Ghost in the Pact

by Jonathan Moeller

  “But if you let them make you Padishah,” said Caina, “then the rebels aren’t rebels any longer. They are loyalists fighting for the true ruler of Istarinmul.”

  “Yes,” said Sulaman. A flicker of weariness went through his emotional sense. “The throne of the Most Divine Padishah is something I never sought. I had several older brothers, but they killed each other off and Callatas slew the rest. I never sought this burden, but if it has come to me, then I must do my duty.”

  “I understand,” said Caina. “Very well. We will help you, if we can. Perhaps Kylon and I can take the regalia to Catekharon, but Nasser, Annarah, and Morgant can get you to Tanzir. Or…the Imperial embassy. Erghulan won’t dare attack that. The last thing he needs right now is to provoke a war with the Empire. If Lord Martin sends a delegation to the rebels to determine their intentions towards the Empire, we could send you along with them. Callatas might not think to look for you there.” Caina looked at Kylon. “We had best find Nasser and see what he and Annarah think.”

  “Agreed,” said Kylon. “If…”

  Mazyan stepped towards the door, frowning.

  “What is it?” said Sulaman.

  “The enemy comes,” said Mazyan.

  ###

  Callatas strode through the Alqaarin Bazaar, his white robes rippling.

  Around him marched three hundred Immortals of his personal guard, stark and forbidding in their black armor, their eyes glimmering with blue light beneath their skull-masked helmets. The Immortals were the finest warriors in the world, produced by the cruelty of the Inferno’s training and the powerful alchemical elixirs that flowed through their veins. They were a necessary tool, but one Callatas disliked using. They were a symptom of civilization, of the necessary corruptions and brutalities of ruling a nation.

  Once the Apotheosis was completed, there would be no more need for warriors, or nations, or even civilization itself.

  Kalgri glided next to him, clad in her blood-colored armor, a black cloak hanging from her shoulders, the cowl concealing her head. She wore a mask of red steel, the expression serene, and a ghostsilver short sword waited at her belt. Callatas disliked the weapon. Ghostsilver could penetrate even the layers of potent warding spells that surrounded him, and if he could work his will, he would have rid the world of every ghostsilver weapon.

  He knew that Caina Amalas had a ghostsilver dagger, stolen from his library in the Maze, and that Kylon of House Kardamnos had a valikon, which was more dangerous than any ghostsilver weapon. Callatas knew better than to face his foes directly. Battles were always chancy. Better to send servants to deal with his foes rather than risk himself.

  Yet all those he had sent to rid himself of Caina Amalas had failed. Cassander had failed, and had nearly destroyed Istarinmul in his death throes. Even Kalgri herself had failed to kill Caina, and she had failed only a handful of times over the last century and a half.

  Perhaps the time had come for Callatas to deal with his enemies himself.

  Still, despite all his power and all his defenses, he knew that he was taking a risk. Strength and valor might decide a battle, yet chance governed all.

  Yet to finally claim the Staff and the Seal, it was worth the risk.

  “There,” murmured Kalgri, the mask lending her voice a flat, metallic quality. She looked at the bronze compass in her hand and let out a laugh. “Truly? She went back there?”

  “Where is she?” said Callatas.

  “The Desert Maiden,” said Kalgri. “A tavern near the Alqaarin Bazaar. Cassander almost trapped her there before she fled the city to find the relics.”

  “A dog returns to its vomit,” said Callatas with disdain. “A tavern? Likely a sink of filth and lies and debauchery. Another outgrowth of the corruption that is civilization.”

  Kalgri said nothing in answer. He knew that she thought him insane, and he did not care. She was a venal, base creature, more concerned with sating her endless lust for pain and cruelty than in any higher purpose. She was a useful tool, but once the Apotheosis was underway, he would have no further need of her.

  “You ought to visit such places more often, father,” said Kalgri. “You might have found the relics sooner.”

  A wave of irritation went through Callatas, and he suppressed it. He could deal with Kalgri later. Right now he needed her help. He would use any tool at hand to save humanity and work the Apotheosis, even if that tool was as annoying as the creature that called herself the Red Huntress.

  “Sulaman is likely with them,” said Kalgri. “He would have fled to Caina after he escaped the Kindred.”

  “Yes,” said Callatas. Kalgri had seen Sulaman meet with Caina several times, but she had not bothered to mention that fact to Callatas, just as she had not bothered to mention that Caina had found the regalia until after Cassander was dead.

  He let out a long breath, bringing himself under control, the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis filling his thoughts. Yes, there had been many setbacks and many failures…but today, at last, he would claim everything he needed to finish the Apotheosis.

  His hand drifted to the Star of Iramis against his chest, the blue crystal seeming to glimmer even in the harsh noon sunlight. Over one hundred and fifty years ago, he had dared to draw upon the Star’s power, using it to destroy Iramis and its troublesome loremasters and valikarion, and he had not dared to draw upon that titanic power since.

  Tonight, though…once he had the remaining two pieces of the regalia, he could at last work the Apotheosis.

  “Khalmir,” said Callatas, and the khalmir in command of the Immortals stepped to his side. “Surround the Desert Maiden. Let no one escape. Kill everyone you find, save for the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon. He must be brought to me alive and unharmed. You will kill everyone else you find in the tavern. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Grand Master,” said the khalmir, and he began giving orders to the other Immortals, who raced towards the Desert Maiden, dividing into groups to cover both the exits.

  “Watch the roof,” said Kalgri. “One of her favorite tricks is to escape over the rooftops.”

  “Perhaps that shall be your task,” said Callatas.

  She let out a sneering laugh. “Certainly not. I am not eager to fight a man armed with a valikon. Perhaps you shall have that honor, father.”

  “Khalmir!” said Callatas. “Send parties over the roof as well. It may be wise to dispatch some men to the sewers to check for escape tunnels.”

  The khalmir turned and shouted new commands.

  “So you will not fight yourself?” said Kalgri.

  “Perhaps,” said Callatas, flexing his right hand, golden fire snarling to life around his fingers as he summoned arcane power. Perhaps Kylon of House Kardamnos would indeed try to kill Callatas. If that happened, the exiled Kyracian lord would find that the petty tricks of a stormdancer were no match for the power of the Grand Master.

  He hoped he killed Kylon. He hoped he killed the man while Caina watched.

  It would be a just repayment for all the difficulty the wretched woman had given him.

  Chapter 4: Memory Trap

  Caina opened the door to the hallway just as the shouting began, as running boots thumped down the hallway.

  She almost collided with Laertes, who had his sword in hand and shield on his arm.

  “There you are,” said Laertes. “You need to come the roof, now. There are Immortals heading through the Bazaar.” He glanced over Caina’s shoulder, and his eyes widened. “The poet’s here?”

  “Aye,” said Caina. “We have more problems than I thought.”

  Laertes snorted. “What else is new?”

  “Come on,” said Caina to the others. “Sulaman, take everything you might need. We’re leaving.” Kylon, Morgant, Sulaman, and Mazyan followed Caina into the hallway, and she in turn followed Laertes as he hurried to the end of the corridor, clambering up the ladder to the roof.

  The last time Caina had been on the Desert Maiden’s roof had been when she fled f
or her life from Cassander’s Kindred hirelings and Silent Hunters, and the flat expanse of dusty tiles had not changed. The Istarish often retreated to the rooftops in the evening to escape the day’s accumulated heat. Nasser and Annarah stood at the edge of the roof, gazing to the south, and Caina ran to join them.

  “We have a problem,” said Nasser.

  A gleaming black mass filled the street below. Immortals, hundreds of Immortals, ran towards the Desert Maiden. Callatas had found them, and was coming to take the relics at last. Or it was also possible that Callatas had tracked Sulaman and Mazyan here, and was coming to take the heir of Istarinmul into custody.

  “Aye,” said Caina. “We have another problem, too.”

  Nasser glanced back at Sulaman. “The poet?”

  “Yes,” said Caina. “Out of curiosity, did you know that he’s the Padishah’s youngest son?”

  The shock that went over Nasser’s face made Caina feel a little better. Perhaps she was not a complete fool after all. She had come to like and trust Nasser a great deal. Morgant had claimed Nasser and Annarah had a secret between them, but Caina was glad that Sulaman’s true identity had not been that secret.

  “I see,” said Nasser. “That explains a great deal, but we can consider the matter later.” He scowled in Morgant’s direction for an instant, and then looked at the Immortals. “We must flee at once.”

  “Over the rooftops?” said Caina.

  “Yes,” said Nasser. “We…”

  “Too late,” said Annarah, holding out her hand. Her bronze pyrikon bracelet unfolded itself from her wrist, extending into a slender staff. The staff began to flicker with white fire as Annarah drew upon her power.

  Caina followed her gaze and saw a dozen Immortals racing over the nearby rooftop. She turned in the other direction, away from the Bazaar, just as another troop of Immortals sprinted over the tiles, chain whips and scimitars in hand.

  “We can’t escape over the rooftops,” said Laertes.

  “We’ll have to fight our way clear,” said Caina. “We can’t go down to the street.” She looked at Nasser. “Attack towards the Bazaar. We’ll fight our way through and run to Murat’s ship. Once he sees a hundred Immortals running after us, I think we can persuade him to depart.”

  “Agreed,” said Nasser.

  “Or we could just try punching them in the jaw,” said Morgant. He had his crimson scimitar in his right hand and his black dagger in his left, and to Caina’s sight both weapons glowed with arcane power. “That always solves everything.”

  “You’re not going to let that go, are you?” said Caina, putting her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left.

  The others adjusted their weapons. Kylon had the valikon in his right hand, and a faint white mist swirled around his left hand as he drew upon the sorcery of water. Laertes hefted his shield and broadsword, while Mazyan planted himself in front of Sulaman, that sword of smokeless flame erupting from his right hand. Sulaman himself drew a scimitar, his face impassive. Annarah stepped next to Sulaman, both hands gripping her bronze staff. Her spells could not harm the Immortals, but she possessed several protective warding spells…and if Kalgri turned up, the power of an Iramisian loremaster could harm the Voice, the nagataaru that gave the Huntress her deadly speed and strength.

  “You punched him?” said Nasser. “I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time.”

  “She didn’t hit me that hard,” said Morgant. “But it was a hurtful, hurtful thing to do…”

  “Shut up and fight,” said Caina.

  Morgant grinned at her and turned to face the advancing Immortals.

  In a strange way, a peculiar sort of relief settled over Caina. She had spent years hiding in the shadows, plotting for the future and laying down plans to cover every possible contingency. A fight was simpler. Either she and Kylon and the others would escape, or they would be killed.

  Caina gripped her weapons and braced herself.

  ###

  Kylon strode to the edge of the roof, his right hand holding the valikon, his left trailing white mist. The Immortals sprinted forward, leaping over the narrow alley separating the Desert Maiden from the next house. The Immortals were fast and strong, granted inhuman physical prowess by the mind-twisting elixirs they ingested.

  The sorcery of air made Kylon even faster.

  The Immortals jumped, a dozen of them at once, and Kylon moved. He gripped the valikon’s hilt with both hands, swinging the weapon with all the strength of the sorcery of water behind it. The blade hammered into an Immortal’s black cuirass. The dark armor was more that strong enough to turn aside the valikon’s edge. Nevertheless, Kylon hit the Immortal hard enough to reverse his momentum, and the black-armored warrior shot backward, hit the wall, and tumbled into the alley below. The Immortals were tough, but not tough enough to survive a thirty-five foot fall.

  The Immortals landed at the edge of the roof, and Kylon spun before they recovered their balance, his boot lashing out. He struck another Immortal in the stomach, and the warrior overbalanced and fell, tumbling into the alley.

  Before meeting Caina, Kylon had not spent very much time fighting on rooftops, but he had come to realize that for someone with the capabilities of a stormdancer, a rooftop made an ideal battlefield.

  The Immortals surged to attack him, and Kylon retreated, filling himself with the sorcery of air to make himself faster. He fell back, the valikon snapping back and forth to deflect thrusts and swings while he sidestepped and dodged. As he did, he drew upon the sorcery of water and frost, concentrating it in his left hand. The Immortals closed around him, and Kylon went on the attack. His foes responded, shifting their scimitars in preparation to block any strikes from his sword.

  So the nearest Immortal was surprised when Kylon punched him in the face. The surprise did not last long, because Kylon’s fist crushed his faceplate and shattered his forehead. The Immortal went down, and Kylon ripped his left fist free, the granite-hard glacial ice sheathing his hand and wrist glittering in the Istarish sun.

  Caina had given him the idea. He had seen again and again how she found ways to outmaneuver her enemies, turning their strengths into weaknesses. Her brain was a weapon as much as any dagger, and he had wondered what use that brain might make of a stormdancer’s powers. Then he had watched Nasser use his crystal fist to punch through an Adamant Guard’s armored cuirass, and Kylon had wondered if he could do the same thing.

  It turned out that he could.

  He struck another Immortal in the head before the enemy realized his new tactic and adjusted. Kylon dismissed the spell holding the ice, and his frozen gauntlet shattered, the glittering shards melting as they feel to the tiles of the roof. He took the valikon’s hilt in both hands and charged.

  Even for a stormdancer, ten Immortals might prove challenging, but by then he had help.

  Nasser attacked on Kylon’s right, his gloved fist lashing out to catch an Immortal in the side of the head. The fist of living crystal crushed the Immortal’s helmet, and Nasser’s scimitar snapped around with lazy, almost contemptuous grace, deflecting the thrusts of the nearby Immortals. Kylon sparred with Nasser on a regular basis, and the last Prince of Iramis was one of the best swordsmen Kylon had ever faced. Morgant refused to spar with Kylon, or anyone, but the old assassin was no less effective. A slash of his enspelled black dagger ripped through an Immortal’s cuirass like a blade slicing through a sausage casing. The Immortal fell, the torn edges of his cuirass glowing white-hot from the power of Morgant’s blade, and Morgant wheeled, his black coat flying around him, and struck down two more Immortals in rapid succession. Caina had said that the spell on Morgant’s dagger somehow bypassed friction, allowing it to cut through nearly anything. Of course, the stolen heat from the bypassed friction stored up in the gem in the dagger’s pommel, but Morgant had a use for that as well.

  He flicked his wrist, punching the dagger through an Immortal’s armored forearm, and released the stored heat. The Immo
rtal erupted into crackling flames, cooking inside his own armor, and stumbled backwards and fell off the roof.

  Kylon, Nasser, and Morgant stood side-by-side, cutting down every Immortal that approached them.

  Yet they made no headway. There were too many Immortals, and Kylon found himself forced back step by step.

  ###

  “We’ll have to hold this side of the roof until Kylon and the others can cut a path for us to escape,” said Caina. “Will Mazyan fight?”

  “We shall both fight,” said Sulaman in a quiet voice, lifting his scimitar. Caina gave him a dubious look. Sulaman was good at reciting the long, complex epic poems of the Istarish nation, but she had never seen him fight.

  Well, given the number of Immortals swarming towards them, there would be no shortage of fighting.

  “Legionary,” grunted Mazyan, lifting his sword of silent flame, his eyes beginning to burn with the same fire. “Shield my back. I cannot fight them all at once.”

  “Aye,” said Laertes. “Mistress Annarah, kindly stay back. Ciaran. What will you do?”

  Despite the grim situation Caina stifled a smile. In the heat of the moment Laertes had called her “Ciaran”, the alias she had used with Nasser and his allies until they finally realized she was a woman. Sometimes she suspected that Nasser and Laertes still thought of her as a man.

  Well, man or woman, the Immortals would kill them all if they could.

  “What I do best,” said Caina. “Make trouble.”

  Laertes barked the harsh, dry laugh of a veteran centurion. “Victory is assured, then.” He slapped the flat of his broadsword against the front of his massive shield and began shouting. “Come on, then! Come, you dogs! Are you dogs or are you men?”

  The Immortals came.

  They leaped over the rooftops and charged, raising their scimitars and chain whips. Caina gripped her weapons, feeling useless. She could not drive a ghostsilver dagger through steel plate, and fighting fairly meant that something had gone wrong. She had killed Immortals before, but it had always been a close thing.