GHOST LIGHT
Jonathan Moeller
***
Description
Caina Amalas is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, one of the Emperor's elite spies and assassins. Summoned to the aid of a desperate merchant, Caina finds herself facing an assassin more deadly than any she has ever fought.
An assassin who harvests the souls of his victims.
And unless Caina is clever, she will become his latest victim…
***
Ghost Light
Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.
Smashwords Edition.
Cover image copyright JC_Design | iStockPhoto.com & Milan Kopcok | Dreamstime.com & [email protected] | Depositphoto.com.
Ebook edition published February 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
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Ghost Light
Caina wondered how many men had died where she stood.
The ruined mansion loomed out the darkness, charred pillars and broken walls raking the night sky like the fingers of a dying man. Ten years ago a sorcerous fire had raged through the mansion, killing every last man, woman, and child. The ruins still stood, a half-crumbled mountain of marble and broken statues, a tangled maze of shadows and yawning doors. The nobles of the capital of the Empire considered the spot accursed, and dared not rebuild over the ruins.
Which made it a perfect spot for a clandestine meeting.
Caina glided from shadow to shadow, her Ghost shadow-cloak and clothing merging with the darkness. She had spent a great deal of time practicing stealth, much of it under great duress, and her boots made not a whisper of sound against the cracked marble of the floor.
She could not say the same, alas, of the man she had come to meet.
Karsat Qassar stood under a cracked pillar, one hand resting upon the hilt of his scimitar, the other wiping against the side of his fine blue robe. He looked much like any other Istarish merchant - proud, prosperous, and plump.
Yet few Istarish merchant wore expressions of such terror.
Caina stepped into the pale moonlight, letting her boots click against the stone floor.
Qassar spun with an oath, scimitar flying into his hand. The tip trembled in his grasp, the rings on his fingers glittering.
"The Living Flame protect me!" he spat. "Who the devil are you? What are you? Speak. Speak!"
His fear did not surprise her. She had seen it before. Wrapped in her cloak, her face hidden beneath a mask, she must look like some sort of specter risen from the netherworld.
"You sent for me, Karsat Qassar," she said, disguising her voice with a rasping hiss. "You appealed to the Emperor of Nighmar for protection."
"You," said Qassar, his voice rising half an octave, "you are one of the Ghosts? But...no, no, the Ghosts are only a myth, a legend..."
"Do I look like a legend?" said Caina. Most people considered the Ghosts, the Emperor's spies and assassins, to be fanciful tales, stories spun by ambitious fools to cover their failures. "You appealed to the Emperor for protection. Will you have it? Speak!"
Qassar stared at her for a moment, his throat trembling beneath the point of his oiled black beard. Then he gave a sharp nod, flung his scimitar to the ground at her feet, and dropped to his knees.
"I will pledge my life, fortunes, and sacred honor to the Emperor of Nighmar," said Qassar, "and this I swear by the light of the Living Flame."
Caina's eyebrows rose behind her mask. She had not expected this.
"And what," said Caina, "do you ask of the Emperor in return?"
"Save me," said Qassar.
And before Caina could ask, the story came pouring out of Qassar.
"My fortunes prospered, and the Grand Wazir of Istarinmul craved my lands and wealth. So he framed me for horrid crimes, and seized my lands. I fled to the Empire with my family, but even that was not enough. The Grand Wazir sent assassins after us." Qassar's face had gone gray with fear. "He sent Cynoshard after me. Cynoshard took my wives and children, one by one. And now he has come for me."
Caina said nothing. The assassins of Istarinmul had evil reputations. Men whispered stories about their exploits. But the tales told about Cynoshard made the other assassins look like virgin priestesses.
If Cynoshard was after Qassar, he was lucky to be alive.
And sane.
"Come with me," said Caina. "We'll take you to a safehouse, as soon..."
Nausea stabbed into her gut, and a wave of crawling tingles, like needles jabbing into her skin, washed over her.
Caina stepped back in alarm, drawing a dagger in either hand.
"What?" said Qassar, looking back and forth. "What is it?"
As a child, Caina had been the captive of a necromancer and his students. They had done things, bad things, to her, but she escaped. Yet ever since, the presence of sorcery inspired a physical reaction in her. A...sensitivity, of sorts.
And now she sensed the presence of sorcery, powerful sorcery.
"We need to run," said Caina, "right..."
Darkness swirled behind Qassar, and for a moment something like a pillar of black fog shimmered around him. And then a man stepped out of the crawling darkness, young and fit, clad in finery, a naked sword in his hand. He would have been handsome, even beautiful, if not for the tattoo of a grinning skull that marred his face.
Cynoshard.
His cloak writhed and twisted about him like something alive. It looked as if it had been fashioned out of living shadow. At first she thought it was a shadow-cloak like her own, but Caina felt the waves of sorcerous power flowing from the thing, like heat radiating from a fire.
And she could almost hear it slithering against the ground, the whispers echoing in her head...
Qassar screamed, seized his sword and made a wild slash with his blade. Cynoshard flicked his wrist, and his longsword sent the scimitar spinning across the cracked marble tiles. Caina doubted she could take the assassin in a straight fight. She was not a large woman, and Cynoshard had six inches of height and seventy pounds of muscle on her.
But only fools fought fairly.
And Cynoshard wore no armor.
Her right hand blurred, dipping to her belt, and came up with a throwing knife. Caina stepped forward, her arm and shoulder thrown back, and flung the knife. And then another, and another, all in the space of three heartbeats, all hurtling for Cynoshard's throat.
But the assassin was faster.
His cloak twisted around him, and again Cynoshard disappeared into the swirling darkness. Caina's knives sped through the column of shadow, and clattered uselessly against the far wall. An instant later Cynoshard reappeared, sword leveled at Qassar's throat.
"Well," he said, his voice resonant and strong. "What is this? One of the Emperor's pet Ghosts?" He laughed. "Qassar, what a delightful gift you've brought me! I so enjoy listening to the Ghosts scream, for days on end. And your head will look lovely besides all the others."
Caina flexed her hands, her mind racing. She carried two daggers and her throwing knives, but if the sorcerous power of Cynoshard's cloak transformed him into a shadow, she doubted they would do her any good. She also carried a curved dagger of rare ghostsilver, and ghostsilver was proof against sorcery. He would not suspect that she possessed such a rare weapon, and if she plunged the blade into him, she doubted his cloak's power would save him.
&nb
sp; But he would not let her get that close. And if she threw the blade and missed...
"Well?" said Cynoshard. "Nothing to say, little Ghost?"
"You talk too much," said Caina.
Cynoshard sneered, shoved Qassar to the ground, and stepped forward.
And vanished into writhing shadows.
Caina flung herself backwards.
An instant later Cynoshard materialized before her, his sword a silver blur in the moonlight. The blade tore through the space her throat had occupied a moment earlier. Caina spun, daggers in hand, and stabbed. Cynoshard danced aside, his sword blocking the dagger in her right hand as he dodged the blade in her left.
And as he turned, the skirt of his writhing cloak spun over her left arm.
The night-black cloak passed through her arm as if it were not there, and a deathly chill shot into Caina's chest. She stumbled back, trying to keep her balance, and the strange whisper she heard from the cloak swelled into a chorus of voices.
Inside her head.
Free us free us slaves tormented trapped forevermore let us go free us free us FREE US...
She took several steps back, trying to stay out of Cynoshard’s reach. He circled to her left, smiling, his sword spinning in his right hand. Behind him Qassar crawled across the floor, panting in terror, reaching for his discarded scimitar.
Cynoshard frowned…and then his smile returned.
He disappeared in a swirl of black mist and reappeared over Qassar.
“Is that the best you can do, Ghost?” said Cynoshard. “The Ghosts have grown even more impotent than I remember. Return to your precious Emperor and report your failure. Perhaps I’ll send him Qassar’s head…after I kill his wives in front of him, of course.”
Cynoshard seized Qassar’s hair and disappeared in the writhing shadow, taking the Istarish nobleman with him.
Caina stared into the darkness, the taste of failure bitter in her mouth. Cynoshard would kill Qassar – if Qassar was lucky – and there was nothing she could do to…
No.
The mind was a more potent weapon than any blade, her teachers had always said, and she had seen that proven true over and over again.
Why hadn’t Cynoshard just killed her? Because he had been a fool to leave her alive – he could take her in a straight fight, but he she was only one woman. If she reported back to the Ghosts, they had the resources to track him down and kill him. He had no reason to leave her alive…
Unless he was trying to lull her into false confidence.
The voices thundered inside her head.
Free us set us free we are tormented and chained and trapped forevermore free us free us FREE US…
Caina flung herself to the side as Cynoshard stepped out of nothingness behind her, his sword plunging for her back. She tried to position herself for a stab, but his longer blade let him stay out of reach of her daggers. Again Cynoshard slashed at her, and Caina ducked, snatched up Qassar’s scimitar, and attacked. Their blades met again, and again. But it was no good. Caina could not match his strength, and she had never been that capable with a long blade.
The voices screamed in her head.
Free us free us the pain the pain never stops the agony we are chained forever let it end let it end free us free us FREE US…
Cynoshard drew his sword back for the kill.
Only fools fought fairly.
Caina spun, dodged the thrust, and raced deeper into the ruined mansion. She leapt over a fallen statue and hastened into a maze of half-fallen walls, piled debris, and leaning pillars. Tangled shadows lay thick over the rubble, along with pale patches of moonlight.
Creating a thousand perfect hiding places.
Cynoshard could not kill her if he couldn’t find her. And here, in this wrecked mansion, she could stalk him even as he stalked her. If she could get behind him, plunge her daggers into his neck before he disappeared into the living shadows of his cloak, the fight would be over quickly.
That damned cloak.
What was that thing? She still heard the voices in her head, fainter now, but still continuing their litany of despair. Did Cynoshard hear those voices? Plainly the cloak gave him the power to walk through the shadows, covering a dozen yards in a single step, but sorcery always carried a price.
Caina wondered what kind of price he had paid for that cloak.
The voices in her head doubled in volume.
An instant later Cynoshard appeared atop a nearby pillar, his cloak writhing and twisting around him like an animal in its death throes. He gazed over the ruin for a moment, his eyes sweeping past Caina, and then disappeared in a swirl of darkness. An instant later he reappeared atop a ruined wall some distance away, his back to her.
Caina smirked. He hadn’t seen her.
She crept forward, every muscle rigid with tension, her boots silent against the cracked floor. Cynoshard flickered from ruined pillar to broken wall to piled rubble, his cold eyes roving over the shadow-choked ruins. But Caina knew how to move silently and unseen, and bit by bit she drew closer to the assassin. He was flitting from place to place faster now, the scowl on his tattooed face deepening.
Good. Impatient men made mistakes.
Then Cynoshard appeared not four steps from Caina’s hiding place, his back to her, the cloak of shadows twitching against him. Caina glided from behind a broken statue of a long-dead Emperor, Qassar’s scimitar drawn back for a stab.
And then the voices exploded inside her head.
Free us free us the torment never ends the chains of darkness we are bound we are enslaved let it end oh gods let it end free us free us FREE US FREE US FREE US…
Caina stumbled in pain, a gasp escaping her clenched teeth.
Cynoshard whirled, eyes narrowed, and came at her. Caina stumbled back, managing to beat aside his thrusts with wide sweeps of the scimitar. She slashed at him with the curved blade, but he blocked her attacks with ease. And every time she managed to land a blow, he disappeared in a swirl of darkness, reappearing untouched to continue his attack.
And still the voices filled her head with their cacophony.
Again Caina turned and fled. Cynoshard’s sword blurred past her head, and she dodged to the side. A moment later he snatched a dagger from his belt and flung it at her, and Caina jerked to the side. The hilt smacked into her hip with numbing force, and she half-ran, half-fell down a pile of rubble, her leg throbbing with pain.
She ducked behind a pillar, breathing hard, scimitar in one hand.
Free us free us the agony we scream we weep we plead we beg but the torture never ends and we weep we mourn free us free us FREE US…
“Shut up!” hissed Caina, looking around for any sign of Cynoshard.
And to her surprise, the voices fell silent.
But only for a little while.
She can hear us she can hear our torment she can hear our pain…
“Who are you?” whispered Caina, risking a look around. Still no sign of Cynoshard.
She did not really expect an answer, but one came.
His victims his slaves his thralls he slew us his blade rent our flesh and now our souls are bound to his amulet to his sorcery our power used to shield him…
"He...bound you?" said Caina. She hurried to the next pillar, crouching low, looking for any sign of her enemy.
We were his victims slain for blood slain for gold but he has a talisman of sorcery and bound us to his cloak to shield him from justice he will kill you look out he will KILL YOU KILL YOU KILL YOU...
The voices rose to a thunderous shout, and redoubled in volume.
Caina looked up to see Cynoshard leap off a wall, sword angled down for a lethal stab. She leapt aside just in time to avoid the lethal thrust, but Cynoshard's fist slammed into the side of her head, sent her staggering. Cynoshard came after her hard, and Caina retreated, the scimitar clanging under his onslaught.
She broke left and raced through a ruined hall, crumbling statues standing in shadowed niches. Another left, t
hrough a half-collapsed ballroom, and then right, into a maze of pillars that leaned like a crowd of drunken men. Caina sank into the shadows, her head pounding, doing her best to keep her breathing quiet.
She saw a flicker of darkness in the distance, but no sign of Cynoshard.
She had eluded him. For now.
Kill you kill you kill you he will KILL YOU...
"I noticed," muttered Caina.
You must go or you will join us be chained with us scream with us for all time...
"Do you have anything useful to say?" said Caina. "Or will you aid me against Cynoshard?"
You cannot slay him he will slay you he will make you scream you cannot defeat him...
"I cannot," said Caina, "but I can bring about his downfall."
The voices fell silent.
"Tell me where Qassar is," said Caina. "If I find him, we can elude Cynoshard and escape the ruins. Then I will summon the Ghosts, and they'll hunt Cynoshard down and kill him. Would that not please you?" She could not fight Cynoshard in a face-to-face duel. But if she found Qassar, if she escaped with him, and contacted the other Ghosts...they could deal with the assassin.
For a moment the voices said nothing.
Then they returned in a whispering rush.
The fat lord the plump princeling our master left him in the ruined hall where the proud men sat where they screamed and burned and wept as their flesh ran like the wax of candles and they screamed THEY SCREAMED AS WE SCREAM...
"The great hall, then," said Caina, and she set off, creeping through the ruins, trying to ignore the maddened chorus inside her skull. The mansion had burned, but it had been built in the classic Imperial style, and Caina found her way to the wreckage of the great hall with ease.
And to Qassar.
He lay upon the dais where the lord's high table had once stood, wrists and ankles bound, mouth gagged, eyes bulging with terror. Nearby lay two women and four small children, also bound. Qassar's wives and children, no doubt. Apparently Cynoshard had spared them. But why?
Ghost Light Page 1
