Well, he would have to destroy the old humanity to make way for the new, and it pleased him to have started with Iramis.
Callatas supposed that Nasser was still alive somewhere, likely aiding that bloated slug Tanzir Shahan and his pathetic band of rebels. No doubt Erghulan and Rhataban had crushed the rebels and were on their way back to Istarinmul in triumph. Callatas almost hoped that Nasser had survived to see Callatas’s final victory, almost hoped that he would see the former Prince’s despair as the new humanity rose from the ashes of the old.
Kalgri’s voice cut into his self-congratulation. “A fitting trophy to your vanity, father. Do you sometimes come to the netherworld to stare at it?”
He glared at her. “You are still carrying that shadow-cloak and ghostsilver short swords. Trophies from the Ghost nightfighter you killed years ago, are they not?”
“I keep things because they are useful, and when they are no longer useful I discard them,” said Kalgri with disdain. “The pleasure is in the killing, father. In feasting upon torment and fear and death.” She shivered a little, her blue eyes widening as purple fire pulsed within them. “What use are baubles beyond that?”
Callatas stared at her with disgust. For a moment, he considered killing her. With the Seal on his hand, he could bind the will of the Voice, command it to take control of her body, and order it to kill her. Previously, killing Kalgri would have been a challenge even for him, but with the Seal, she posed no threat. That, and killing her would be immensely satisfying…
No. Cold caution cut through his dark musings.
Callatas might have need of the Red Huntress yet. Caina and Annarah and Morgant were no longer a threat, and Erghulan would have dealt with the rebels by now. Yet Nasser might be alive, and he would attempt something reckless to stop him. For that matter, Kylon of House Kardamnos likely still lived. A Kyracian stormdancer would not normally have troubled Callatas, but a Kyracian stormdancer armed with a valikon was a far greater danger. Both Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan had been powerful sorcerers. Rolukhan had been possessed by a powerful nagataaru, and Cassander’s spell had almost destroyed Istarinmul. Kylon of House Kardamnos had vowed to kill both men, and now both men were dead.
Best to exercise caution, then.
Callatas had not come this far and overcome so many obstacles only to be undone by pride at the final moment. He had to admit that his pride had caused him problems before. If he had not mishandled Cassander so badly, he could have acquired the relics months ago. If he had not dismissed Caina as a serious threat, the Inferno would not have been destroyed. For that matter, if Callatas had not treated Morgant so high-handedly after the destruction of Iramis, he might have found the Staff and Seal long before Kylon and Caina had ever been born.
So best not to kill Kalgri while he still had a use for her.
That, and once the new humanity arose, the old one would have to be killed, and Kalgri was excellent at killing.
“Very well,” said Callatas. “Come, then. If you wish to live in the moment and revel in slaughter, then follow me to Istarinmul. You shall have all the slaughter you desire.”
“I desire quite a lot, father,” said Kalgri, but she followed him.
Callatas lifted the Staff, focusing his will on it. Here in the netherworld, the Staff gave off a constant gray light, while the Seal shone with a steady blue glow and the Star looked as if it had been carved from a frozen blue flame. Enspelled objects reacted that way in the netherworld. If he looked closely, he saw the faint white glow of the sheathed ghostsilver short sword at Kalgri’s belt.
“This way,” said Callatas, focusing his will into the Staff.
The netherworld shifted and rippled around him. The plans vanished, replaced instead by the streets of Istarinmul, ramshackle apartment towers of crumbling brick and adobe rising around him. The Anshani Quarter, he thought, and he prepared to cast another spell, focusing his will.
“A fine notion,” said Kalgri. “But just how are we to return to the city? It is rather a long walk from Pyramid Isle.” She looked at the rippling reflection of Istarinmul around them. “Even longer from the netherworld.”
“It is normally useless to use the netherworld for travel across the material world,” said Callatas. “Some sorcerers have sought to do so, but have invariably perished due to the dangerous spirits that dwell here. Distance in the netherworld corresponds precisely to distance in the material world, though time does not.”
“Normally?” said Kalgri.
“A useful property of the Staff,” said Callatas, and he cast the spell again, the Staff pulsing. The Anshani Quarter dissolved into the colorless plain and then reformed itself a moment later the Court of the Fountain at the Padishah’s Golden Palace. Callatas detested the Golden Palace and all it represented, and it pleased him to think that it would soon be destroyed forever.
“And what property is that?” said Kalgri.
“The Staff is employed to open gates to the netherworld and summon spirits,” said Callatas. “However, once inside the netherworld, a sorcerer of sufficient skill can use the Staff to open gates to specific locations within the mortal world.”
“Which locations?” said Kalgri.
“Any location I wish,” said Callatas. “To the Golden Palace, where the final pieces of the Apotheosis await.” He started casting the spell, pouring more of his will and power into the Staff. “I…”
The sky went black.
It had been dark before, but the darkness of a titanic storm. Now the utter blackness of a lifeless and lightless void covered the sky in all directions, drowning the clouds and the echoes of the rift and Iramis.
“Ah,” breathed Kalgri, the sword of force in her hand seeming to become hungrier.
The darkness was the nagataaru, millions upon millions of nagataaru waiting in the sky.
Waiting for him to open the way and allow them into the mortal world to feast.
For an instant, Callatas knew a flicker of fear. He planned to use the nagataaru, to harness them as mankind had harnessed the horse and the ox, and use them to create his new humanity. Yet looking at the vast void of uncounted millions of nagataaru, he felt misgivings. Trying to harness such a force was like trying to throw a saddle on the cold, empty voids between the worlds themselves.
His resolve hardened. He had not come this far to turn back now. He would use the nagataaru to remake humanity, and…
The shadow of Kotuluk Iblis, the sovereign of the nagataaru, stirred within him.
CALLATAS.
It wasn’t a voice, not really. Hatred and eternal hunger could not speak. Rage and wrath beyond humanity capacity could not form words. But if they could, if they could speak, they would sound like the voice that thundered inside of Callatas’s skull.
“Ah,” murmured Kalgri, her eyes flashing with purple light and shadow. “It is speaking to you. I can hear it too.”
THE HOUR HAS COME. FULFILL OUR PACT AND OPEN THE GATE. SURRENDER THIS WORLD TO ME, AND I SHALL FEAST UPON IT.
Callatas had made a pact with Kotuluk Iblis, promising the world to the sovereign of the nagataaru in exchange for additional power and knowledge. Of course, Callatas had no intention of keeping that pact. He would bind the nagataaru spirits to the wraithblood addicts, using them to create his new humanity. The resultant hybrid would be immortal and invincible, having no need of the corrupting structures of civilization, and would sweep across the face of the world in a tide of blood and slaughter.
Kotuluk Iblis knew all this…but Callatas did not care.
The nagataaru sovereign might know of Callatas’s plans, but it could do nothing to stop him.
THE BALARIGAR IS DEFEATED. THE LOREMASTERS OF IRAMIS SLAIN. THE COURT OF THE AZURE SOVEREIGN IS SCATTERED AND WITHOUT LEADERSHIP. THE HOUR IS NOW. OPEN THE GATE, AND FULFILL OUR PACT.
“I shall do more than fulfill our pact,” said Callatas. “I shall transcend it. I shall give you bodies of flesh that you might wear as you slay and hunt for eternity.”
Kalgri let out a contemptuous laugh, and Callatas glared at her. She only grinned at him. She cared nothing for the new humanity. Often he wished that his first experiment in summoning and binding the nagataaru into living flesh showed more vision, but one could not have everything.
“Well, father,” said Kalgri. “What are you waiting for?”
Callatas ignored her and struck the end of the Staff against the ground, calling forth its power. A sheet of gray mist rose up, forming a gate back to the material world. Through the hazy gate, he saw the Court of the Fountain, saw the slaves going about their business gape in astonishment as the gate opened.
It was time to begin.
Callatas stepped through the gate and returned to Istarinmul, Kalgri following him.
###
Kalgri blinked as she stepped into the Court of the Fountain, the harsh Istarish sun stabbing at her eyes, the familiar dry, hot air of Istarinmul slapping her across the face. After the muggy heat of Pyramid Isle, the dry air was a relief. The Voice stirred and hissed with pleasure inside of her skull, and the nagataaru sensed the dozens of lives around them, the lives of the slaves and minor functionaries going about their business at the Golden Palace.
The Voice was hungry.
So was Kalgri.
She rolled her wrist, calling the blade of force to her hand once more.
Callatas straightened up as the gate closed behind him, his tattered white robes stirring around him in the hot wind. He looked fifty years younger than he had when he had departed Istarinmul a few weeks ago, but he was still unmistakably the Grand Master of the College of Alchemists, the most powerful sorcerer in Istarinmul.
Who else could appear out of thin air in the Court of the Fountain?
The slaves and the scribes and the functionaries went to their knees.
“Grand Master,” said one of the scribes, a doughy middle-aged man with a look of terror on his thick face. Come to think of it, all of them looked more frightened than Kalgri would have expected. Granted, Callatas inspired fear in the common vermin, but she thought they were afraid of something else.
No matter.
“You,” said Callatas, pointing at the scribe. “What news? Have the Grand Wazir and Master Rhataban returned to the city yet?”
The scribe opened his mouth, closed it again. “Grand Master, I…”
Kalgri stepped forward, swung her sword of dark power, and beheaded the scribe. His head rolled away in a spurt of blood, his flabby body sagging to the flagstones of the Court of the Fountain. Kalgri felt the surge of power from his death, the Voice moaning and gibbering as it gorged itself upon the release of life force, and Kalgri felt some of her own strength returning, the skin on her face and arms crawling and twitching as the burns began healing.
That felt pleasant, so she charged forward, raising the sword again.
She had killed nine slaves and four scribes by the time Callatas put a stop to it.
“Enough!” he said, his voice ringing over the Court, louder even than the waters of the ornate fountain at its center.
Kalgri shrugged, rolling her shoulders, new strength flowing through her, the Voice moaning with ecstasy. “You were going to kill them all anyway.”
“That is not the point,” Callatas bit out. She almost laughed at the frustrated expression on his face but decided against pushing him too far.
“As you wish,” said Kalgri. “Though I may wish to dine again later.”
Callatas ignored her and jabbed a finger at a quaking slave woman. “You. Where is the Grand Wazir? Has he returned to the city?”
“He has, Grand Master,” said the woman, cringing in terror. “A few hours ago.”
She saw Callatas’s surprise, and he looked at the gate to the street, where he finally noted a fact that Kalgri had grasped at once.
There were always supposed to be Immortals on guard at the gates of the Golden Palace, but there were none. For that matter, there were more people in the Court of the Fountain than there should have been at this time of day. Kalgri suspected they were fleeing for their lives.
“Where is his army?” said Callatas.
The slave woman blinked. “You…you do not know, Grand Master?”
“If I knew, would I ask you?” snapped Callatas. “Speak!”
“I do not know what happened, Grand Master,” said the slave woman. “Not exactly. It…”
“The rebels defeated the Grand Wazir!” said a scribe. “What remains of his army has been trickling into the city for days. The Grand Wazir returned with a few horsemen and went to the Court of Justice at once.”
“Defeated?” said Callatas, incredulous. “How could Erghulan have let himself get defeated by the likes of Tanzir Shahan?”
“We…we do not know, great lord,” said the slave woman. “There have been many rumors from the south, but all of them agree that the Grand Wazir’s host was defeated. Bands of defeated soldiers have been fleeing into the city for days. And they say the Grand Wazir is…”
Callatas’s gray eyes narrowed. “What? What do they say about the Grand Wazir?”
The slave woman swallowed, her fear washing over Kalgri like a delicious spice. “They say he is planning to take the treasury and flee the Padishah’s realm, Grand Master.”
Kalgri laughed, which earned her an astonished look from the slave woman and an irritated glare from Callatas.
Erghulan’s actions made sense, of course. Callatas had disappeared from the city, and Erghulan had lost his army to the rebels. The Grand Wazir had made an enemy of every single one of the southern emirs, and knowing the man’s boorish personality, defeat would turn the rest of his allies against him. The smart thing to do would be to flee the city with as much money as he could carry. Wise nobles went into exile rather than waiting for the headman’s axe.
“Is he?” said Callatas. He beckoned to Kalgri. “Come.”
He strode deeper into the Golden Palace, the palace’s great golden dome shining overhead. Kalgri followed him with a shrug. Perhaps she would get to kill the Grand Wazir himself before this was over.
Behind her, the surviving slaves and scribes fled for the gate, and Kalgri laughed again, earning another irritated glower from Callatas.
It didn’t matter. Let the slaves run.
They could not outrun the carnage that Callatas would soon unleash.
###
Callatas stalked into the Golden Palace, Kalgri trailing after him in silence, and made for the Court of Justice.
Everywhere he looked he saw the signs of chaos, of defeat, of a government about to fall. Immortals were supposed to guard every doorway in the Padishah’s palace, but he saw none. Though that might have been Callatas’s own fault, come to think of it. While in the grips of Kharnaces’s compulsion, he had ordered every remaining Immortal in the city to march with Erghulan. Several thousand Immortals and mercenary horsemen and the aid of Master Rhataban should have been enough to allow Erghulan to crush the rebels.
It seemed that the Grand Wazir could do nothing right.
Callatas swept down a long, pillared arcade and walked into the vast Court of Justice. It was a large courtyard, large enough to hold some of Istarinmul’s smaller gladiatorial arenas, the floor and walls covered with gleaming, snowy marble. Balconies encircled the Court, allowing observers to watch from above. At the far end of the courtyard rose a pyramidal dais, supporting a massive throne of red granite. According to ancient tradition, the Padishah of Istarinmul held court here to announce proclamations that touched upon the entire Istarish nation – declarations of war and peace, announcements of succession, arbitrating between warring emirs, and other such weighty matters. No one had sat here in years, not since the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon and his sons had disappeared from the public eye.
Or, more precisely, not since Callatas had removed Nahas Tarshahzon from the public eye.
He really should have taken Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon captive as well, but he hadn’t seen the need, knowing
he could find the Prince whenever he needed.
His teeth ground together. Another mistake of pride. Well, it didn’t matter now. He had dispatched the Kindred to take Kutal prisoner. Most likely Prince Kutal was dead or had fled into exile.
No matter. Callatas had no further need of him.
A small knot of Istarish nobles and Immortals stood at the base of the dais, speaking in low voices. They looked up as Callatas approached, and he spotted the Grand Wazir in their midst. Erghulan Amirasku was in his late fifties, still strong and fit despite his age, with close-cropped, receding gray hair and a great beak of a nose. He wore plate armor, the armor spotted with blood and dust, and the other nobles and Immortals looked just as dusty and weary.
They had indeed faced battle…and it looked as if they had lost.
“Grand Master,” said Erghulan. He looked at Callatas, at Kalgri, and then back at Callatas, his hand twitching towards the hilt of his scimitar. “That…is the Red Huntress.” A murmur of fear went through the nobles. “She slaughtered a score of Immortals the last time she was here.”
Kalgri smiled. “It’s so sweet that you remember.”
“Enough,” said Callatas. “What happened?”
Erghulan hesitated. “You disappeared. You disappeared from the city, and I thought we would have the aid of your spells when we marched against the rebels…”
The Grand Wazir had indeed failed. Already he was trying to make excuses for his defeat.
“Urgent matters called me from the city,” said Callatas. “I gave you every Immortal in Istarinmul, and I sent Master Alchemist Rhataban with you as well…”
“He’s dead,” said Erghulan.
Callatas blinked. “What?”
Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) Page 4
