Ghost in the Pact (12 page)

And that ward gave Kylon the time he needed to close with the Alchemist. 

He struck three times in rapid succession, but his first two blows rebounded from the Alchemist’s cuirass, and the third bounced off the helmet. The armor was hard, harder than stone. Nevertheless the power of Kylon’s strikes knocked the Alchemist back. The man fumbled at his belt, reaching for a leather pouch. Likely it was the pouch that held his remaining vials of Hellfire. 

And that pouch, Kylon suspected, had not been strengthened through alchemy. 

He hammered with the valikon, the pommel smashing into the pouch. He heard something shatter, and Kylon threw himself backwards. The Alchemist snarled a furious curse, reaching into the pouch, and then his eyes widened. 

An instant later the Hellfire from the broken vials ignited, sheathing the Alchemist in a pillar of crimson flame.

The roar of the fire drowned out the Alchemist’s screams. His armor did a good job of protecting him from the flames, but there were gaps in the white metal, and the Hellfire found them. More fire erupted from the Alchemist’s helmet and gauntlets as his clothes ignited, and the man fell to his knees, pawing at himself and screaming.

Kylon aimed his next blow at the gap below the Alchemist’s helmet and put him out of his misery. 

He turned, the heat from the burning man stinging his face and arms, and sought more foes, but saw that the Immortals had fallen back in disarray from the gate with over half their number slain. The Imperial Guards had taken causalities as well, but their superior discipline and ordered formation had held against the Immortals’ savage fury. Time and time again experienced commanders had told Kylon that discipline and training defeated individual valor, and once again he had seen proof of it before his eyes. 

Kylon ran back to the gate and saw a crowd of servants hurrying from the mansion, carrying food and clothing. Lord Martin’s seneschal, a paunchy Nighmarian commoner named Dromio, directed them. Every man and woman carried several loaves of bread. Likely Martin had purchased them in the event of a siege, but hopefully it would keep them from starving until they reached Tanzir Shahan’s army. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Lady Claudia,” said Kylon, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Gods of storm and sea, but that Hellfire burned hot. 

Claudia offered a tight smile. “My father always said the Alchemists never knew how to overcome a proper warding spell. It seems he was right about at least one thing in his life.” Martin approached, clad in the black armor of an Imperial Guard, leading a horse by the reins.

“My lady, my lord,” said Dromio. “I believe we are ready to flee.” 

“The enemy has fallen back,” said Tylas. 

“The way is clear for now,” said Sulaman, that distant look on his face. Kylon wondered just how his power of foretelling worked. How precisely could he control it? The Immortals in the Desert Maiden should have killed him, but he had somehow outmaneuvered them. “But if we delay, we shall certainly perish.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Martin. “Tylas, get ready to move out. Imperial Guards in the saddle, spread out to surround the servants. I do not want to leave anyone behind to the mercies of Erghulan and his Immortals.” He looked back at Sulaman. “Just who the devil are you?”

“I know him, husband,” said Claudia. “He’s a poet. Ah…Sulaman, isn’t it? I think I saw you recite once at one of the coffeehouses in the Old Quarter.”  

“Actually,” said Kylon, “this is Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, the sole surviving son of the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon, heir to the throne of the Most Divine Padishah, and if Nahas is truly dead…the rightful Padishah of Istarinmul.”

Martin and Claudia shared a look for a moment. 

“I see,” said Martin at last. 

“Caina has worn off on you, hasn’t she?” said Claudia to Kylon. “You’ve certainly picked up her touch of the dramatic.”

“I greet you, Lord Martin,” said Sulaman, “and ask your help to reach the emir Tanzir’s army in the south. You have seen firsthand how Erghulan and Callatas have driven Istarinmul to the edge of ruin. We must resist them and restore sound governance to Istarinmul. I would be grateful for any aid the Emperor’s ambassador might choose to give.” 

“Then it seems we see the conclusion of a plan long-prepared,” said Martin. “Come. The sooner we depart from Istarinmul, the better. Lord Kylon, a horse?”

“No need,” said Kylon. His shoulders and arms ached from the effort of fighting, and his head buzzed from the amount of sorcerous force he had used. Riding on horseback seemed pleasant at the moment, but it would have to wait. “I fight better on foot.”

###

Kylon had feared they would have to fight their way free of the city, but escaping Istarinmul proved easier than he thought. Once, he suspected, the informants of the Teskilati would have followed them, directing the Immortals to their path. But Cassander Nilas had destroyed the leadership of the Padishah’s secret police and the headquarters of the watchmen at the Crows’ Tower, and both the Teskilati and the watchmen had fallen into disarray. No one challenged them as they rode south. As the passed through the tenements of the Anshani Quarter, gangs watched them from the alleyways, but none of the thugs were reckless enough take on Imperial Guards. 

The Anshani Bazaar, the vast southernmost bazaar of Istarinmul, was half-deserted. When Kylon had first come to Istarinmul, it had been packed, filled with caravans and merchants from every nation under the sun. The rebellion in the south, the depredations of the Brotherhood, and Cassander’s attack had driven off most of the merchants. 

Sulaman was right. Istarinmul was dying. Callatas and Erghulan were killing it, and Callatas would kill Istarinmul and every other nation if he succeeded. 

There were watchmen upon the walls, but no one stopped them as their column marched through the gate. The mounted Imperial Guards fell out in a loose screen, sending patrols across the nearby plains. 

“We will have to march through most of the night, I am afraid,” said Nasser, walking alongside Lord Martin’s horse. “Erghulan’s army will march slowly, but I do not want to be caught by one of his scouting parties.” 

“Nor do I,” said Martin. “The men are tired from fighting, and the servants are unused to exertions of this sort. Well, most of them.” He glanced back at Dromio. To Kylon’s mild surprise, the stout old man seemed indefatigable, marching up and down the line and helping some of the older and weaker servants along. Perhaps he thought it undignified for the seneschal of an Imperial lord to show any weakness. “But tired is better than slain.”

“I suggest, Lord Martin,” said Nasser, “that some scouts be sent to the north, to check upon the progress of the Grand Wazir’s advance.”

“I shall go,” said Kylon. 

“Alone?” said Lady Claudia. She rode easily, wearing an Istarish headscarf to keep the sun off her head and neck, her son riding with her. Kylon had never given any thought to how an infant might travel on horseback, but Claudia Aberon Dorius had clearly given it a great deal of consideration, because she had obtained a small, well-padded bassinet from somewhere. Corvalis rested in it, wrapped in a light blanket, a veil stretched over him to ward off the harsh sun. He seemed comfortable enough. From time to time he cried a little, but Kylon supposed it was the nature of infants to cry, and his mother soon soothed him back asleep. “It would not be safe to go alone, Lord Kylon.”

“I would be,” said Kylon. “If I am unhorsed, I have the best chance of outrunning any enemies.”

“This is so,” said Martin. “Tylas! Find Lord Kylon a horse.” He turned towards Nasser and Sulaman. “Meanwhile, I would be most interested to learn how I wound up traveling with the Padishah’s son and heir.”

“Ah,” said Nasser, his white smile flashing over his face. “It is fortunate that I am here to tell it, because I am an excellent storyteller, and it is indeed a long story.” 

Tylas found Kylon one of the lighter, faster horses, and he rode north. 

The lands around Istarinmul proper were flat and arid, filled with tough brown grasses and low, rolling hills. None of the lands near the city were suitable for farmland, and all of Istarinmul’s food came from Istarish Cyrica, the Vale of Fallen Stars, and from trade with Anshan and the Empire. With trade disrupted in the aftermath of Cassander’s attack, Kylon supposed Tanzir would find it easier to starve out the city and force a surrender, assuming Erghulan’s army did not smash him first. 

He wondered why the ancient Istarish had built their city in such an inhospitable place. For command of the Starfall Straits, perhaps? Caina would know. She enjoyed history, or at least found it fascinating in a way that Kylon did not. She had told him about the old tales of the Istarish, how Istarr had traveled north and founded the city after defeating the Demon Princes, seven nagataaru-possessed sorcerers who had ruled what was now Istarinmul. Caina had always had an interest in such old legends, though given how the ancient hand of the Moroaica had affected her life, he could understand her fascination. 

A wave of deep, rending melancholy rolled through Kylon, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing hard. He felt Caina’s absence as keenly as a physical pain, a pain made all the worse because he didn’t know if she was safe and healthy or even alive. 

For a moment he considered abandoning Nasser and Sulaman and the others and riding to find Caina, but he forced the thought aside, using the discipline he had used to wield the sorcery of water. What was done was done. If he had not been at the embassy, it was possible that the Immortals would have stormed the mansion before Nasser and Sulaman had arrived, that the Alchemist would have killed Claudia with one of the vials of Hellfire.

And Caina could take care of herself. If Kylon would have trusted anyone with Caina’s life, it would have been Caina herself.

The thought cheered him somewhat, or at least eased his mind, and he rode on, seeking the army.

It wasn’t hard to find. 

Kylon reined up at the top of a shallow hill, the domes and towers of Istarinmul just visible in the haze at the horizon. To the north he saw a dark mass spreading south across the arid plains, like a poison poured from an amphora.

It was the army of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku. Erghulan had been gathering men to defend the city, calling his soldiers and hiring mercenaries to defend against Tanzir’s anticipated siege. Those men had been useless against Cassander, but Callatas had ordered Erghulan to attack, and the Grand Wazir had obeyed. Kylon thought at least fifteen thousand men, maybe even as many as twenty thousand, had marched south. He saw horsemen and footmen both, clad in chain mail and spiked Istarish helmets. Wagons held disassembled siege engines and rows of amphorae, likely jars of Hellfire to rain upon the enemy. A group of black-armored soldiers marched in the heart of the army – thousands upon thousands of Immortals. Agabyzus had thought no more than six or seven thousand Immortals remained in Istarinmul after the destruction of the Inferno, scattered amongst the personal bodyguards of the emirs and the Alchemists. Callatas had likely recalled them all to serve in Erghulan’s army. 

It was a strong force. Kylon didn’t know how many men Tanzir and the rebel emirs had gathered, but he hoped it was enough.

For a moment he hesitated, staring at the towers and gleaming domes of Istarinmul. Had Caina made it out of Istarinmul? Kylon didn’t know.

He might never know. 

Again the melancholy threatened to swallow him, and Kylon pushed it aside. 

There were battles to fight. More to the point, the army’s patrols might see him, and getting killed while wallowing in sadness would be a ridiculous way to die.

Kylon turned his horse and rode to rejoin the others. 

Chapter 7: Negotiations

Morgant followed Caina and Annarah as they ran from the wreckage of the Desert Maiden and towards the docks of the Alqaarin Harbor. 

He was surprised, both at Caina and at himself. 

Morgant thought he would have gone with Sulaman and Mazyan to the rebel army. He had promised the old Padishah that he would keep Sulaman safe. Of course, Sulaman was surrounded by Nasser Glasshand, Mazyan, and Kylon of House Kardamnos, three of the most formidable fighters that Morgant had ever seen. Frankly, Sulaman was safer than he had been at any point in the last seven years or so, and Morgant could consider his promise to Nahas Tarshahzon fulfilled. A pity the old man was likely dead. Since the Inferno was destroyed, Morgant could think of any number of useful things he could have requested as his reward in lieu of access to the Inferno. 

Nevertheless, he had promised to help Annarah, and Annarah was going with Caina. So Morgant found himself following Annarah and Caina as the broad blue expanse of the Alqaarin Harbor yawned before them, stretching to the sea beyond. Morgant kept his promises, so he supposed in hindsight that it wasn’t at all surprising that he was here.

Though Caina did still surprise him. 

He had not expected she would be willing to part from Kylon for any reason. Her logic was sound. Callatas usually sent the Huntress to do his dirty work, and even under the influence of Kharnaces’s compulsion, he would dispatch the Huntress to kill off Tanzir and the rest of the rebel leadership. Not that Morgant cared what happened to them, but if he saw the danger, then Caina would as well. Sending the Kyracian and the valikon to protect them was the rational choice, the cold and logical choice.

Yet Morgant had not expected that from Caina. For all her cleverness, she was still a young woman in love, and young women in love thought with their hearts, not their heads. But she had made the hard choice nevertheless. Morgant found himself impressed, just as he had found himself impressed that night in the burning wreckage of the Craven’s Tower, when Caina had threatened to kill him unless he helped Kylon. She might have been a young woman in love, but she was a hard young woman, which was why he had chosen her to help him rescue Annarah from the Inferno…and Caina was the reason that Annarah was free and the Inferno was a pile of slag.