Ghost in the Pact (21 page)

“We can’t fight our way past forty Immortals,” said Morgant. 

“We might not have to,” said Caina, glancing at the jungle. The nagataaru-infested undead baboons had not made an appearance, but it was possible they could not see Caina and Morgant and Annarah, and it was also possible they were not strong enough to break through the circle of Iramisian warding stones. 

It was also possible they had been drawn to Callatas’s Immortals. 

“They went north,” said Caina, and she led the way as they followed the tracks of the Immortals along the beach. She tried to find Callatas’s footprints amidst the heavy prints of the Immortals, but it was a futile effort. She listened for the sounds of any enemies, but she heard only the crash of the surf to her left, the whistling of the wind, and the rustling of the broad green leaves of the jungle. 

No seagulls, though. Every port that Caina had ever visited had seagulls. Not Pyramid Isle. She suspected bad things happened to any seagull foolish enough to nest upon the rocky white hill. On the plus side, she didn’t smell any seagull dung, just the brisk salt of the Alqaarin Sea and the harsh, metallic smell of human blood…

Caina came to a stop, and looked at Annarah, who nodded, her hand raised in the beginnings of a spell.

“What?” said Morgant. “I don’t see anything.”

“You really can’t smell that?” said Caina.

“I’m two hundred and five years old,” said Morgant. “My sense of smell is not what it once was. Considering the amount of time that has passed since any of us have bathed, that is probably for the best.”

“Blood,” said Caina. “A lot of it.”

“Ah,” said Morgant. “If Callatas bleeds to death on the beach, that solves all our problems.” 

“Let’s find out,” said Caina. 

She strode forward, her ghostsilver dagger in her hand. Morgant drew his crimson scimitar and black dagger in silence, and white light began to glimmer around Annarah’s hand. Caina wished Kylon was here. Morgant was capable enough in a fight, but she had never seen a fighter like Kylon, strength and fury driven by skill and cold control.

Oh, gods, she missed Kylon, for more reason than one…

Then she saw the black shapes. 

Dozens of Immortals lay motionless upon the beach, their blood seeping into the sand. As Caina drew closer, she saw that they had died in great pain. Something had ripped away their skull masks and bitten out their throats, or clawed off their faces. A dozen leathery, withered shapes lay motionless around the dead Immortals, and Caina recognized the familiar forms of Kharnaces’s undead baboons. 

“By the Divine,” murmured Annarah. “A terrible way to die.” 

“Aye,” said Caina, staring at one of the withered baboons. 

“Forty-two Immortals,” said Morgant. “That must have been all of them. Callatas is on his own now.” 

“No,” said Caina in a quiet voice. “He might not be.”

One of the mummified baboons had been cut in half from head to crotch. The cut was perfect, utterly perfect, with no ragged edges. The Immortals would have been more than strong enough to cut one of the baboons in half, but their steel scimitars would have shattered bones and torn the leathery flesh, not sliced it as neatly as a scalpel.

Or as the sword of dark power that Kalgri the Red Huntress wielded against her foes. 

“There will be two sets of tracks heading from here,” said Caina, walking around the dead Immortals. 

“You’re right,” said Annarah. “How did you know?” 

Two sets of footprints went north along the beach, both made by booted feet. One set was larger and closer together, the other smaller with a wider stride. Like the tracks left by an old man and a young, healthy woman. 

“The Huntress,” said Caina. “She’s here, with Callatas.” 

“But we thought she would go after Sulaman and Tanzir,” said Annarah, her green eyes wide. “We thought…”

“I was wrong!” said Caina, louder than she intended. She forced herself back to calm, though her heart hammered within her chest. Callatas was far more powerful and dangerous than the Red Huntress, but the thought of facing Kalgri filled Caina with dread. “I was wrong. We’ll have to find a way to deal with them both.” She took a deep breath. “Even if it means our lives. Too many other lives are at stake.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. 

“So be it,” said Annarah. 

“No one lives forever, I suppose,” said Morgant. “And Callatas never paid me for painting that damned mural. I suppose stealing back the Staff and the Seal would settle the debt.” 

Caina nodded, and they followed the tracks along the beach.

Chapter 12: Emissary

The army of the emir Tanzir Shahan marched north in the name of the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, rightful heir to the throne of the Padishah. 

The nomad horsemen of Tibraim and the other headmen went first, scouting the path of the army for any foes. Then came the heavy horsemen, the retinues of the emirs and the mercenaries hired by Tanzir, the Company of Shopur and the Black Wolves and a dozen others. Kylon was not sure how loyal the mercenaries would remain if the battle went sour, but Tanzir had foreseen the danger and scattered the mercenaries among the Istarish nobles, keeping them from forming a unified force. 

After the horsemen came the Kaltari warriors, grim and armored in chain mail shirts with spiked helms, and then the militia raised from the free farmers of the southern emirates. They might have been farmers, but they were nonetheless battle-hardened by frequent skirmishes with Anshani raiders, Sarbian nomads, bandits…and, recently, the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul. 

For all that Caina had blamed herself for the start of Istarinmul’s civil war, Kylon knew it would have happened eventually even if Caina had done nothing. The Brotherhood had been kidnapping people from the southern emirates for years, and anger had been building for all that time. Caina’s attacks on the Brotherhood had just sped up the inevitable unraveling. 

After the militia came the supply train, and two companies of mercenary engineers. The supply train was better organized than Kylon had thought. Tanzir had made the emir Kuldan Cimak the army’s quartermaster, and when Kylon had met Cimak in the Vale of Fallen Stars, he had seemed like a drunken wastrel more interested in composing epic poetry than in doing anything useful, but the man seemed to have a talent for organization. 

“I suggest,” said Nasser as Kylon rode next to him, “that you remain near Lord Tanzir and Prince Sulaman. When the Huntress strikes, she will almost certainly target the leaders of the army.” Nasser was armored for war, in chain mail with a shield slung over his shoulder, the reins gripped in his right fist. 

“I am surprised,” said Kylon, “that she hasn’t attacked yet.” 

“I fear,” said Nasser, “that you know her methods better than anyone else here.”

That was all too true. 

“Then she’s likely following us,” said Kylon, “or disguised as a soldier in the army or one of the camp followers. She’ll have her shadow-cloak so I can’t sense her nagataaru. Probably she will try to strike at the time she can do the most harm. The height of the battle, most likely. She will cut down Tanzir and Sulaman and as many others before she can get away safely.”

Nasser nodded. “You see why we wish you to remain near Sulaman and Tanzir.”  

Kylon shook his head. “Or she’ll do something clever we haven’t foreseen, like at Rumarah.”

Nasser smiled. “Then you can definitely see why we wish you to remain near Sulaman and Tanzir.”

“I can’t be everywhere at once,” said Kylon.

“No,” said Nasser, “but the Huntress will not show herself openly, not when you carry that sword.” He nodded at the valikon riding in its sheath on Kylon’s back. “She may try to come for the Emissary, I suspect.”

“Then let the Emissary see the future and avert it,” said Kylon. The words came out harder than he intended.

They rode in silence for a moment.

“We do appreciate your help, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser.

Kylon snorted and looked towards the north, thinking of Pyramid Isle. “You know why I am doing this.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Nasser.

“Though you and Lord Martin seem to have taken over the army,” said Kylon.

Nasser blinked, and then let out a laugh, amusement rolling through his emotional sense. “Hardly. It is the emir Tanzir’s host. He commands here, and were Lord Martin and I to attempt to usurp his authority, we should find ourselves executed in short order. No, this is Tanzir’s army…and Sulaman’s, now that the Emissary has proclaimed him the rightful heir of the Padishah. Lord Martin and I simply have more experience commanding men in battle than Lord Tanzir, and the emir is wise enough to listen to advice.”

“And I suppose you are wise enough,” said Kylon, “to phrase your advice as eminently reasonable suggestions, so that all can agree the emir Tanzir came up with the idea?”

Nasser’s white smile flashed over his dark face. “Why, Lord Kylon. You are far too young a man to be so cynical.” 

“I am a man who is both experienced in politics while completely inept at them,” said Kylon. “If that does not make a man cynical, nothing does.” 

Nasser raised an eyebrow. “Or the influence of Caina Amalas?” 

Kylon hesitated. His outlook had changed a great deal since meeting her, long before he had even kissed her for the first time. Once he had followed his sister and the Assembly unquestioningly, and it would never have occurred to him to think that a war with the Empire was a bad idea. Once he had been served by the slaves of House Kardamnos, and he had never questioned it, and if he had even thought about it at all, he would have assumed that it was the proper order of life.  

A lot of things had changed since he had first laid eyes on Caina Amalas in the Great Market of Marsis. 

“Or I’m just older,” said Kylon. 

Nasser laughed. “We all are, I fear.” 

The army marched for the rest of the day and at last made camp, straddling the Great Southern Road. Tibraim and the rest of the scouts thought it probable that they would meet the Grand Wazir’s host tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. Likely Erghulan would try to parley at first, to convince the rebels to stand down. 

When that failed, he would attack. 

Kylon stayed near the heart of the camp, where Tanzir and Sulaman and the other leaders raised their tents. So far he had seen no sign of the Huntress. For that matter, he had seen no women save for Lady Claudia and Kirzi, though he had no doubt that some of the minor emirs had smuggled a few camp followers into their tents. 

Tanzir and Sulaman and Nasser and Lord Martin and the others were dining together, but Kylon was not in the mood for company. It was the sort of dinner he would have enjoyed under other circumstances, but he knew the value for morale of fighting men, and he didn’t want his grim mood to infect the others. 

So he sat alone on the back of a wagon not far from the center of the camp, eating a piece of bread and drinking from a cup of bitter wine. He kept his sense of water sorcery at a low level, the emotions of the camp brushing against his mind. A great deal of fear came from the camp, but also determination. No man wanted to look a coward in front of his fellows, of course, but at least some of the men also believed that their cause was just, that they were marching to restore the lawful ruler of Istarinmul and drive out the villains who had seized control of the city. The rumors of Callatas’s crimes had spread through all of Istarinmul.

Of course, Kylon mused, even the rumors could not match up to the reality of the things Callatas had done. 

His arcane senses were extended, so he was not surprised when the abbot Karzid approached him. 

“Lord Kylon,” said Karzid with a bow. The setting sun threw stark shadows across his lined face.

“Lord abbot,” said Kylon.

“Ah,” said Karzid with a smile. “I am not really a lord, my lord Kylon.”

“Neither am I,” said Kylon, watching him. “Not any longer.”

“I come with a message,” said Karzid. “The Emissary would speak with you.”

“No,” said Kylon.

Karzid blinked. “I am sorry?”

Kylon got to his feet, looming over the shorter man. Karzid took a hasty step back, and a flicker of guilt went through Kylon. He could probably have broken the old monk in half even without using water sorcery. 

“I do not,” said Kylon, sitting back down, “wish to speak with the Emissary.”

Karzid lifted his wispy eyebrows. “There are men who traveled thousands of miles to speak with her.”

“I am not one of them,” said Kylon. 

“The Balarigar herself traveled to Silent Ash Temple to consult with the Emissary,” said Karzid. 

“She needed this,” said Kylon, tapping the hilt of the valikon that rose over his shoulder. 

“She also set the Balarigar,” said Karzid, “on the path that led her to you.”

Another wave of anger rolled through Kylon. He did not want to talk about Caina, and he certainly did not want to talk about Caina with the Emissary. Yet the Emissary had given Caina vital information, information that had let her recover the Staff and Seal of Iramis and rescue Annarah from the Inferno. 

“I am not the heir to the Padishah’s throne,” said Kylon. “I am not an emir of Istarinmul. I am not even a lord any longer. I am a man with a sword and a few spells. If your Emissary is so eager to dole out cryptic advice, let her present herself to Tanzir and Prince Sulaman. Unlike me, they will be eager to hear every word.”

Karzid nodded, unsurprised. “The Emissary thought you might say that.”

“Saw that in the future, did she?” said Kylon.

The old abbot either missed the barb or chose to ignore it. “If you said that, she said to give you a message.” 

“And what message is that?” said Kylon.

“The silver fire is your only salvation,” said Karzid.

Kylon said nothing.

Some of his anger must have shown on his face, because Karzid took another step back. 

“I know not what those words mean,” said Karzid, spreading his hands. “If you wish to know their meaning, you must speak with the Emissary.”

“I know what they mean,” said Kylon. It was an effort to keep his voice calm. “What I want to know is how the Emissary heard those words.”