They sprinted to the edge of the roof and jumped, making for the next house. Nerina wobbled a bit, but she made the jump. A crash filled Caina’s ears, and she saw the Immortals haul themselves out of the trapdoor and onto the roof.
“Oh,” said Nerina in a small voice, her eerie eyes wide. “I calculate that we cannot outrun them.”
“No,” said Caina, looking around.
Azaces drew his two-handed scimitar, the steel flashing in the morning sunlight.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” said Nerina. “But it was Malcolm, I swear it was Malcolm. He was with the slaves, I am mathematically certain of it. I…”
“Quiet,” said Caina, yanking one of the throwing knives from her sleeve and gripping the blade between her fingers. It wouldn’t help much. She was very good with throwing knives, but the Immortals were armored from head to foot, and hitting one of their unarmored spots would be difficult.
“Why did we go to the roof?” said Nerina.
“Because,” said Caina. “No one ever looks up.”
Nerina blinked. “The Immortals did.”
Five of them advanced across the roof of the abandoned house.
“Aye,” said Caina, looking at the street below, “no one ever looks up…unless they’ve been warned.”
She saw a blur in the corner of her eye.
“We should run,” said Nerina. “What are we waiting for?”
Caina felt a mirthless smile spread over her face.
“A storm,” she said.
The Immortals jumped over the alley between the two houses, and then a gray blur slammed into the Immortal on the right.
###
Kylon’s life had once been filled with certainty and purpose, but in the last two years it had dissolved into chaos.
Once he had been a stormdancer of New Kyre, using his skills with blade and elemental sorcery to defend the Kyracian people, acting as his sister Andromache’s strong right hand. Then Andromache had perished in Marsis, slain by her own folly, and Kylon had become the High Seat of House Kardamnos. He had led the fleets of his nation in battle, negotiated peace with the Empire, married an honorable and kindly woman, and become a leader of his nation.
All that had ended in a single day, dying with Thalastre and his unborn child upon the sword of the Red Huntress.
So Kylon had come to Istarinmul to die.
The Master Alchemist Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas, magus of the Umbarian Order, had arranged for the Red Huntress to murder Thalastre and Kylon’s guests. Kylon had come to Istarinmul to avenge his wife and unborn child. He hadn’t expected to succeed, hadn’t even expected to survive the process.
He wouldn’t have, either. He should have died beneath the Craven’s Tower as it burned around him.
Instead, Caina Amalas had saved his life…and Kylon had realized there was far more at stake than his vengeance. Malik Rolukhan and the Red Huntress were but the outstretched hand of the ancient evil that had festered in Istarinmul, an ancient evil that would devour the world.
Kylon was certain of so little now.
He was, however, entirely certain that he would not permit the Immortals to kill Caina.
So he drew on the power of water sorcery to fuel his strength and leapt into the air, the spell giving him the strength of a tidal wave. He timed his leap exactly right and slammed into the Immortal closest to the street. The impact knocked Kylon towards the roof, but it also sent the Immortal tumbling to the ground.
The sound of clanging armor and cracking bone came from the street below.
Kylon hit the roof, rolled, and whirled to his feet, the sorcery of air lending him speed. The remaining four Immortals landed at the edge of the roof, and Kylon spun, driving his fist with all the strength and speed his sorcery could grant. His blow landed in the center of the nearest Immortal’s cuirass, and the strike threw the Immortal backwards and sent him tumbling to the alley.
Again the crack of shattering bone echoed out.
The Immortals were deadly warriors, and they drew their scimitars and charged with admirable speed. They spread out around him, one coming from his left, another from his right, and one straight at him. The men had obviously fought as a unit before, and knew how to attack without getting in each other’s way.
Kylon leaped backwards, the sorcery of air fueling his jump, and landed a dozen paces away. That gave him the time he needed to draw his sword and dagger. Once he had carried a blade of storm-forged steel, wrought by the stormsingers of the Kyracian people, stronger and sharper and lighter than any other blade. It had been no match for the Red Huntress, and the sword of the nagataaru had cut through the blade as if it had been made of straw. The Nighmarian dagger and broadsword that Kylon now carried were good weapons, but they were simply not the equal of a stormdancer’s blade. He had been able to sheathe his blade of storm-forged steel in killing frost, but if he tried that with his current blades, they would shatter like glass from the intense cold.
But that was all right.
He had seen how Caina used her wits, rather than main force, to defeat her opponents, and it had occurred to Kylon that he could do the same. Kylon would never be a powerful sorcerer, but he had been underutilizing what powers he did have.
He raised his sword and dagger, calling on the sorcery of water, and freezing mist swirled around the dagger’s blade. A rime of frost covered the weapon. Had anyone else touched it, their skin would have frozen at once, but Kylon’s command over water sorcery protected him. The cold also made the weapon incredibly fragile, and one good tap would shatter it.
The Immortals hesitated at the sight, and Kylon threw the dagger.
It struck the chest of the Immortal on the left and shattered into a thousand glittering splinters. The white mist rolled over the Immortal’s cuirass, and a rime of frost sheathed the black armor. The plates covering the Immortal’s sword arm disappeared beneath a thin layer of ice. It would not last long beneath the harsh Istarish sun, but for just a moment, the Immortal’s sword arm was locked in place.
That moment was all Kylon needed.
His broadsword stabbed forward, sinking into a gap in the armor, and the skull-masked warrior let out a groan of pain, blood spraying from his helmet. Kylon ripped his blade free and spun to face the remaining two Immortals. The one on his right attacked, and Kylon parried, his blade blurring as he deflected the Immortal’s furious swings.
The second Immortal pulled the chain whip from his belt and swung it. Kylon raised his left arm and drew on the power of water to strengthen himself. The chain coiled around his left forearm, biting into the leather of his bracer. It would have shattered the bones of his arm if not for his strengthening spell. He yanked with all his strength, and the Immortal jerked forward, surprised by Kylon’s maneuver.
He fell right into the path of the Immortal on Kylon’s left, and the scimitar crunched through black armor. The Immortal with the whip bellowed in surprise and pain, and Kylon snapped his sword around and finished the warrior, yanking his arm free from the chain whip. The final Immortal started to rip his sword free from his dying companion, but Kylon was faster. He swept his sword around, smashing into the side of the black helmet. The blade did not penetrate the black steel, but the blow stunned the Immortal, which was all Kylon needed.
He surged forward in a burst of speed and knocked the Immortal from the roof.
No need to kill the Immortal himself when the long fall would do it for him.
Again he heard the clatter of an Immortal landing in the alley and turned around, shaking the drops of blood from his sword as he did so.
Nerina Strake stared at him, her mouth hanging open in surprise. Azaces gripped his scimitar with both hands, his dark eyes hard. All men were water, in the end, and Kylon’s arcane abilities gave him the ability to sense emotions. Both Nerina and Azaces were stunned. Kylon realized they had likely never seen a Kyracian stormdancer in battle before.
Caina’s eyes met his. He might not have recognized
her, had he not been looking for her. She wore the robe and turban of a Cyrican merchant, her face shaded with a false beard and makeup. He was amazed at how thoroughly she could transform herself into so many different disguises. Yet by now he knew those cold blue eyes anywhere.
A strange flicker of emotion went through her. Usually her emotional sense was like cold ice wrapped around an angry fire, but lately there had been something different in it, something he could not quite identify. Like a fracture running through the ice.
“Good timing,” she said.
“The timing would be better if we left,” said Kylon, looking at the street. More Immortals were running into the abandoned house. Any minute they would notice the corpses in the street.
“Agreed,” said Caina, heading for the trapdoor in the center of the roof and pulling it open.
Morgant the Razor, the most famed assassin in Istarinmul, was waiting for them.
###
Caina stepped to the side as Azaces and Nerina hurried down the ladder.
Morgant smirked at her.
He was over two hundred years old, but he did not look a day over fifty-five. As usual, he wore black trousers, black boots, a stark white shirt, and a black coat that hung to his knees. Beneath the coat he wore a sword belt around his hips, a sheathed scimitar hanging on the left side and a dagger with an enormous red gem in the pommel upon the right. His eyes, pale and cold beneath his close-cropped gray hair, met hers.
“I forget,” said Morgant, his Istarish carrying a thick burr of a Caerish accent. “We were trying to assassinate Kuldan Cimak, correct? Or were we trying to kidnap him? Though attacking his Immortals in the Old Bazaar wasn’t a good way to do either, really. If you wanted to kill yourself, there are more convenient ways to…”
Caina felt an overpowering urge to punch Morgant, but ignored it. They had larger problems just now, and she had a great deal of experience resisting the urge to hit him.
The man gave her no end of opportunities to practice.
“We need to get out of here,” said Caina. “You can amuse yourself after we’ve escaped from the Immortals.”
“Sound counsel,” said Morgant, beckoning. He hastened through the house, descending the stairs to the cellar. Caina saw neither slaves nor residents as they followed him. Likely Morgant had frightened them all off.
“Why are we going to the cellar?” said Nerina. “It is statistically likely that we shall be trapped without escape.”
Morgant scoffed. “Bah. You think like a bookkeeper, Mistress Strake.” They reached the house’s cellar, the brick walls dusty, barrels and sacks stacked in piles. “Whereas I am an artist, and can therefore imagine possibilities that…”
“He’s going to use his dagger to cut a hole into the sewers,” said Kylon.
“Typical,” muttered Morgant, stamping his feet and listening to the sound his boots made against the stone floor. “Typical for a Kyracian. No artistry. Little wonder your nation prefers the crude art of sculpture to the mastery of painting.”
He stepped back and drew the black dagger from his belt, the red gem flashing in the gloom of the cellar. Morgant knelt and spun in a circle, plunging the dagger down. The blade sank into the hard stone floor as if it had been made of soft cheese, and Morgant cut a circle into the stone, the edges growing red-hot. Morgant stood, stepped back, and stomped one foot onto the circle.
It fell loose, vanishing into the narrow brick tunnel of the sewers with a loud crash.
“How did you do that?” said Nerina. “The tensile strength of steel is insufficient to cut stone, and even if it were, you would lack the muscular strength to…”
Caina heard the thump of boots on the floorboards above her head.
“Quiet,” she hissed. “Into the tunnel, quickly.”
Kylon went first, followed by Morgant. Azaces jumped into the tunnel next, and caught Nerina as she climbed down. Caina took one last look at the cellar stairs, sheathed her dagger, and jumped. She expected to land on her own, but Kylon caught her about the waist and lowered her to the floor without a thump.
His hands were very strong, and he caught her without the slightest hint of effort.
“Thanks,” said Caina, taking a step back before her mind explored that line of thought any further. She looked around the tunnel and got her bearings as Morgant produced a small lamp and lit it. “This way, I think. The sooner we are gone from here, the better.”
“What went wrong?” said Kylon. “We were waiting for the brothel to catch fire, but instead we heard fighting, and I saw you fleeing over the rooftops.”
“I expect it will be an interesting tale,” said Morgant. Caina led the way, Morgant’s flickering lamp throwing back the shadows. “Though I always thought you were clever. But after you attacked a hundred Immortals in broad daylight, I may have to rethink that.”
“Something went wrong,” said Caina. “Something I did not expect.” She looked at Nerina, who would not meet her eyes. “But I’m going to find out what happened.” Her gaze shifted to Morgant. “We’re not finished yet. We’re going to find a way into the Inferno, we’re going to rescue Annarah, and we’re going to stop Callatas and his Apotheosis.”
“Such optimism,” muttered Morgant. “We will find out if it is warranted.”
“Yes,” said Caina. “We shall.”
She knew just how close they had come to disaster today. If she had been a half-second slower, they would all have been killed.
Sooner or later she would be too slow, or she would make one mistake too many.
But not, she vowed, before she stopped whatever Grand Master Callatas intended with his Apotheosis.
Chapter 2: Wraithblood
Morgant the Razor leaned back and rested his boots upon the small round table, simply because he knew it would annoy their host.
Of course, the man who called himself Nasser Glasshand was far too practiced to let the annoyance show upon his expression. His dark face remained calm as ever, the lines of his beard trimmed with precision, his black clothing crisp and neat. Yet Morgant noted the faintest twitch of a finger as Nasser lifted his cup of coffee.
A very long time ago, Nasser had tried to kill Morgant and failed. Well, Nasser ought to be grateful that Morgant was too clever for him. If Morgant had been dead, Callatas would have hired someone else to kill Annarah…and then Nasser would never get his chance to stop Callatas and his Apotheosis.
On the other hand, Morgant needed Nasser now, if he was going to keep his word to Annarah.
Morgant lived by two rules. He never killed anyone who did not deserve it, and he kept his word. He had given his word to Annarah a century and a half ago, and he was going to keep it.
The woman who was Morgant’s best chance to keep his word sat cross-legged on a cushion, a cup of coffee in hand.
“I’m not sure what went wrong,” said Caina.
Morgant looked back and forth between Nasser and Caina, considering. Nasser’s old hideout had been at the Shahenshah’s Seat, a ramshackle tavern near the Bazaar of the Southern Road. Then an Umbarian magus had conjured an ifrit to kill Caina, and the Seat had burned down in the resultant battle. Now Nasser worked out of rented rooms over a sculpture works in the Old Quarter. Morgant was reasonably sure Nasser had chosen the location specifically to irritate him.
He looked at Caina. She still wore the disguise of a Cyrican merchant, her fake beard and her makeup flawless. Even her voice and accent changed, and almost anyone who met her would see a man. Her skills of disguise were excellent, but they had not fooled Morgant. They had, however, fooled Nasser and his associates, who still believed Caina to be a man.
Morgant looked forward to Nasser’s reaction when he finally figured it out.
Of course, Caina had not figured out who Nasser Glasshand really was yet. He suspected she would do so soon.
All the pieces were there, right in front of her. The leather glove that constantly covered Nasser’s left hand, and the inhuman feats he could perform
with that hand. His ability to recover from apparently mortal wounds. His deep knowledge of Iramisian history…and the fact that he knew Morgant personally.
“Move your boots,” said a man’s voice, rough with a Nighmarian accent.
A man of middle years looked down at Morgant. He had the build and stance of a Legionary veteran, his receding hair close-cropped, his arms heavy with muscle. He held a tray of food in his hands, and his hard eyes did not blink as they looked at Morgant. It was the sort of gaze that promised death if Morgant made trouble for Nasser.
Well. Nasser had always inspired loyalty in his men.
“Of course, Laertes,” said Morgant, dropping his feet to the floor. “I am ever the soul of courtesy.” Laertes snorted and set down the tray, and Morgant helped himself to a date.
“Now that the obvious lies are out of the way,” said Nasser in his smooth, deep voice, “perhaps we can learn what went wrong.”
“Nerina saw her husband,” said Caina.
Morgant glanced at Nerina Strake. She stood in the corner of the sitting room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Azaces stood behind her like a storm cloud. Laertes’s hard eyes might have promised violence to anyone who threatened his employer, but Azaces’s scowl guaranteed it.
Kylon of House Kardamnos stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, his brown eyes looking at nothing in particular. He was a young man of average height, strong and quick, with brown hair and the tanned skin of a Kyracian who had spent quite a lot of time at sea. He was, in Morgant’s estimation, not particularly bright, but he was nonetheless one of the most formidable swordsmen that Morgant had ever met.
And that was even without Kylon’s powers of elemental sorcery.
“Your husband?” said Nasser, his eyebrows climbing.
“Yes,” said Nerina, staring at the floor.
“Please forgive my ignorance, Mistress Strake,” said Nasser, “but I was given to understand that your husband has been dead for some years.”
“Four years,” said Nerina. “It was four years ago. He was dead. Murdered by my father’s numerous enemies, shortly after my father himself was murdered. Or…it may have been the other way around.”
Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) Page 2
