Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask (10 page)

“How?” said Kylon.

“Save Thalastre,” hissed the Surge, “and stop the destruction.” 

“Tell me how,” said Kylon. The Surge’s ominous prophecies of universal destruction did not concern him, at least not now, but the prospect of saving Thalastre held his attention. He was skilled with a sword, his prowess enhanced by sorcery…but he was only one man, and one man could hardly change the destiny of nations. “How can I save her?”

“Do you know,” said the Surge, “what a bloodcrystal is?”

“A relic of necromantic science,” said Kylon. Andromache had mentioned them once, and so had Caina. He suspected the Ghost had more history with bloodcrystals than she cared to recall. “A necromancer makes them from the blood of his victims, and then uses the crystals to store stolen life energies.” 

“There is a bloodcrystal in the Dustblade that wounded your betrothed,” said the Surge. “It is the locus of the spells upon the weapon. There is no cure for the sorcerous taint in her wound, no remedy…save for unraveling the bloodcrystal itself.”

“Then I shall go at once,” said Kylon, “and destroy it.”

“Do not be rash,” said the Surge. “The bloodcrystal must be unraveled properly, not destroyed.”

“Then how can I unravel it?” said Kylon.

“You must find a blue bloodcrystal,” said the Surge. “The magi of the Fourth Empire made different kinds of bloodcrystals for different purposes. A green bloodcrystal stores stolen life energy. A blue one can dispel sorcery, and unravel the bindings upon another bloodcrystal.”

“And where,” said Kylon, “can I find such a bloodcrystal?”

“The knowledge of their making has been lost,” said the Surge, “and the only remaining blue bloodcrystals lie within the ruins of Caer Magia.”

“Caer Magia?” said Kylon, recalling what he knew of the Empire’s history. “That is where Ephaltus found his Dustblade, I presume.”   

“It is,” said the Surge, “and there you may find a blue bloodcrystal.”

“From what I recall,” said Kylon, “it is death to enter Caer Magia. Hordes of animated corpses lurk in the ruins. And whatever necromantic spell destroyed the city lingers over the ruins, and slays any living man who passes the walls.”

“All that you say is true,” said the Surge. “Yet if you are to save your betrothed, you must enter Caer Magia and return with a blue bloodcrystal. And it is possible to do so. Ephaltus entered and returned alive with a Dustblade, did he not?”

“This is so,” said Kylon. “Do you happen to know how he managed it?”

“I fear not,” said Surge. “A great darkness surrounds Caer Magia, stronger even than the storm of the world. A darkness so great it threatens to quench the storm and slay all who live.”

“What do you mean?” said Kylon, uneasy. His grief over Thalastre’s wound had filled his mind. But the things the Surge was saying… “What do you mean, a darkness that would quench the world?”

“If you do not save your betrothed,” said the Surge, “we are all doomed, and New Kyre will perish.”

“That does not make sense,” said Kylon. “I love Thalastre…but she is only one woman. Surely her death would not doom New Kyre.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Surge. “I have seen this in the heart of the storm, in the shadows cast by the present upon the future. If you do not save Thalastre, New Kyre is doomed. So is the Empire of Nighmar, the realm of Anshan, and the lands of Istarinmul. An old, old darkness has awakened, and pursues its ancient enemy across the centuries. An empire of death and necromancy shall dominate the world for all time…unless you save Thalastre.”

“Why?” snapped Kylon. The Surge was sacred, the voice of the gods, but his fear and anger had at last worn away his patience. “Stop this riddling talk and tell me why, plainly and without metaphors.”

“Because you are linked,” said the Surge. “I have seen it in my visions.”

“Linked?” said Kylon. “Linked with what?” 

“Not what,” said the Surge, “but who.”

“Thalastre?” said Kylon. 

“No,” said the Surge. “The woman of the shadows. The huntress of sorcerers. The liberator of slaves, the demon-slayer.”

Kylon felt himself go cold. 

“Caina?” he said at last. “The Ghost?”

Again the pool of gleaming water rippled, and he saw Caina in its depths. 

“Yes,” whispered the Surge’s three voices. “We have seen her, for she stands at the heart of the storm. She is the axis, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Even if the old darkness is defeated, its enemy may yet open the gates and destroy the world.”

“You…mean the Moroaica?” said Kylon. “The sorceress who corrupted Andromache?”

“The Szalds call her that,” said the Surge. “Among the Kyracians, we have named her the Bringer of Ashes. The Anshani call her the Bloodmaiden, the Arthagi the Queen of Crows, and in Maat of old they named her the Destroyer, even as they wept and gnashed their teeth as her wrath burned the Kingdom of the Rising Sun to ashes. But her oldest and greatest enemy has returned, and will resurrect the Kingdom of the Rising Sun from the sands of the desert. And if he fails, the Moroaica will open the gates and wake the sleepers, and bring the night that never ends. All this will come to pass, Kylon of House Kardamnos…unless you save your betrothed.” She pointed at the entrance. “Go now, and return victorious. As the bearer of the Surge, as the oracle of the Kyracian people, I charge you to retrieve a blue bloodcrystal and heal your betrothed.” She hesitated. “If you do not…then all is lost.”

Kylon hesitated. He sensed the Surge’s mighty aura, yet he felt something else.

Fear. The oracle, for all her power and wisdom and foresight, was afraid.

She was terrified.

“Go,” said the Surge. “You know not what is at stake.”

“I do,” said Kylon. “Thalastre’s life. I shall either return with a blue bloodcrystal, or I shall die.”

“I know,” said the Surge.

Kylon left the Sanctuary and did not look back.

###

Before the day was out, he was on a Kyracian trireme, sailing northeast to the smugglers’ coves along the coast of Caeria Inferior. The chief port of the Caerish provinces, Caer Marist, was well-fortified, but hundreds of small coves and inlets studded Caeria Inferior’s coast, and Kylon’s ship could wait undetected there.

And from there, he would make his way to Caer Magia.

Chapter 7 - The City of Skulls

As Caina left Caeria Inferior behind and entered the westernmost Caerish province, Caeria Ulterior, the landscape changed from forested hills and tilled fields to rolling, boulder-strewn moors, high grasses waving in a perpetual breeze. Rocky hills jutted from the ground, and upon their crests Caina saw rings of standing stones.

“What is that?” said Muravin, pointing. Four rough-hewn pillars of stone stood atop a hill, supporting a vast, lichen-spotted slab of gray rock. “If that is intended as a house, it is a most peculiar one.”

“It’s not,” said Caina. “It was a tomb.”

He frowned. “A tomb?”

“It’s called a dolmen,” said Caina, remembering one of the books from her father’s long-burned library. “In ancient times, when a chieftain or a great warrior died, his followers buried him in such a tomb. They laid the chieftain and his weapons and treasure beneath the stones, and then piled an earthen mound over the dolmen. There are thousands scattered across Caeria Ulterior.” 

Muravin grunted. “It seems insecure. I suppose it was dug up?”

“Aye,” said Caina, “but the robbers likely paid a price for it. The shamans of the old Caerish tribes summoned spirits from the netherworld and bound them to the tombs.” She shrugged. “Likely that is why the magi of the Fourth Empire chose to build Caer Magia in Caeria Ulterior.”

The next day both Calvarium and Caer Magia itself came into sight.

Calvarium sat atop a high, broad hill, fortified within a strong stone wall. Once, Caina knew, Calvarium had been a sacred place to the ancient Caerish tribes, and their priests and shamans had gathered there to work spells of power. Now it was a town of perhaps ten thousand people, home to the craftsmen and artisans of Caeria Ulterior…and to the tomb robbers and adventurers who scoured the province looking for long-buried treasures. 

Beyond the town, atop a higher hill, rose the black mass of Caer Magia.

The city’s walls had been built of the same spell-fashioned black stone the magi used in all their construction. Beyond the wall she saw towers, their domes cracked and crumbling, and the roofs of massive basilicas. Once Caer Magia had housed over a hundred thousand people, the slaves and servants and guards of the Magisterium.

Now it was silent. 

“That…fence, that embankment,” said Muravin, “around the base of the hill. What is that?”

A ring of standing stones, standing atop a raised embankment of earth, encircled the base of Caer Magia’s hill. The standing stones did not look nearly as weathered as the others Caina had seen. 

“It’s called the Henge,” said Caina. “The magi built it to overawe the Caers when they first constructed Caer Magia. Anything beyond it was the domain of the magi. Now it marks the boundaries of whatever spell kills anything within Caer Magia.”

She looked at the hillside and the crumbling road leading to Caer Magia’s gates, doing arithmetic in her head. Seven hundred and seventy-seven heartbeats, and Caina suspected a man would use at least half of those climbing from the Henge to Caer Magia’s gates. So how had Jurius gotten out of the city with a Dustblade before the old sorcery had killed him?

A spell, perhaps, or some sort of talisman, something that had shielded him from the effects of Caer Magia…

“And it looks,” said Corvalis, “like someone is trying to tunnel under the Henge.”

A pair of camps squatted below the Henge, one on either side of Caer Magia. Both camps held several hundred men and dozens of tents, armed mercenaries standing guard. Laborers toiled in each camp, and Caina saw men digging and hauling away baskets of dirt.

Murvain grunted. “It looks as if they are trying to tunnel under the Henge.” 

“That would be useless,” said Caina. “The magi tried that, after the end of the Fourth Empire. Anyone under Caer Magia dies after seven hundred and seventy-seven heartbeats.”

“Then,” said Corvalis, “perhaps they are looking for something else.” He shrugged. “Maybe they found a Dustblade buried in the field outside of the walls. There have been battles at Calvarium.”

“Nine, if I remember correctly,” said Caina. “But Jurius was a fanatic. He was sure Anubankh would overthrow the Empire and Maat would rise again. Those men do not look like mad fanatics of a forgotten god.”

“Perhaps they’re merely hirelings,” said Corvalis. “The armed men have the look of mercenaries.” 

“Or there is more going on here than a cult devoted to Anubankh,” said Caina. “We need to find out more.” 

“Best you return to the carriage, mistress,” said Corvalis, resuming the formal manner of a captain of Magisterial Guards. “We’re approaching the town’s gates, and you need to enter with all the proper dignity of a sister of the Magisterium.”

“Agreed,” said Caina, climbing into the carriage. “Oh, don’t touch the skulls.”

“Skulls?” said Muravin. “What skulls?”

“The ancient Caers,” said Caina, “believed that the soul resided in the skull. So they took skulls as trophies, adorned their homes and tombs and shrines with skulls. The Caers have turned away from their old ways…but the skulls are still sacred, and it is a crime to touch one.”

“Morbid folk,” muttered Murvain. 

Caina closed the door, and the men began to climb up the road to the southern gate of Calvarium. She saw men standing upon the walls in the tabards of local militia, crossbows ready. The town looked prepared for an attack. Had the two mercenary camps made trouble? 

Or perhaps whatever prophet of Anubankh haunted the hills of Caeria Ulterior had tried to lead his followers against the town?

Halfdan had told her a lord named Martin Dorius was Lord Governor of Caeria Ulterior. He was a competent commander, but had annoyed Lord Corbould, and so had found himself given the Lord Governorship of a backwater province.

Perhaps that was just as well. Given what was happening here, Calvarium needed a competent Lord Governor. 

The carriage climbed closer, and Caina saw men running near the gate. They had been spotted…and more, the sigil upon the carriage’s doors and the cuirasses of the Magisterial Guards had been recognized.

“Hold!” A centurion of the militia stood within the gate, hand on his sword hilt. “Identify yourself!”

“We are the Magisterial Guards,” said Corvalis, “of Rania Scorneus, a sister of the Imperial Magisterium. By the authority of the First Magus and the council of the high magi, she has been dispatched to investigate the sorcerous disturbances near Calvarium.” 

The centurion conferred with his men for a moment. 

“Please wait here,” said the centurion. “The Lord Governor will want to speak with your mistress at once.”

“Inform him quickly,” said Corvalis, his voice full of sneering arrogance. “The time of a sister of the Magisterium is precious.” 

Caina came to a decision, and left the carriage as the centurion hurried away.

Corvalis glanced at her. “Will you not make him come to you? That is the sort of thing a magus would do.”

“I know,” she said, “but we may need his help. With the cult of Anubankh and those mercenaries outside the town, he will be looking for any aid. If I can convince him that I have come to help rather than to terrorize him in the name of the First Magus, he might aid us willingly.”

“Will you tell him the truth?” said Corvalis.

“Of course not,” said Caina.

A few moments later Lord Martin Dorius arrived at the gate, flanked by a guard of militiamen. He was in his mid-thirties, strong and fit with black hair and gray eyes, though dark circles ringed his eyes. He dressed simply in stark black boots and trousers and shirt, his only concession to his rank the crimson coat he wore. A sword hung at his belt, and Caina saw from the worn leather of its grip that he knew how to use it. 

He stopped a few paces away and offered the shallow bow his rank required, his face the calm mask of a veteran entering battle. “Welcome. I am Martin of House Dorius, Lord Governor of Calvarium and Caeria Ulterior.”