The kadrataagu loosed a metallic scream and attacked, lashing with its claws. It was fast, deadly fast, but with the sorcery of air Kylon was faster. He dodged, the kadrataagu hurtling past him, and Strabane struck, shouting something poetic-sounding in the Kaltari tongue. The greatsword hammered into the kadrataagu’s side. The creature’s thick armor turned the edge of Strabane’s sword, but the sheer power of the blow rocked the creature back.
It gave Kylon the opening he needed to drive the valikon into the kadrataagu’s chest, seeking its heart. The creature screamed, the valikon pouring white fire into the wound, and it shrank and shriveled. In its place stood an ancient, gaunt old man, his hair ragged and greasy, his teeth rotting and his fingernails yellow talons. He let out a croaking groan and collapsed to the cavern floor, sliding from the valikon’s blade.
The fires of the valikon dimmed, but did not go out.
Kylon let out a long breath.
“Damned good thing you came along, stormdancer,” said Strabane. “I wouldn’t have wanted to fight those things without your help. Bad enough the first time.”
Kylon blinked. “You’ve fought kadrataagu before?”
“Aye, at Silent Ash Temple a year past,” said Strabane. “With Glasshand and old Laertes and Ciaran. Or Caina, I suppose. Damned things were bad, but the Huntress was worse. Like a red shadow.”
“I fought the Huntress,” said Kylon, remembering. If only he had carried the valikon then.
Though it hadn’t done him much good when the Huntress had attacked Caina at Rumarah.
“Did you?” said Strabane.
Kylon nodded. “She killed my wife.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
Strabane grunted. “Suppose the demon in this old fool’s head,” he kicked the gaunt corpse, “was a cousin of the Huntress’s demon. Let’s go repay the Huntress for your wife by killing a bunch more damned demons and freeing my men.”
“That,” said Kylon, lifting the valikon, “is an excellent idea.”
***
Chapter 4: Destiny
They fought and killed two more kadrataagu in the dark tunnels of Shaman Hill.
Kylon thought the kadrataagu would have avoided him, knowing that he carried a weapon capable of destroying them, yet the sight of him seemed to send the creatures into a rage. Both the kadrataagu screamed that he had interfered with the plans of Kotuluk Iblis, that the demonslayer had been destined to die at the hand of their master’s vassal. Kylon supposed they were talking about the Red Huntress’s attack on Caina at Rumarah.
The thought that Caina’s survival had so enraged the nagataaru gave Kylon immense satisfaction.
They climbed upward whenever possible. Kylon figured the warlord who had built his fortress here long ago would have left himself an escape tunnel, so it made sense that one of the stairs or caverns would lead to the top of the hill. The air became fresher as they climbed, the valikon’s glow brighter as they drew nearer to Baelnach and his nagataaru.
Kylon felt the presence of the weak spot grow sharper, rubbing against his mind like a jagged piece of metal.
“The kadrataagu seem to know you,” said Strabane. “Talk to demons often?”
“More than I would like,” said Kylon. “The Huntress tried to kill Caina in Rumarah. She would have, too…but I managed to save her.”
Assuming she ever woke up.
“You and the Balarigar,” said Strabane with a bemused shake of his head. “She’s your woman?”
“Yes,” said Kylon. “No. It…I don’t know. She would have been, I think, but the Huntress convinced her that she was going to die. Then she almost did. If she wakes up…when she wakes up, we can talk then.”
If she ever woke up. If she even remembered who she was when she did.
“When she does, just walk in and kiss her,” said Strabane. “She’ll like that. Women prefer the direct approach.”
“Thank you for that counsel, but it’s not my first time,” said Kylon.
Strabane snorted. “So when you met her, did you know she was a woman? Or was she dressed up like a man.”
“I knew she was a woman,” said Kylon. “Why do you ask?”
Strabane shrugged. “She’s brave and clever, no doubt about that. But, hell, she’s not the kind of woman I’d want to take into my bed.”
Kylon hesitated. He could have told Strabane how Caina had outwitted him several times in Marsis, how she had tried to warn Andromache about the Tomb of Scorikhon before it was too late. He could have told Strabane how Caina had helped him save Thalastre from the poison of a Dustblade, or how she had stopped the Moroaica and saved the world, how she had risked everything to save his life in the Craven’s Tower. He could have described her brilliant, buzzing mind, a mind that could fashion weapons out of scattered secrets and hints. Or that beneath all the makeup and disguises and weapons and tricks, beneath the legend of the Balarigar, that she was beautiful, that she was a lonely young woman who trusted him completely.
For a moment he felt her absence as keenly as a blade piercing his flesh.
He couldn’t articulate any of that.
“Just as well,” said Kylon. “If you did, I would have to kill you.”
“Ha!” said Strabane. “A good answer. Fear not. The Huntress couldn’t kill her the first time, and she’s too stubborn to die.”
“We should remain quiet,” said Kylon. He sniffed the air. “I think we’re nearly to the surface, and there’s no telling how far sound can carry underground.”
Strabane nodded, and Kylon led the way, the light from the valikon throwing back the shadows. The passage sloped upward, and Kylon caught the glimmer of daylight from ahead. He beckoned to Strabane, sheathed the valikon to conceal its glow, and headed for the end of the tunnel. A stair climbed upwards, and Kylon took it.
He emerged upon the top of Shaman Hill, a crumbling stone wall rising alongside the stairs. To the left the hill sloped down towards the ravine, and he saw the hills of the Highlands stretching away in all directions. To the right he saw the ring of standing stones he had glimpsed from the ravine. The weak spot was in the center of the ring, and he felt it so sharply that he could almost see the distortion. Baelnach stood before the ring, ranting in the Kaltari tongue, and a dozen men knelt before him, chanting in time to whatever Baelnach was saying. Purple fire and shadow writhed around his fingers. He was casting a spell, his full attention on it, which probably explained why he had not noticed Kylon’s presence yet.
A wave of fury and fear went over Kylon’s sense, and he turned his gaze towards the base of a ruined tower. Mulgor, his men, and Strabane’s warriors sat in the ruins, their wrists and ankles tied together. Their weapons had been stacked next to the crumbling wall.
It seemed Baelnach’s spell had not yet required the blood of sacrifices.
Kylon looked at Strabane and jerked his head towards the captives, and Strabane nodded. They circled the edge of the summit, making their way to the ruined tower as Baelnach ranted. Some of the captives looked up as Kylon approached, and he lifted a finger to his lips. With his other hand he drew a dagger and started cutting ropes. Strabane slashed Mulgor’s bonds, and the headman rolled his feet, hastened to the weapons, and started handing them out.
They had freed six warriors went it all fell apart.
One of Baelnach’s men saw what was happening and shouted a warning. The other cultists scrambled to their feet, reaching for their weapons. Baelnach spun, his burning eyes wide, and his teeth bared in a snarl.
“Kill them!” screamed Baelnach. “They have offended the lords of the void! Kill them!”
The cultists surged forward, brandishing their weapons.
“Cut the others loose!” said Kylon. “I’ll hold them off.”
“By yourself?” said Mulgor, incredulous. “That’s…”
Kylon strode forward, the valikon trailing a sheet of white flame. The cultists charged towards him, their emotional senses filled with rage and glee. The glee incr
eased as they focused upon him, one man walking to certain death.
He drew on the sorcery of water and air, filling his muscles with power, and broke into a run. The cultists converged on him, and then Kylon leaped, the power of his jump driving him over their heads to land behind them.
Before his enemies could react, he started killing.
Kylon lunged, the valikon plunging into the nearest cultist’s heart. He ripped the sword free, wheeled, and swung with all the power of a tidal wave driving his arms. His strike chopped off the head of the next cultist, and he dodged the swing of a scimitar. Kylon parried the thrust of another cultist and struck before the demon-worshipper recovered his balance, ripping his enemy’s throat open.
Then Mulgor and Strabane charged, leading their men as they howled in fury. They crashed into the cultists, and a half-dozen demon-worshippers fell in the first shock of their charge. Caught between Kylon and the Kaltari warriors, the cultists began to flee, scrambling in all directions to escape.
The wrath of a nagataaru blazed against Kylon’s senses.
He spun as Baelnach charged into the battle. The nagataaru-possessed man carried a huge steel hammer. The thing must have weighed at least eighty pounds, yet the power of the nagataaru let Baelnach carry the weapon with one hand. He swung with a bellow of rage, and the hammer rammed into the head of one of Mulgor’s warriors.
The man’s head exploded in a crimson spray, and Baelnach killed two more warriors in as many heartbeats.
Kylon dashed forward, and Baelnach whirled, the hammer blurring before him. Kylon ducked an instant before the hammer would have caved in his skull. He surged back to his feet and slashed, but Baelnach dodged the blow. The possessed wielded the hammer with the speed of a dagger, and Kylon found himself forced on the defensive.
“It is useless, guardian,” snarled Baelnach, his voice reverberating with the alien hatred of the nagataaru. “You cannot save her. Kotuluk Iblis has decreed her death.”
“Then why is she still alive?” said Kylon.
“This world will die,” said Baelnach. “The lords of the void shall devour it. You cannot save it. You cannot save the demonslayer.”
“Then stop talking,” said Kylon, “and do it.”
Baelnach snarled again and charged, the hammer raised for an overhead blow. Kylon dodged again, moving the speed of the wind, and the hammer struck the ground with enough force to shake the earth. He stumbled, and Baelnach drove the hammer towards him. Kylon hit the ground and rolled, and as he regained his feet, he shifted the valikon to his right hand and yanked a dagger from his belt. The power of water sorcery surged through him, and he focused his will upon the dagger. The blade covered with frost, a freezing white mist swirling around the weapon. Before the Huntress had destroyed his sword of storm-forged steel, Kylon had wreathed the sword in freezing mist while in battle. The valikon would have collapsed the spell, and weapons of normal steel often shattered from the cold.
But Kylon did not need to use the dagger more than once.
He flung the dagger, and it slammed into Baelnach’s right thigh. The cultist snarled and reached to yank the blade from his leg, but as he did, the mist hardened into a rime of thick frost, fusing his hand to the dagger’s handle. Baelnach roared and ripped his hand free, but the effort made him stumble.
It was the opening Kylon needed.
The valikon’s swing connected with Baelnach’s left arm, severing his hand at the wrist. Baelnach screamed in pain and shock, and Kylon swept the valikon around in a sideways blow.
The blade took off Baelnach’s head, and his body crumpled to the ground, his blood spurting into the dust.
Kylon let out a deep breath and turned, seeking new foes, but the battle was over.
Strabane and Mulgor and the surviving warriors stared at him, stunned.
“Damn me, Strabane,” said Mulgor, “but you have a knack for finding useful friends.”
***
Chapter 5: Guardian
They left Shaman Hill soon after, leaving the cultists for the vultures. Mulgor promised to bring his warriors to join the march, and left to rally the fighting men of Surig.
“That was fine sword work,” said Strabane as they made their way back to Drynemet.
“I’ve had practice,” said Kylon. “And Baelnach put too much trust in his strength. If he had tried to dodge that dagger, I might be dead, not him.”
“Well, you realized that and he did not, and now he is dead,” said Strabane.
Kylon nodded. “That’s how it works.”
Strabane snorted. “It’s not surprising that she’s still alive.”
“Who?” said Kylon.
“The Balarigar,” said Strabane, “if you’re the one who defends her, like Baelnach and the kadrataagu said.”
Kylon considered that for a moment.
“I am,” said Kylon.
He was going to defend Caina. They had been through too much together, and he loved her too much to let her come to harm.
If the nagataaru came for her, Kylon would make sure they regretted it.
THE END
Thank you for reading GHOST VIGIL. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189). Turn the page to read the first chapter of GHOST IN THE COWL, Caina Amalas's first adventure in Istarinmul.
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GHOST IN THE COWL Chapter 1 - Istarinmul
Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas stood on the ship’s deck and threw knives at the mast.
It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from thinking too much. To distract herself from the memories that flooded her mind if she was idle for too long. Sometimes she locked herself in her cabin for hours and performed the exercises of open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago, working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every muscle in her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes.
But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went to the dark places. To New Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion laughing as he drove his dagger into the back of the man who had raised Caina. To the Moroaica, weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.
To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the netherworld.
And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself gazing at the veins in her arm, thinking of the knives she carried.
She retained enough of her right mind to realize that she was not thinking clearly, that her mood was dangerous.
So when that mood came, she went to the deck and threw knives at the mast.
At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew accustomed to it. They had been told that she was a mercenary named Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, delivering contracts now that trade between Istarinmul and the Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be forgiven an eccentricity or two.
That, and she never missed the mast.
Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain Qalim’s orders. Caina suspected that the sailors would have reacted rather differently if they knew that beneath the disguise “Marius” was actually a twenty-two year old woman, but she did not care.
She could not bring herself to care about very much.
So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking into the wood. Compensating for the motion of the waves and the wind kept her mind busy. Pulling the knives out of the mast and sharpening the blades anew kept her hands occupied.
The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless attracted an audience.
When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New Kyre’s harbor, she had expected to share the vessel with cargo. Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or perhaps Anshani silk. The Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly a year, a
nd cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.
She had not, however, expected to share the ship with a circus.
More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels.
Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the mast, and Master Cronmer himself approached.
Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the shoulders and chest of a titan. He was bald, with a graying mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a brilliant red coat. She saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten bread and cheese for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship carried.
“Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish tongue. “You should come work for me.”
Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She made sure to keep her Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and raspy, as Theodosia had taught her to do.
“Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty old merchants? You should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to create a stupendous knife-throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll throw knives at some lusty Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch from her skin, and she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”
“Working for the Collegium,” said Caina, “pays better.”
Spending the voyage throwing knives at the mast and brooding had likely been a poor idea. A spy needed to remain inconspicuous, and Caina had not bothered to do so. If she was to rebuild the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, she would have to take greater care.
But she could not bring herself to give a damn.
“Mere money,” said Cronmer, striking a pose. “What is that compared to the roar of the crowd, of a woman in your arms, of…”
“Cronmer,” said a woman with a heavy Istarish accent. Cronmer’s wife, a short Istarish woman named Tiri, hurried to his side. She looked tiny next to her massive husband, and they bickered constantly, but they had been married for twenty years and had six children. “Leave the poor man alone. The life of the circus is not for everyone.”
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