Free Geist by Philippa Ballantine

clues. He found himself stating the obvious just to get it out of his head. “This was no attack by a man. All the bodies are Imperial, well-trained men. They would have brought down one or two . . . unless the enemy took their dead when they departed . . .”
    Aachon raised the orb; through it and milky eyes he surveyed the scene. “There is only their blood.” He paused and his breath hissed over his teeth. “My prince, there is no trace of their souls onboard. Such carnage . . . and no souls.” His eyes cleared as he lowered the stone, and expressed foreboding. They both knew what that meant.
    “A geist of some sort?” Raed whispered, taking in the bloodbath all around them. “But, open water . . . Open water, Aachon . . .” He could feel his precious safety melting away, leaving a chill pit of fear behind. This couldn’t be happening.
    His friend looked gray at the prospect as well. It was a fact that the Deacons knew—it was a fact that every man, woman and child that breathed knew—geists could not cross a stream, river or ocean. Some of the lesser sorts could even be bested by a full chamber pot.
    Raed wondered if this rock-solid, immovable fact had been the last thought on Captain Moresh’s mind as he was shredded like a joint of meat. He imagined so. He could see them all screaming it over and over again as they died in agony. And then their souls were gone.
    Geists hungered for souls. Most didn’t have the strength to take them, though, and were forced to rely on scaring mortals as best they could. Whatever variety of unliving had done all this had more power than any Raed had ever heard of.
    He cleared his throat. “You’re Deacon-trained, Aachon . . . Did they teach you what kind of geist could wreak this much death?”
    His friend shook his head, and Raed noticed that Aachon’s grip on the weirstone had become decidedly shaky. “There is nothing—you understand, nothing—that I know of, that can do this. A geist that kills like this . . . Even your—” He stopped suddenly. He’d almost said it; almost crossed the line they had both silently agreed upon. The absolute shock on Aachon’s face had nothing to do with the horror around them. “I am sorry, my prince. I . . . I . . .”
    “This has got us both knocked back, old friend.” He squeezed the other’s arm. “Luckily we both know that I wasn’t on
Corsair
.” His attempt at humor fell flat in very unfertile ground.
    “Of course!” Aachon whirled about and began clambering past the ineffectual barricade, back to the main deck.
    “What is it?” Raed yelled after him, rushing to follow.
    “The ship’s weirstone.” His friend stood in front of the doors to the cabins, like a man gearing himself up to dive. “Every Imperial warship has a weirstone of the top rank, keyed by the Deacons to warn of geist storms. Stones also remember, just in case humans don’t survive to tell.”
    Raed nodded. Geists might not be known to cross water, but sometimes particularly vindictive ones were known to whip up foul weather near the coastline just for amusement. The Deacons had begun to make life easier for everyone. His grandfather’s foolishness in dismissing their native Deacons had been merely the first in the list of bloody stupid mistakes; mistakes they were still paying for.
    “Right, then. We find the weirstone.” It felt good to have something to do, yet both of them stood at the doors for a second. What horrors lurked back there?
    When Raed finally rushed the door, it felt much more appropriate to kick it open rather than merely push it. The sudden bang in the quietness of the carnage echoed like a thunderclap. Both men charged in. Despite their weirstone’s inactivity, the Pretender considered the possibility that there might still be a geist in there. After all, if this thing could cross water, what else could it do?
    Inside was as deathly calm as on deck, but the scene was different. They’d been wrong; the captain had not