

  That nearer tower was Voro’s domain alone now, until his call for reinforcements was answered. There, secure from the rest of the fortress, they kept an array of whispernets and hawkeyes to spy on the city, while steel panels hid armour and weapons enough to decimate an army.

  But not enough to defeat these Gealann mercenaries, he reminded himself bitterly. If they are truly mercenaries. Have House Ghost lied to us, or were they unwitting tools to dupe us? I heard no Eagle voices there and our whispernets have snared nothing of the kind in weeks, but who else would be so determined to destroy an Astaren force? Could they really be so crazed to set that trap merely to buy themselves time?

  Below him there were running footsteps in the street beyond the wall, but it was only a detachment of soldiers moving in an ordered block. For a moment he was almost persuaded that he had been mistaken and dusk would not herald any further bloodshed. Then he heard a distant howl roll across the city.

  Voro kept very still, letting the sound fade as he tried to unpick the demon sounds in his mind, a second howl coming from the south of the district a few heartbeats later. The howls were subtly different to Astaren ears, one building on the other like a rising tide. A third confirmed his suspicion and in the next moment his exoskeleton began to glow. Prayers to the Gods shone out over the terrace, traced in light over the smooth stone floor, and then an arc of flame erupted from his arm to spiral down the length of his short grey spear.

  In response, a growl echoed across the terrace behind him. Voro restrained the urge to dodge to one side and turned towards the sound. Spear-tip levelled he surged forward, only to find nothing waiting. The terrace remained empty, the only movement the twitching end of a canopy imperfectly secured away.

  Again there came a growl, this time from Voro’s left – a stretch of ground he knew to be empty. The ball of loss in his stomach lessened a shade and the ache of his injuries faded as an unseen grin stole across his face. The stern, stylised expression on his face-plate betrayed none of that, but when he spoke the words carried unimpeded over the terrace.

  ‘Come here, little dog, come out into the light.’

  Voro exploded into flames, a burst of white light that tore across the terrace. Against the fire, dark shapes were cast like an afterimage that fought to escape. The fighter’s instinct rose up in him as shadow fangs snapped from his right and he rolled away from the attack even as he brought his spear to bear. The grey metal now glowed white and the blade cut the night apart – a sickle-like trail searing through the hellhound’s maw.

  The darkness closed in on both sides but Voro slipped gracefully forward and slashed behind him as shadows burst upon his armour of flames. He crouched as one went high and brought his weapon up under it, lunging and slashing with the precise strokes of the fanatically devoted. And then they were gone, the shadows torn apart and he stood alone, balanced in mid-stroke for the next killing blow that was never needed.

  Voro turned around, spear held high, but he knew in that instant that he was alone – his foes dead or banished back to the plane of dark fire. In the next moment the flames died down and he returned to the white-grey figure of glowing incantations. The hushed hiss of night’s mist turning to vapour on his second skin was the only sound.

  They have entered the fortress, Voro reminded his newly-protesting body, forcing back the warrior instincts that had momentarily taken him over. Lord Omtoray – they must be here for him. If he dies it will compound our weakness in the eyes of the other Great Houses.

  He set off at a sprint, no longer interested in the high vantage of the terrace. Now he had just one goal, one mission, whether or not it cost his last breath.

  The streets will be red with the blood of the fallen, he realised as he raced down the corridor and turned into a narrow spiral stair. But I can do nothing for them. Lord Omtoray is all that matters now.

  Despite that, he called to the servants of the Astaren still in the fortress, both slaved and willing minions of House Dragon’s destroyers. Unheard by all but a select few, his instructions soon spread through the fortress and the standing body of warrior-caste soldiers readied their weapons. Even as the first howls and death-cries rang out through elegant halls and cramped servant rooms alike, torches were lit and blades heated.

  Through it, Voro ran, almost shot by his comrades a half-dozen times before he reached the private rooms of Lord Mereto Omtoray Dragon, the highest representative of his people in the Imperial City. The guards were blessed with quick wits; as the glowing unholy figure burst through the outer door, they recognised the blank face of a Firewind and stepped back. Voro shattered the inner doors to Lord Omtoray’s court and found a pair of shadows closing silently in on two grey-haired high castes.

  Both men had their guns drawn, but were clearly unsure whether what they saw was the threat itself. The nearer man was called Rhoen, Lord Omtoray’s bodyguard – an exceptional fighter whose skill had kept his lord alive for almost forty years. Once the Firewind was inside the room, Rhoen seemed to make up his mind that what he was seeing was real, albeit a mystery that might require an Astaren. He put a bullet through the head of each wolf-shaped shadow and as the hellhounds faltered he had his sword drawn.

  From behind him Lord Omtoray, a barrel-chested man even by Dragon standards, shot also, but by then Voro was close an
d twin streams of flame wrapped around the hellhounds. The demons howled and writhed, clawing their way free but unable to move fast enough to evade Voro’s blade. One blow, one parry, one final strike – and they were alone again, shadows dissipated.

  ‘We are under attack?’ Lord Omtoray demanded.

  Obeying the training beaten into him decades before, his hands were already instinctively mimicking Rhoen’s, reloading one gun and then the next.

  ‘I believe they come for you,’ Voro replied, skirting around the ruler of that district to check the rear of the room. Behind him, the guards had their guns levelled – faces trying to mask their anxiety at their lord being attacked while they stood outside.

  ‘How many more of you remain?’

  ‘I am the last.’

  Rhoen made an angry sound as he realise the gravity of the situation.

  ‘Where is the nearest standing force?’

  Voro stopped. Lord Omtoray had authority over all Dragons and subjects of the hegemony here in the city, with the exception of the Astaren, who were exempt from all oversight. What the day-to-day rulers of the Great House knew of their warrior-mage protectors was limited, and instinctively Voro wanted to ignore him, but right now the truth was more pressing.

  ‘Trokail Endir,’ he said, ‘two days’ journey. The call has already gone out.’

  ‘How many of them are they?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Lord Omtoray’s face hardened. ‘Then you will protect me with your life.’

  Voro nodded. The man was no cowardly nobleman, but the third-highest-ranked noble in the entire Great House. He knew the importance of his own life, the consequences of it ending that evening. Compared to all the Dragon warrior castes in the district, Lord Omtoray’s life was more significant.

  ‘We all will.’

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘Something’s happened.’

  Narin looked up as Enchei’s daughters pushed up from the table, reaching for their weapons. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We just do.’

  Beside Narin, Kesh gave a snort. ‘Fine explanation – they must get that from their father too.’

  While Enay glared at her, Maiss sighed. ‘Actually yes, in the same way we know something’s happened. I’d explain it, but you wouldn’t understand a fucking word and then you’d just be sitting there looking even more stupid than usual.’

  ‘Next time you see that man,’ roared Enchei before Kesh could reply in kind, stamping his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, ‘clip the bastard round the head from me, will you?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Narin asked Kesh as Enay and Maiss grinned at their father.

  ‘No bloody idea, but apparently it’s funny.’

  ‘The old boy doesn’t look like he’s laughing,’ Narin muttered. ‘Hey, will one of you talk sense for a moment? Maybe use conversations that don’t take place in your head or mention people we’ve never heard of?’

  Enchei’s face remained tight with anger a moment longer before he raised his hands in apology. ‘Sorry, just got taken by surprise is all. It turns out an old friend of mine’s more arrogant than I thought possible.’

  ‘He just sent the three of us a warning,’ Maiss added, ‘in a way no one would be expecting, so it’s about the safest way possible.’

  ‘And the fact it felt like an elder god just tramped its way in one ear and out the other was just a happy little bonus,’ Enchei said with a grimace.

  He shook his head as though trying to dislodge water from his ear, but the look of patient expectation from Kesh and Narin made him stop. ‘Ah, the message, aye. From what he can see, some damn fool’s unleashed a pack of hellhounds over Dragon District and it’s all going to shit pretty bloody quick.’

  Narin frowned. ‘You have a friend watching Dragon District?’

  ‘Is that really the most important detail here?’ Enchei demanded. ‘Or the fact folk are getting torn apart a dozen streets away?’

  ‘Not a whole lot I can do about it now, is there? Your girls brought me a replacement sword, not a magic wand. How useful is a sword against a hellhound?’

  ‘Not a whole lot by itself,’ Enchei admitted, ‘but I reckon we can do something about that. Kesh, you got those spark pads still?’

  The young woman nodded and pulled two flattened bundles from one pocket, offering them over the table.

  ‘Now your sword, Narin, and your long-knife, Kesh. Flames work just as well, so bring a few torches if we’ve got any – anything of light and heat that’ll cut their shadows – but these you’ll be able to control better. If there are any possessed still around, you’ll want a blade to hand more’n a torch.’

  Once they had handed their weapons over, Enchei set them all down on the table and bent over them while his daughters belted on their swords and guns.

  ‘So are we safe?’ Narin hazarded as he watched the former Astaren unpick blackish metal wires from the cloth pads and begin to prise the thin strands of metal apart.

  ‘Safe?’ Enchei shrugged. ‘Looks like it, seems I’m not so important as I thought. Bit of a kick in the crotch that, come to think of it.’

  ‘So we’ve been hiding here all afternoon and evening for no useful reason?’ Kesh gasped. ‘Oh Monk’s stained habit, that’s just bloody perfect.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know? There was a good chance we’d be hit. This all started with ’em looking for me, how was I to know they’d give up?’

  ‘If you put it like that,’ Narin said, ‘it sounds pretty suspicious.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but given the storm that just exploded over Dragon, we’re safe. Sounds like there’s a lot of hellhounds there – and I mean one whole bloody lot of demons. Unless you’ve got the power of a Great House behind you, you don’t set something like that off when you’re planning a second assault on someone like me elsewhere.’

  Narin smiled at that. ‘If you were anyone else …’ he said. ‘Not even Lawbringer Rhe could sound so arrogant – oh Gods, Rhe!’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘When he hears about this, he’ll be leading the Lawbringers out. They’ll be slaughtered!’

  ‘Good thing we’ve got a jump on ’em, then,’ Enchei said grimly. ‘The Lawbringer won’t have heard yet and it’ll take a while for ’em to get organised. None of your friends are dying yet, Narin. Myken’s friends, however, them I’m making no promises about.’

  ‘They are warriors,’ Myken joined in as she also descended the stairs. ‘They will die with blade and gun in hand. That is what’s important.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Enay said dubiously. ‘I prefer to be the one standing at the end myself.’ She checked the clasps holding her hair in place then pulled her hood forward so her face was in shadow. ‘And we have a tool to allow us to do just that, don’t we, Father?’

  Enchei went very still. ‘Don’t be so foolish,’ he said quietly. ‘Use a Stone Dragon’s lance on the streets of Dragon? Are you looking to draw as much attention to yourselves as possible?’

  ‘I was thinking we just used it in front of whatever hellhounds were out. They surely believe they’ve killed all the Astaren in the city if they’re acting in the open now. Given Dragon are known for meeting threats with the full weight of force they can bring to bear, it’s a fair assumption the entire city’s garrison of Astaren were involved. If word gets back to the summoner they might’ve failed to kill them all, there’s a chance they’ll pull back. Luring Dragon’s Astaren into a trap is a far cry from wanting to face some on their own ground.’

  A smile slowly worked its way across Enchei’s face. ‘That’s my girl,’ he murmured. ‘And by the same logic, if there’s any safe time to use it, that’d be now, when Dragon’s got no Astaren left in the city. Good idea.’

  ‘If you pat me on the head, you’ll lose a few fingers,’ she warned.

  His smile widened. ‘Fair enough. Kesh, fetch your dog and tell him to be ready. It won’t take me long to rig spark pads around these two blade
s and give them enough of a sting to hurt the hellhounds. Going via Dragon means you’re not coming with us though, Siresse Myken. We can’t take that sort of risk. Bad enough we have Narin around, but you’ve lived there for years. I’m guessing your face is better known than his is noticeable.’

  The Wyvern woman inclined her head. ‘I would not leave Lady Kine alone in any case.’

  Kesh patted Narin on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry; this boy’s got Lord Cripple’s own luck. He’ll drag you into something dangerous one day; you won’t be missing out for long.’

  ‘Piss on the lot of you,’ Narin said darkly, rising from the table. ‘I’ll go say my goodbyes, then bring my luck to accompany all of you into hellhound-infested streets.’

  Sorpan stood motionless in the darkness, frost forming unnoticed on his clothes. For a man used to the blunt end of operations, he was disquieted by what he saw and heard. Only a week ago his purpose had been clear. Only a week ago he had been preparing the way towards a new life outside of Astaren constraints.

  And now I find myself caught in the selfsame webs.

  A break in the clouds heralded a blade of starlight sweeping across the city to illuminate the mist filling its streets. The Order of Jester was rising towards its midnight zenith, Lady Dancer leading their progress across the night sky. Sorpan watched the fog-veiled lines of Dragon District as distant howls echoed all around and asked himself once more what he was doing there. His instructions were clear, his sense of preservation too strong to question them, but murder on the streets of Dragon District brought them no closer to the renegade.

  I remain another man’s weapon, but to what purpose?

  He had heard it only faintly, just as he arrived in Dragon District that evening, but the distant song that had echoed through his head had confirmed all of his suspicions. It was a Ghost voice, garbled and unintelligible but as familiar to Sorpan as the faces of his parents – embedded just as deep in his mind. What it said he could not fathom, but the effort had told him enough as he searched the parts of his memory the mage-priests of Ghost had given him. There was a sense to each such song, a common rhythm of composer those implanted memories could recognise, whether or not he could understand each note.