Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 09 - Ghost in the Surge (6 page)

He had not been in a serious fight for two years, not since the Kyracians and the Istarish had been defeated in Marsis. But he had not let himself grow lax. He might have become the Champion of Marsis and a man of standing, but he was still a Ghost, and the enemies of the Emperor might come for him at any moment. He trained with the sword several times a week, every day when he could manage the time, sparring with the veterans among his workers.

The training was the only thing that saved his life. 

Caina stabbed with the sword in her right hand, slashing at his throat with the serrated dagger. Ark saw the thrust coming, sidestepped, and got his sword up in time to deflect the slash. Steel rang on steel, and Ark swung for Caina’s chest. She jumped back, somehow maintaining her balance in those heeled boots, her eyes alive with a gleeful lust for blood. 

Muravin bellowed and brought his scimitar down with both hands, aiming for her head. Caina whirled and caught the blow in a cross-parry, dagger and sword raised. Muravin stood a foot taller and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, yet Caina held the parry with ease, that insane grin still upon her face. Her boot caught Muravin in the left knee, and the Istarish man stumbled back with a grunt. Caina lunged after him with the speed of a serpent, blades reaching for his neck. 

Ark lunged, stabbing for Caina, and she danced to the side, abandoning her attack on Muravin. The former gladiator recovered his balance and snatched up his trident, and Ark and Muravin advanced on Caina. She backed away, weapons held out before her, the crazed grin never wavering. 

“Is that all?” she said. “The great Champion of Marsis and a pit slave from Istarinmul, and that is all you can do?” She cackled. “I am one woman with a sword. Surely you can defeat me!” 

“I don’t know what you are,” said Ark, “but you are no more Caina Amalas than I am.”

Caina cackled again, spittle flying from her lips. “Such a bold tongue you have, sir. Perhaps I shall cut it from your jaws and keep it as a trophy!”

She jumped over another trench and came at them. 

Ark and Muravin battled against her. Steel rang on steel, both Ark’s hands locked around the hilt of the storm-forged Kyracian sword. He desperately wished he had a shield with him. He had trained to fight with a broadsword and shield since he had been sixteen, fighting in formation with the other men of the Legion. The Legionaries flung volleys of javelins, and then advanced in good order to overwhelm their foes with discipline and order. 

All Ark had was a Kyracian sword. 

Yet he held his own. He had been in more fights than he could remember, both battles against the barbarian nations of the north and desperate fights in back alleys during his time with the Ghosts. Caina fought with the skill and grace of a master swordsman, but he and Muravin matched her.

And that only hardened his certainty that the woman before him was not Caina. He had seen Caina fight and knew the limits of her strength and speed. The woman with the sword and serrated dagger, whoever she was, moved faster and struck harder than Caina ever could. 

They broke apart again. Ark and Muravin were both breathing hard, sweat dripping down their faces. Caina was also breathing hard, but she was not sweating. Not a hair had fallen out of place in her elaborate hairstyle, and her makeup had not even been smudged.

Was her appearance an illusion? That would explain how she could fight in heeled boots and a long skirt without losing her balance.

“You are better than I expected,” said Caina. She glanced at the corpses. “These others, they all died like cattle led to the butcher’s block.” She laughed. “At least you are making a fight of it. I…”

The doors to the courtyard swung open, and Ark spotted a woman standing there, gazing down at Tarzain’s corpse with shock. She was tall, with long black hair and blue eyes, her hand lifted to her mouth in surprise.

Tanya.

Caina looked at her, at Ark, and then grinned.

“Arcion?” said Tanya. “What…”

“Run!” shouted Ark. “Run, now!” 

Caina sprinted at Tanya, sword and dagger held low. Ark cursed and raced after her. Tanya did not run. She had no reason to run. Caina had saved her life in Marsis, had rescued her from the Moroaica. Why should Tanya fear her liberator?

So she made no move to defend herself as Caina seized her hair and wrenched her around, her serrated dagger coming to rest at Tanya’s throat.

“Balarigar!” said Tanya. “What is this? Why…”

“That’s not her,” said Ark, striding toward them. “That’s some creature wearing her guise.”

“Oh, very good,” said Caina. “Ah! No further, Champion. No further at all. Another step and I’ll cut her throat.” 

Ark froze, as did Muravin. He was not far from one of the workbenches. Perhaps they had a crossbow he could use. But Ark saw only shields and javelins within reach. 

“I thought I had made a misstep,” said Caina. “Can’t use sorcery in front of witnesses. It will spoil the game. And I don’t think I could kill you without using a spell.” Her cruel smile widened, and she pressed the dagger tighter against Tanya’s throat. “But this…this will be more fun by far. You’re going to do exactly what I say, or you’re going to watch your wife bleed to death in front of you.”

“Arcion,” said Tanya, “don’t listen to her, go…”

“Shut up,” said Caina, tapping her throat with the dagger. “Let’s play a game, shall we? You, Champion of Marsis. Kill the gladiator, now. Or else I’ll kill your wife.”

“No,” said Ark. “You’ll kill us all, anyway.”

Caina laughed. “Perhaps I’ll change my mind. Perhaps I’ll discover the wonders of mercy.” She shrugged her right shoulder, her left arm holding the dagger rocky-steady against Tanya’s windpipe. “Decide. Now.”

For a moment Ark remembered the final confrontation with Naelon Icaraeus below Black Angel Tower as the renegade lord held a sword to Tanya’s throat. Ark had killed Naelon then, after another Ghost had distracted the renegade with a crossbow bolt. 

But there was no one here with a bow. Only Ark and Muravin.

And Tanya, caught in the grasp of the false Caina. 

A distraction, Ark needed a distraction. 

And as the thought crossed his mind, Muravin bellowed and charged at Caina.

Her eyes jerked toward Muravin, and for just a moment, her attention was turned from Ark.

Ark had one chance to act. He snatched a javelin from the table, the wooden haft smooth and hard against his grip. He had thrown such a weapon hundreds, thousands of times, both training with the Legion and in battle against the foes of the Empire. 

But he had never thrown a javelin at a foe holding his wife.

There was no time to hesitate. Ark drew back his arm and flung the javelin with all his strength in a short, tight arc. Caina started to turn from Muravin, but it was too late. The javelin slammed into her right shoulder and burst from her lower back in a crimson spray. 

The blood did not mar the cloth of her gown.

Caina screamed, and Tanya kicked backwards with all her strength. Her boot hammered into Caina’s knee, and the smaller woman stumbled, the javelin still jutting from her torso. Tanya wrenched free of Caina’s grip and ran for Ark. 

Caina grabbed at the door for balance, lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. She took a step forward, and Muravin flung his trident. This time the weapon slammed into Caina’s stomach, and she fell backward through the doors.

Her scream sounded more furious than pained. 

“Arcion!” said Tanya. “What…”

“The children,” said Ark, “where are the children?”

“They are with the maids at the House of Kularus, I left them there when I went to the market,” said Tanya. 

“Wait here,” said Ark, striding forward.

Caina lay sprawled in the courtyard just beyond the doors, blood pooling on the ground beneath her. Still the blood did not stain her gown, and her makeup and hair remained perfect. 

An illusion. 

Muravin joined Ark, his scimitar in hand.

“Good throw,” said Muravin. 

“You, too,” said Ark. “Kill her. We can search the corpse and…”

Caina snarled and flung out her hands, green flame blazing around her fingertips. 

A spell.

A wall of invisible force slammed into Ark and flung him to the floor of the foundry. The sword bounced from his hand and clattered away. He tried to stand, but the room kept spinning around him.

A moment later Tanya shouted his name and grabbed his shoulder.

He sat up with a groan, shaking his head. “My sword…damn it! Where is Caina?” A surge of fear went through him. She would kill Tanya, would find Nicolai and Natasha and kill them both…

“She’s gone,” said Tanya. “Caina…no, I will not say that creature was Caina, whatever she was. She got up and ran off, even with that javelin in her back. Arcion, that was…that was an amazing throw.”

He squeezed her hand. “I had motivation.”

A tremulous smile went over her face, and Ark felt a wave of crushing guilt. Again and again she had been exposed to danger because of him. The Moroaica had taken her captive for five years, and the Istarish had almost killed her in Marsis. 

And now that creature wearing Caina’s face had nearly slain her simply to spite Ark.

No, not because of Ark. Because of Caina. 

But why? The attacker had used Caina’s appearance. But why attack Ark’s family and workers to get at Caina? 

Muravin sat up with a groan. “Damned sorcerers.” 

“Are you injured?” said Ark.  

“No,” said Muravin, “though my head hurts. Damned sorcerers!” 

Ark climbed to his feet, retrieved his sword, and went into the courtyard. A pool of blood marked the ground, but there was no trace of the false Caina.

“What is this about, husband?” said Tanya. “What is happening?”

“I do not know,” said Ark. “Muravin, go summon the civic militia. After I have spoken with them, I will need to speak with the other Ghosts at once.”

###

The next morning Ark went to the Grand Imperial Opera. 

He had spent the rest of the last day speaking with Tomard, a tribune of the civic militia. He was a friend of the Ghosts, and had accepted Ark’s account of what had happened without question. Ark had gone himself to bear the grim news to the wives of the dead men. He would look after the widows, he vowed, make sure they were fed and that their children would not grow up on the street.

The Ghosts looked after their own. 

The Grand Imperial Opera was a magnificent domed edifice, built of gleaming marble and fronted with rows of ornate columns. Ark passed the main entrance and went to the side door. The watchman knew him on sight, and he made his way through the workshops beneath the stage to a dressing room. 

A tall woman in her middle forties stood in the dressing room, her long blond hair pulled back, her face grim as she read letters spread across her table. The table held hundreds upon hundreds of vials of cosmetics and powders, but the woman’s attention was upon the letters. 

“Theodosia,” said Ark.

She looked up from the letters and smiled. She was the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera, a singer renowned for the power and range of her voice, and she had sung before half the high lords of the Empire, even the Emperor himself. 

And she was also one of the Ghost circlemasters of Malarae, and had arranged the downfall of many of the Emperor’s enemies. 

“Arcion,” she said. “Thank the gods you are alive.” Her smile faded. “The news is…not pleasant.”

“You heard about the attack upon the foundry?” said Ark.

“Aye, and all the others,” said Theodosia.

“Others?” said Ark. “There were others?”

“I fear so,” said Theodosia. She hesitated. “Nineteen Ghosts were killed yesterday.”

“Nineteen?” said Ark, stunned. “By who?”

“By a woman,” said Theodosia, “in the guise of Caina Amalas.”

“Then you do not believe it was her?” said Ark.

Theodosia sniffed and drew herself up. “Champion of Marsis, I would sooner believe that the sun rose in the west and set in the east, that rivers flowed uphill and that men could live by drinking saltwater. Caina Amalas would never betray the Ghosts.” 

For a moment Ark saw a faint hint of Caina in Theodosia’s movements, in the theatricality of her pose, and he realized where Caina had learned her great skill at disguise. 

“Though,” said Theodosia, “a magus might have twisted her mind…”

“No,” said Ark. “The woman who attacked my workers cast a spell. And you know as well as I do that Caina hates sorcery more than anything.”

“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But nineteen Ghosts are dead, slain by a woman who looks like Caina. I fear…I fear there will be consequences.”

“What do you mean?” said Ark.

“Do you know Lord Aeolus?” said Theodosia.

“Only in passing,” said Ark. “A minor functionary in the Emperor’s court.”

“That is the public face he presents to the world,” said Theodosia. “In truth he is one of the high circlemasters of the Ghosts.” She held up the letter. “And he has summoned us to meet with him.”

“Why?” said Ark.

“To discuss how best to defend the Emperor from the traitor Caina Amalas,” said Theodosia, “and how to track her down and kill her before she murders any more Ghosts.”

Chapter 4 - To End The War

Two weeks after leaving Mornu, Caina and Corvalis returned to Marsis. 

Corvalis drove their cart through the city’s northern gate, Caina sitting next to him. They had taken the cart and a team of horses south from Mornu, disguised as fur traders from Varia Province. Caina sat wrapped in a heavy cloak, fake stubble shading her jaw, her dyed blond hair hanging greasy and ragged around her face. They had passed burned villages along the Imperial Highway, attacked by either Kyracian or Istarish raiders, but had encountered no enemies.

And they had seen no trace of either Ranarius or Sicarion.

Now the grim, gray walls of Marsis rose over them, scarred and weathered from countless sieges. Ballistae and catapults waited atop the walls, and Caina saw the glint of armor as Legionaries patrolled the ramparts. A long line of carts waited at the gate, and Legionaries searched the carts and questioned their drivers. Marsis had almost fallen to the Istarish and the Kyracians once, and it seemed that Aiodan Maraeus, the new Lord Governor, was not taking any chances. Beyond the walls, Caina saw the grim bulk of the Citadel standing on its crag in the heart of the city, the slender dark shape of Black Angel Tower rising six hundred feet over the Citadel’s highest towers.