Child of the Ghosts by Jonathan Moeller Page B

the floor. Maglarion gestured, and the ancient papyrus scroll he had taken from Sebastian Amalas’s desk floated to his hand. 
    He unrolled it, gazing upon the ancient hieroglyphs and strange diagrams. 
    His smile returned.
    The ancient Maatish sorcerers had been necromancers beyond peer. They had reared mighty pyramids to house their pharaohs, their god-kings, and by their necromantic sciences they had raised their pharaohs, and themselves, to everlasting life. Or almost everlasting life. The Kingdom of the Rising Sun had fallen long ago, its spells and sorceries undone, and now only its ruins remained, littering the deserts like bleached bones. 
    And their secrets, waiting for those bold enough to claim them. 
    For this scroll held the secret, the thing that Maglarion had sought for so very long.
    A spell to transcend the flesh itself. To escape the body, and live as power forevermore. 
    The secret of true immortality. 
    Maglarion rolled up the scroll and tucked it into his coat.
    He gestured again, and the bloodcrystal he had made from Laeria’s virgin daughter - Maglarion could not recall her name - floated from the compartment to his hand. 
    He blinked in surprise.
    When he had left, the bloodcrystal had been the size of a walnut. Now it had grown to the size of a child’s fist, its edges jagged and sharp. From time to time a green light writhed in its crystalline depths. 
    The deaths of the magi and the slavers, Maglarion realized. The power released by their deaths had fed the bloodcrystal. He felt its increased potency crackling beneath his fingertips, the trapped power within it yearning for release. 
    That was just as well. If Maglarion had read the scroll correctly, he was going to need a great deal of power very soon. 
    And what better way than death, a great deal of death, to harvest that power?
    Ikhana returned, her face empty. No doubt the Ghosts had taken any surviving prisoners. Or the prisoners had all starved to death, or died from their wounds. Or Ikhana had killed them, feasting upon the feeble remnants of their life energies.
    Maglarion had greater things on his mind. 
    “What shall we do now?” said Ikhana.
    Maglarion closed his living eye, thinking of the scroll’s hieroglyphs. Of what he would need to transcend the flesh.
    “First,” he said, opening his eye, “I shall need some new followers.”

Chapter 9 - The Vineyard

    They reached Koros the next day. 
    The village perched on a spit of land jutting into the Bay of Empire. Thirty or forty ramshackle houses stood around a dilapidated tavern and a stone shrine to Tethene, the goddess of the sea. Dozens of fishing boats floated at wooden docks, bobbing with the waves. 
    The place stank of rotting fish, salt, and tar. The villagers gave them furtive looks as Halfdan drove the wagon to the tavern. Many of the women wore mourning black, and the few men that Caina saw looked sullen and unfriendly.
    “I think they want to rob us,” whispered Caina.
    “Undoubtedly,” said Halfdan. “And they would, too, if Riogan were not here.”
    Riogan grinned, drew one of his daggers, tossed it to himself. 
    “All the women are wearing black,” said Caina. “Like they’re in mourning.”
    “She’s right,” said Komnene.
    “I passed through here a year past,” said Halfdan, frowning, “and there were not so many women in mourning.”
    “The black looks new,” said Caina.
    “Some plague, perhaps?” said Komnene.
    “Let’s find out,” said Halfdan, halting the wagon before the tavern. “Riogan, Komnene, stay here. Caina, come with me.”
    Caina blinked, but followed Halfdan to the tavern’s door.
    “Two things,” said Halfdan. “First, don’t speak unless I tell you.”
    Caina started to say “yes”, but nodded instead.
    Halfdan grinned. “You learn quickly. Good. Second, as you might expect, it behooves me to take different identities from time to time. Here, I am known as Paulus, a broker for the grain merchants in