“Lord Kylon,” said Karzid with a bow of his head. “A great victory. After watching Rhataban fight, I did not think anyone could overcome him. But you did.”
“Thank you,” said Kylon. “What do you want?”
“The Emissary,” said Karzid, “requests the honor of your presence.” His face twitched a little. “Politely. Not to command, not to threaten, but to counsel. If you will hear her.”
Kylon let out a long, irritated breath. He did not want to talk to the Emissary of the Living Flame. Yet she had given him good advice before the battle. If he had not realized how badly Rhataban had been enslaved to the lusts of his nagataaru, Kylon might not have found the stratagem that had let him defeat the Master Alchemist.
“Fine,” he said. “Lady Claudia, thank you for the wine.” She nodded. “Let me know if I can be of assistance.”
He followed Karzid through the assembling camp, the monk walking in silence. Around Kylon the soldiers raised their tents, their mood celebratory. They had taken on a superior army and beaten them, sending the enemy running to the safety of Istarinmul’s walls. Kylon supposed Strabane and his warriors would be raising a many a cup to their victory tonight.
Come to think of it, he might join them.
A boot crunched against the turf, and Kylon felt the familiar presence of an elemental spirit. He turned as Mazyan stepped out of the gathering gloom, his usual scowl in place. There was no trace of the injuries that Rhataban had inflicted. Evidently the powers of the djinni included quick healing. Kylon envied that. The sorcery of water allowed him to heal quickly, but not that fast.
On the other hand, he would heal faster than the men lying wounded in the hospital tents, so he would not complain.
“Exile,” said Mazyan.
“Mazyan,” said Kylon. “Is Sulaman in danger?”
“The Prince is safe,” said Mazyan. “I sense no other nagataaru nearby. I do not think the Huntress is pursuing the Prince.”
“No,” said Kylon, his grim mood returning. If the Huntress was not pursuing the Prince, then the Huntress was likely on Pyramid Isle.
“Thank you,” said Mazyan. He looked as if the words had caused him pain. “I could not have defended the Prince alone, and therefore would have failed in my duty without your aid.”
He offered a stiff bow and then departed.
“That was astonishing,” said Karzid, blinking.
Kylon looked at the monk.
“Oath Shadows are heavily influenced by their djinn,” said Karzid. “The djinn of the Azure Sovereign’s Court are devoted to duty. For an Oath Shadow to admit that you helped him in his duty…it was the highest possible compliment he could give.”
“If your Emissary doesn’t send me on some wretched errand of doom,” said Kylon, “then I’ll buy him a drink or three when we return to Istarinmul.”
Karzid opened his mouth, and closed it again, and then decided on silence.
Wise of him.
They entered the Emissary’s tent. She had obtained a new table from somewhere since Kylon’s last visit. The monks had lit a pair of braziers, filling the tent with flickering light. The Emissary sat in a camp chair, her expression distant and pensive. She rose as Kylon entered, and Karzid moved to her side.
“Lord Kylon,” said the Emissary. “Congratulations on your victory.”
“Thank you,” said Kylon. “I had help from thousands of others. You should thank them, too. What do you want of me?”
“No tasks,” said Emissary. “No burdens I lay upon you, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Instead I have news, and a warning.”
“News,” said Kylon, staring at her.
A wave of cold dread rolled through him. Suddenly he was certain, utterly certain, that she would tell him that Caina was dead, that she had fallen to the Huntress’s blade while he had fought Rhataban.
He was so certain of it that her next words caught him by surprise.
“I believe the Balarigar yet lives,” said the Emissary.
“You do?” said Kylon. “How?”
“As a valikarion, she is immune to my sight,” said the Emissary. “Yet she still pulls and warps the threads around her. This very evening I saw a great distortion in the tapestry of the world. For a moment all hung in peril of destruction…and then it did not. I believe the actions of the Balarigar averted this disaster.”
Kylon said nothing, thinking about what she had said. It did not mean that Caina was still alive. It seemed that she had indeed found a way to stop Callatas from delivering the Staff and Seal to Kharnaces. Yet what had happened? Had she killed Callatas? Had Callatas slain her?
Then he knew what to ask.
“You still see her altering the threads of the future,” said Kylon. “That’s why you think she is still alive.”
“You judge correctly,” said the Emissary. “Which means I must now warn you.”
Kylon said nothing, waiting.
“I foresee a point in the future when the warping effect of the threads ceases, when the Balarigar is slain,” said the Emissary. “At that point in the future another thread crosses hers, a thread heavy with the blood of the innocent…”
“The Huntress,” said Kylon, his sword hand curling into a fist once again.
The Emissary nodded. “You have already slain one nagataaru lord. One greater and more cunning than Rhataban comes for the Balarigar. Your path has crossed the Huntress’s path before, and it shall cross hers one more time. You must face the Huntress again, or she will slay the Balarigar, and the world shall die.”
Kylon remained silent, his fist tight as he fought to keep his anger under control.
“Let her try,” he said in a quiet voice. “I promised Caina I would meet her again in the House of Agabyzus in the Cyrican Quarter of Istarinmul, and I will do it. I do not care if I have to kill a thousand monsters like the Huntress, if it takes the rest of my life. I will keep my promise.”
“Yes,” the Emissary in a quiet voice. “You shall.”
Kylon nodded. He would find a way to save Caina from the Red Huntress, no matter what it took.
Even if it cost his life.
Chapter 25: The Final Pact
Callatas drifted through nothingness, his exhausted mind flitting through memories.
He saw again Iramis, a city of towers wrought of white and gold, its walls gleaming in the sun. The seven Towers of Lore, housing the Words of Lore the Divine had given the first loremasters in the deeps of time. He remembered studying there, remembered passing the trials and becoming first a loremaster of Iramis and then one of the high loremasters. How proud he had been! Iramis was the height of human civilization, mankind’s defender against the abuse of sorcery and the malevolent spirits of the netherworld, and Callatas had become part of that grand and glorious tradition.
But as the years passed, and his reputation and power grew and he became known as Callatas the Wise, he had grown wearier and more cynical, tired of the constant scheming and plotting of the kings and lords and princes, weary of the endless parade of the suffering who sought aid from the loremasters of Iramis. No matter what Callatas did, no matter how hard he worked, it was never enough. There was always more suffering.
Then the day when the girl had come to him for help, and he had unknowingly sent her to her death…
Callatas had understood after that.
There was no hope for humanity. There was nothing perfectible about humanity, save their nature as killers, as hunters. In a blazing moment of rage and fury and madness Callatas understood. Civilization corrupted mankind, and he would strip away civilization. He would create a new kind of man, one who needed nothing that civilization offered, one who needed neither food nor drink nor shelter, one that could be perfected…
Long he had sought for the sorcerous secrets to work such a feat, until his search at last led him to Pyramid Isle and Kharnaces…and Kharnaces had told him of the nagataaru and the Court of the Azure Sovereign, two kingdoms of spirits locked in warfare without end.
There, at last, Callatas had found his answer.
The century and a half after that blurred before his eyes.
Nasser refusing to give him the Staff and the Seal after he had stolen the Star from Iramis.
Iramis burning as he lifted the Star aloft, the firestorm annihilating the oldest civilization upon the face of the world, the Star’s colossal power threatening to consume him as he forced it into the channels of his will.
The experiments, the endless experiments as he sought to perfect wraithblood, the tens of thousands of slaves dying in his laboratory as he sought the proper formula. The screams never stopped in his laboratories. The searching, the endless searching, as he scoured the Iramisian ruins dotting the Desert of Candles for where Annarah might have hidden the Staff and Seal.
Callatas also remembered the voice.
It was not a voice, not really. Death did not have a voice. Agony and torment could not speak in words. Alien hatred beyond the capacity of the human mind to comprehend could not form speech.
Yet if they could, they would sound like the voice that Callatas had heard on the day he had first attempted to summon a nagataaru, the day he had made his pact with Kotuluk Iblis, the sovereign and lord of the nagataaru.
The day the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis had filled him.
And now the voice of the shadow thundered through his skull once more.
CALLATAS.
He recoiled in fear, some of his memory starting to return. There had been a battle atop the hill, a duel of mighty sorcery. A gilded box thrown into the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, and then green fire everywhere…
YOU HAVE PREVAILED.
It seemed that he was still alive.
How astonishing.
THE CONTEST BETWEEN MY VASSALS IS DECIDED. THE VOICE HAS PREVAILED, AND THE HARBINGER IS DEFEATED. ALL IS IN READINESS. TAKE THE SEAL AND THE STAFF. THE PATHS OF THE NETHERWORLD ARE NOW OPENED TO YOU, AND YOU MAY RETURN TO YOUR STRONGHOLD IN ISTARINMUL.
Callatas felt himself drift towards consciousness. He was lying on his back, he realized, the Staff of Iramis still clutched in his left hand. The air was hot and wet, a sea-scented breeze blowing over his face.
RETURN TO ISTARINMUL AND COMPLETE THE APOTHEOSIS. FULFILL OUR PACT AND SUMMON ME TO THIS WORLD.
Yes. The Apotheosis.
Callatas had promised this world to Kotuluk Iblis, but he had no intention of completing that pact. Instead he would use the nagataaru, harness them as mankind had harnessed the horse and the ox, and use them to create a new and perfect humanity.
The malicious amusement filled his skull like choking smoke from a fire. Kotuluk Iblis knew his plans. Kotuluk Iblis knew every thought Callatas ever had, every memory, every emotion. The sovereign of the nagataaru knew and did not care. He thought he would triumph in the end.
But it would be Callatas, not Kotuluk Iblis, who won the final victory.
YOU HAVE PREVAILED. TAKE THE SEAL AND RETURN TO ISTARINMUL. WORK THE APOTHEOSIS AT LAST. FULFILL OUR PACT, AND GIVE ME THIS WORLD.
The shadow exploded through Callatas’s mind, filling him with agony, and he jerked awake.
His first thought was that he should have stayed asleep.
Every inch of his body ached, and he was utterly exhausted. After a moment he managed to get his eyes open, and he saw a pale blue sky overhead, shading to pink and yellow to the east. The sun was coming up.
Callatas sat up, leaning upon the Staff for support, and saw utter devastation.
Bones littered the hilltop, many of them charred and still smoking. Where the Conjurant Bloodcrystal had floated was now a blackened crater, the air above it still rippling with heat. Nearby Callatas saw the mask of Kharnaces, half-melted from the explosion. He couldn’t see any trace of Caina or Annarah or Morgant.
Maybe the explosion had killed them. A fitting end for the Balarigar, given how many things she had burned down.
Callatas grunted and heaved himself to his feet, wobbling a bit as he caught his balance.
A second vista of devastation greeted him.
Pyramid Isle had died. Once the white hill had been encircled by miles of lush green jungle. Now the jungle was dead and withered and crumbling. He realized it was the backlash from the destruction of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. It had killed every living thing on Pyramid Isle. His residual wards had been enough to protect him, but he doubted anyone else had survived. Well, that made his task easier. He just had to find Caina’s body and relieve it of the Seal.
A boot rasped against the ground, and Callatas whirled, almost losing his balance.
“So,” hissed Kalgri. “You survived.”
The Red Huntress limped towards him. She looked as terrible as he felt. The left side of her face was a mass of hideous burns, and dried blood, all of it her own, marked her crimson armor and tattered clothing. She walked with a sharp limp, grimacing with every step. The Voice was healing her wounds, but very, very slowly. Likely the nagataaru was just as exhausted as its host, and Kalgri would need to kill a few people before she regained her full strength.
“Yes,” said Callatas. “I…”
He had turned around too fast, and his stomach rebelled. Callatas doubled over and threw up, his stomach heaving. When he had finished, he forced himself up, wiping his mouth on the ragged sleeve of his robe. Kalgri watched him with a mix of disdain and amusement.
“Dignified, father,” she said.
He was too tired to get angry.
“Where is Caina?” he said. “Do you know?”
Kalgri shook her head, the burns upon her face tightening. “I don’t know. I woke up a few moments ago and decided to look around. The Voice can’t sense anyone nearby, but it’s too drained to do anything useful at the moment.”
“We must find the Seal,” said Callatas, looking over the hilltop, making sure to do it slowly this time. “And…”
He fell silent.
The Seal lay upon the ground thirty yards away, its blue stone giving off a faint glow.
All he had to do was pick it up, and he could finish the Apotheosis at last.
###
“I am now almost entirely certain,” murmured Samnirdamnus’s voice, “that you are the one I have sought for all these years. We will be seeing each other very soon now.”
Caina jerked awake, breathing hard.
For a moment she could not remember where she was and what had happened. Kylon, where was Kylon? Had something happened to him? Had…
Her mind dragged itself back into focus, and she remembered all of it, Kharnaces and the Conjurant Bloodcrystal and the titanic explosion that had gripped the hilltop.
Evidently she had lived through it.
Caina pushed herself up, shadow-cloak stirring around her shoulders. As far as she could tell, she was uninjured. She looked around the bone-strewn ground for Morgant and Annarah, but could not find them. Caina turned, looking for her friends, checking her belt as she did. The valikon and the ghostsilver dagger were still in their sheaths, but one of her belt pouches had been torn away, and…
Alarm stabbed through her.
The Seal was gone.
She turned, looking through the vision of the valikarion, and spotted the Seal about thirty yards away, burning with power. It must have fallen from her belt in the explosion.
Then her gaze met the gray eyes of Grand Master Callatas, standing on the other side of the Seal, Kalgri waiting at side.
He, too, had survived the explosion.
For a moment they stared at each other. He looked exhausted and broken, a defeated man. Yet his gray eyes still glittered with familiar madness.
“You don’t have to do this,” Caina heard herself say. “It’s not too late. You can still turn back.”
Slowly, slowly, Callatas shook his head. “No. I have come too far. I will not turn back now. Not when victory is in my grasp.”
Then Callatas began casting a spell, and Caina broke into a run, reaching for her weapons.
THE END
> Thank you for reading GHOST IN THE PACT. Look for Caina's next adventure, GHOST IN THE WINDS, to appear in the second half of 2016. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.
Other books by the author
The Demonsouled Saga
MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.
Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.
But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.
The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.
The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.
The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.
To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.
Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.
For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.
Unless Mazael can stop him.
Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon's Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.
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