Ghost in the Pact

by Jonathan Moeller

  For a moment Rhataban said nothing, and the two groups of soldiers eyed each other.

  “I see,” said Rhataban at last. “The time for secrecy has passed? Shall we speak plainly?”

  “You can lie to the Grand Wazir and the collection of fools surrounding him,” said Emissary. “You cannot lie to me. Not when I can see the serpent coiled around your heart.”

  Rhataban laughed. “How dogmatic. How like an old woman! You fear what you do not understand. You think we are slaves of the nagataaru? Nonsense. No more than you are a slave to your horse. The nagataaru will give us the power to create a new humanity, one better and stronger than the old.”

  “Lies,” said the Emissary.

  “The Grand Master has proclaimed it to be so,” said Rhataban. “Those of us who are his disciples are the first of the new humanity.”

  “Then your Grand Master is a liar and a fool,” said the Emissary. “You do not see how the nagataaru have twisted your thoughts, how they have poured poisonous lies into your hearts. You will not create a new humanity with the Grand Master’s Apotheosis. You will work only destruction. The nagataaru shall devour the world and leave only ashes and bones behind…”

  “Enough!” said Rhataban, and a pulse of purple fire flickered in his dark eyes. “You are indeed a fool. I had hoped to take you to the steppes before I slew you, but cutting you down here will serve just as…”

  He fell silent, and his head turned to stare at Kylon. Rhataban’s eyes narrowed, a thoughtful frown coming over his face, and Kylon had the impression that he was speaking with his nagataaru. The Huntress had done the same thing several times, listening to the counsel of the Voice.

  “You,” said Rhataban, pointing his hammer at Kylon. “I know you. The stormdancer! Kylon Shipbreaker. The bearer of the valikon.”

  Kylon said nothing, the valikon’s blade flickering with a harsh white flame.

  Rhataban sneered. “The demonslayer’s lover. Kotuluk Iblis has decreed her death.” He blinked, as if surprised to hear the words that had come from his mouth, but kept talking. “The Grand Master shall reward me greatly for your death.”

  “Then do it,” said Kylon.

  “Kylon Shipbreaker!” said Rhataban, and purple fire blazed in his eyes as he donned a helmet of white steel. “The man who broke the Empire’s western fleet! Let us see if I am able to break you! Attack! Take the Emissary!”

  The horsemen spurred their horses forward, and Rhataban leaped from his saddle, raising his massive hammer high. Despite the weight of his armor and weapons, he jumped from the back of his horse with the grace of an acrobat, the hammer falling like a thunderbolt. Kylon seized the sorcery of air and flung himself to the side, moving with the speed of the wind.

  It barely saved his life.

  The hammer struck the ground in an explosion of dirt, the heavy head missing Kylon by inches. He struck back with the valikon, the white-burning edge hammering against Rhataban’s armor. Yet the white steel was as strong as the armor of the Alchemist Kylon had fought outside of the Imperial Embassy. The valikon rebounded from Rhataban’s cuirass without leaving a scratch, and the Master Alchemist whirled, shifting his hammer to his right hand.

  His left hand came up, the fingers blazing with golden fire.

  Kylon snapped the valikon up to block as golden fire lashed from Rhataban’s hand, striking the ghostsilver blade. The spell shattered against the sword, and suddenly the grass around his feet transmuted into spikes of glittering blue crystal. Kylon leaped back as Rhataban strode forward, the crystalline grass shattering beneath his armored boots. Once, twice, three times the hammer came at him, and Kylon dodged every time.

  Around them the horsemen charged into the Kaltari warriors. At Strabane’s bellowed command, the warriors had formed into a shield wall, and seemed to be holding their own against the horsemen. Raised shields deflected the thrust of spears and the stab of swords, and the Kaltari struck at the horses themselves, maddening the beasts with pain and sending them galloping towards the road. Singing rose over the battle, and Kylon realized that the monks had begun a hymn to the Living Flame, calling upon the power of divine justice to shield them.

  Rhataban was inhumanly fast and strong, stronger than Kylon even with the sorcery of water, but not quite as fast. The Master Alchemist’s armor might have been transmuted for greater strength and reduced weight, but it still slowed him down. At last Rhataban’s momentum played out, and Kylon went on the attack, circling around the Master Alchemist. He landed hit after hit, but to no avail. The valikon did nothing against the white armor. Had the armor been simply enspelled, the valikon would have shattered the spells. Yet the white metal had been transmuted into something harder and lighter than common steel, and the valikon could not leave a scratch upon it.

  And as Kylon fought, more golden fire gathered in in Rhataban’s left hand, and the Master Alchemist flung out his arm. Kylon leapt backwards, raising the valikon in guard, preparing to deflect the transmutation spell once more.

  This time, the spell hadn’t been aimed at him.

  The shaft of golden fire struck the ground, and the hard, tough earth beneath Kylon’s boots shimmered. In an instant both grass and earth had transmuted into quicksand. The muck grasped at Kylon’s boots, and he felt himself sinking, his feet held immobile.

  Rhataban swung his hammer, the metal head blurring for Kylon’s face.

  Kylon drew upon his full strength, every scrap of water sorcery he could muster, and jumped. The movement heaved him backwards, ripping him free of the quicksand, but the very tip of Rhataban’s hammer brushed his chest. That was enough to send pain exploding through his torso, and change his direction so he fell hard to the side. He landed upon his right arm, and Rhataban leaped over the pool of quicksand, his hammer coming up. Kylon threw himself to the side and rolled, and the hammer sank into the earth with enough force to make the ground shake.

  He rolled back to his feet, his chest and side throbbing, and raised the valikon in guard. Rhataban smiled and stalked towards him, lifting his hammer for another strike.

  “Unimpressive,” said Rhataban. “It is astonishing that the demonslayer has eluded us for so long when she relies upon such weak fools as you.”

  “Perhaps she survived because you wasted so much time talking,” said Kylon.

  “Easily rectified,” said Rhataban, and the Master Alchemist stalked forward.

  Kylon retreated, risking a look around the battlefield. Strabane’s warriors were holding their own against Rhataban’s horsemen, and Kylon thought they might prevail. But if Rhataban killed Kylon, he would butcher every last one the Kaltari and the monks.

  It was time to change tactics.

  One of the dead horsemen lay nearby, blood leaking from a head smashed by a Kaltari axe, his broken spear lying next to him. Kylon shifted the valikon to his right hand and snatched the broken spear. The staff was still five feet long, and he adjusted his grip, calling the sorcery of water to swirl freezing mist around the spear while the sorcery of air lent him speed. Kylon went on the attack, swinging the broken staff, concentrating his blows upon Rhataban’s right arm.

  The Master Alchemist’s scornful laughter filled Kylon’s ears.

  “A stick?” said Rhataban, making no effort to block as Kylon jabbed him in the right arm again. “A broken stick? Is this how you defeated the Imperial fleet? Is this how you saved the demonslayer?” He advanced a few steps, and Kylon hit his right arm again. “Pathetic. Why the demonslayer bestowed the valikon upon you, I shall never know.”

  He drew back his arm to launch another blow with his hammer, and with a metallic grating noise, his arm went motionless.

  Rhataban had superhuman strength bestowed by his nagataaru, and his armor had been transmuted into something stronger than normal steel…but it was still metal, and enough frost made plates of metal stick together.

  It only slowed Rhataban for an instant, but an instant was all that Kylon needed. He drew back the spear and stabbed agai
n, and this time the broken spear skidded beneath the lip of his helm, striking Rhataban in the neck. Kylon felt it bite, pouring all the sorcery of water he could manage into the wound.

  Rhataban screamed in fury and raked his hammer before him, and Kylon had no choice but jump back. The hammer’s wild blow ripped the broken spear from his hand. Kylon braced himself to attack again, but it seemed Rhataban had lost his belly for the fight. He leaped backwards, soaring over the battle, his white cloak billowing around him. The Master Alchemist landed with a grunt, one had still clutching his wounded neck.

  Kylon felt the hate and the rage pouring off the nagataaru, the rage colored by the furious hunger of the malevolent spirit. Rhataban would not forgive or forget this injury, and neither would the nagataaru within him.

  “Withdraw!” roared Rhataban, his voice booming over the valley. Kylon shot a look around and saw that the Kaltari had held fast against the horsemen. Strabane’s warriors had taken losses, but the horsemen had gotten the worse of the fighting. “Withdraw!”

  The horsemen fled, and the Kaltari roared and charged, cutting down their fleeing foes before they could escape. Kylon started to pursue Rhataban, but the Master Alchemist retreated from the battlefield with inhuman speed, leaping over boulders and chasms and leaving his men to their fate.

  ###

  Strabane wound up losing six men, nine more wounded with varying degrees of severity. Given that they had killed twenty-six of the enemy, the Kaltari headman seemed satisfied with the exchange, though his eyes blazed with wrath whenever he looked at his dead men.

  “Exile,” said Strabane. “That was a hell of a fight.”

  Kylon shook his head. “Rhataban got away. We haven’t seen the last of him.”

  Strabane scowled and spat upon the turf. “It’s just as well you thought to come with us. That Alchemist would have slaughtered us all.” He spat again. “Damned sorcerers! Ever since I fell in with Nasser and his crew, it’s been nothing but one damned sorcerer after another.”

  “I understand,” said Kylon.

  “Sorcerers and spirits and devils,” said Strabane. “By the Living Flame! Give me a battle between mortal men with mortal steel. No sorcery or spirits or other such madness.” He glanced at Kylon. “Except you. You’re sane enough.”

  Despite his exhaustion, Kylon managed a laugh. “High praise, sir.”

  “We’d best get back,” said Strabane. “The sooner we get the Emissary to the emir and the prince, the better. Then we can whip Erghulan, you can finish whipping Rhataban, and we can march to Istarinmul and whip Callatas.”

  “Aye,” said Kylon. “I’m sure it will be that easy.”

  “First time for everything,” said Strabane, and he strode off to take charge of his men. The dead Kaltari would be taken back to the host to be burned in accordance with the traditional funeral rites.

  The dead horsemen would be left for the vultures, once they had been stripped of their valuables.

  Kylon closed his eyes and let out a long breath, the exhaustion flooding through him. Fighting with a sword was tiring enough, but fighting while holding his full power was an additional strain. He had pushed himself to his limit, and it still had barely been enough. If Kylon had been slightly slower, or if Rhataban had realized the trick with the ice, then he would have killed Kylon and all the others.

  Rhataban would not fall for the same trick twice…and Kylon had no doubt that he would face the nagataaru-infested Master Alchemist once again.

  He opened his eyes and saw the Emissary staring at him from across the valley.

  Anger cut through Kylon. Kaltari warriors had died to bring to the Emissary to Tanzir’s host, so the men could be inspired by the blessings of a useless oracle and her cryptic riddles…

  Kylon forced aside his anger and went to help the Kaltari collect their horses.

  They left a short time later, riding back to the north, and Kylon stayed away from the Emissary and her attendants.

  Chapter 11: Heresy

  Someone knocked at Caina’s door.

  She opened her eyes. They were less than a day away from Pyramid Isle, and her headache had grown with every passing hour. She suspected it was a reaction to the potent necromantic aura surrounding the island. Ancient necromancy shrouded Pyramid Isle, combined with the crumbling Iramisian wards surrounding the Tomb of Kharnaces, and the mingled aura of the competing spells was…potent.

  If she concentrated, the sight of the valikarion detected a faint, flickering haze in the air, the outer edge of those potent spells.

  “Caina?” said Annarah’s voice through the door.

  Caina sat up. Her head hurt, but she felt otherwise healthy, her mind clear, her heart tight with controlled fear and anger.

  She was as ready as she would ever be to face Callatas.

  “We’re here?” said Caina, reaching for her boots.

  “Aye,” said Annarah, her voice tighter, “but…there’s something I think you should see right now.”

  That caught Caina’s attention. Annarah almost always kept a level head, and the slight note of tension in her voice was like a panicked shout from another woman. If something had happened to worry Annarah, it was serious indeed. Caina pulled on her boots, made sure her ghostsilver dagger and throwing knives were in place, and got to her feet.

  Annarah and Morgant stood in the narrow corridor outside her cabin door.

  “Trouble?” said Caina.

  “What else?” said Morgant.

  Caina opened her mouth to ask another question, and then heard the rasping noise. It was a grinding, scraping sound, exactly the sort of noise a ship would make as it ran against a submerged reef…and many such reefs surrounded Pyramid Isle. For an awful instant Caina was certain that the Sandstorm had run aground on a reef. Yet the noise wasn’t loud enough for that, and Caina didn’t feel any unusual vibrations in the deck.

  “Let’s take a look,” said Caina, and she headed for the ladder to the deck, Annarah and Morgant following.

  The hot, wet air on the deck struck Caina across the face like a wet towel. Sweat started to bead on her forehead and temples at once, and she was grateful that she had tied her hair back as part of her disguise. Despite the heat, the sky was overcast and gray, an occasional flash of silent lightning leaping through the mountainous clouds. To the east a thick band of fog floated low over the waters.

  Pyramid Isle rose from the gloom.

  A low peak of white stone clawed against the sky, standing perhaps a thousand feet tall, the hill’s crest flat. At the base of the hill Caina saw the brilliant green of the jungle that grew upon the humid isle, and glimpsed the broad beach that encircled the jungle. To the vision of the valikarion, the entire island shimmered with a faint haze of necromantic energy. A cold chill went through her at the sight of the pyramid-shaped hill. Her last experience on Pyramid Isle had not been pleasant at all, and her skin crawled at the memories.

  Yet for the moment, the island was in the background.

  The wrecked galley held the majority of her attention.

  The galley rocked in the waters about a hundred yards ahead, listing badly on its port side. It was far lower than it should have been in the water, the waves starting to splash over the rail and onto the deck. A shudder went through the galley, and Caina realized that it had caught on a submerged reef. The surf drove the keel against the reef with every wave, and to judge from the creaking noises coming from the galley, the ship would soon break apart.

  “Callatas’s ship,” said Annarah. “That must have been his ship.”

  “It’s an Istarish galley,” said Morgant with a shrug. He pointed at the ship’s leaning mast. “Look.” A banner with a crown-and-sword sigil, the badge of the Padishahs of Istarinmul, hung from the mast.

  “He would have taken a galley from the Towers of the Sea,” said Caina. “But he’s been here before. He ought to have known where the reefs were. Why…”

  She turned and climbed to the stern, where Captain Murat, K
arlazain, and the helmsman stood near the ship’s wheel. From time to time Karlazain barked an order for the crew to adjust this line or that sail, and the corsairs hastened to obey.

  “Master Ciaran,” said Murat, his hard eyes shifting to her. “It seems you are not the only one coming to steal the treasures of Pyramid Isle.”

  “Reefs,” said Caina. “You said Pyramid Isle was surrounded by reefs.”

  Murat shrugged, his red coat rippling in the hot wind coming from the east. “Dozens of them. I mapped the reefs out a few years back when I started using the island as a hiding place.”

  “Can reefs change?” said Caina. “Over the years, I mean?”

  Murat gave her an odd look. “Aye. The water wears them away or a storm rips them down, or the coral grows into a new one.” His eyes narrowed. “You happen to know how our friends got here?”

  “A magistrate in the Padishah’s service found a map leading to buried relics on Pyramid Isle,” said Caina, deciding to give Murat a highly edited version of the truth. “The chart was a hundred and fifty years old.”

  Murat laughed. “Idiot. That’s why you always take fresh soundings. And that’s why we’re going so slowly.” He gestured to the bow, where a pair of corsairs stood with a weighted sounding line.

  “That ship must have wrecked recently,” said Caina.

  “Mmm,” said Murat. “Probably this morning. See all the sharks?”

  Caina saw the fins cutting back and forth through the waves, and sometimes she caught glimpses of the sleek, deadly creatures just beneath the surface of the water. “Aye.”

  “They’re still here, which means the ship wrecked itself recently,” said Murat. “I don’t hear anyone screaming or shouting for help, which means the sharks have gorged themselves…”

  “Or there’s no one left to eat,” said Caina, trying not to shudder. She had seen people die in all manner of terrible ways. She had not yet, however, seen anyone torn apart by a shark, and had no desire to add that sight to her collection of grim memories.