Ghost in the Razor by Jonathan Moeller

Author:Jonathan Moeller
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Horror, Dark Fantasy, Greek & Roman, Fantasy, Myths & Legends, Historical, Genre Fiction, Literature & Fiction
Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
Published: 2015-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

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Kylon watched the confrontation.

He did not entirely understand what was happening. No doubt Nasser Glasshand was the ally Caina had mentioned, but he had flown into a fury at the sight of Morgant, his rage pulsing against Kylon’s senses like heat from a furnace. Morgant was no less angry, though his contemptuous anger was colder. The two men were going to come to blows, and Kazravid and Laertes would take Nasser’s side. They might kill Morgant, and then Caina would never find the relics.

There was only one thing to do.

“Shut up!” Kylon roared at the top of his lungs, employing the voice he had used when commanding the seventh fleet of New Kyre in battle against the Empire.

Silence fell over the room as the men stared at him. Caina looked at him with wide blue eyes. He could not sense her emotions while she wore the shadow-cloak, but the surprise was plain upon her face.

“I do not know what your grievance is with each other,” said Kylon. “But you will speak civilly until,” he remembered to use Caina’s fake name at the last minute, “until Ciaran has finished with you. Otherwise you shall answer to me.”

“And just who are you, Kyracian?” said Kazravid. “You think you can take us all?”

Kylon snatched the cup of steaming coffee Kazravid had left upon the table and called his power, focusing the sorcery of water upon it. The coffee froze to a solid black lump, and Kylon tossed it at Kazravid. The Anshani archer jerked his head to the side, and the lump of frozen coffee bounced off the floorboards.

“Gods,” grunted Laertes. “A stormdancer.”

“Just what are you, then?” said Kazravid. “Ciaran’s pet?”

“He’s a friend,” said Caina. “And he’s right. This is not the time to fight amongst ourselves.”

“That man should be dead,” said Nasser, his gloved hand pointing at Morgant.

“Well, to be fair, so should you,” said Morgant. He smirked at Caina. “He’s almost as old as I am, you know. Has he told you who he really is yet? No? Ah. Well, Nasser, what do you say? Shall I tell your friend Ciaran of your great failures?”

“I don’t know who he is,” said Caina, “and he doesn’t know who I am, not yet. I would prefer to keep it that way until necessary.”

“And just why is that?” said Morgant.

“Because,” said Caina, her voice quiet. “What I don’t know can’t be tortured out of me if Callatas or his hunters take me alive.”

“To my surprise, that is sound reasoning,” said Morgant.

“Then,” said Nasser with a frown, “you are not working with Callatas?”

“Are you even stupider than I thought?” said Morgant. “No. Callatas thinks that I’m dead. He sent me to kill Annarah, yes.” He waved a thin hand at Caina’s left arm. “You’ve seen that she has Annarah’s pyrikon? How the hell do you think she got it? I gave it to Callatas. I brought the pyrikon to him and told him that Annarah was dead, and then I took the money and disappeared. As far as Callatas is concerned, I died decades ago.

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