Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

He shot over the fallen tables, the rafters blurring a few inches above his head, and landed in the midst of the charging Immortals. His boot struck the nearest Immortal in the side of the knee, and metal crunched and bone snapped. The Immortal stumbled with a furious cry, and Kylon’s broadsword darted out, plunging into a gap in the black armor. Blood covered his blade as he ripped it free, and the Immortal collapsed. Another swung a chain whip at Kylon, and he caught the blow on his left arm. It should have broken his arm, but the sorcery of water strengthened him, permitting his bones to withstand the blow, even though it still hurt. Kylon yanked with all his sorcery-enhanced strength, and the Immortal went clattering to the ground. He drove his sword down, killing the Immortal.

  The other Immortals closed around him. Kylon jumped back, dodging their blows, the sorcery of air giving him the ability to avoid their blows.

  But only just.

  Normal men could not keep up with him, not when he was using the sorcery of air, but the Immortals were not normal men. The alchemical elixirs burning in their blood made them inhumanly fast. Kylon found himself forced back upon his heels, retreating before the slashes of scimitars and chain whips. He could not strike back, his whole attention focused upon his defense, and realized that he had made a grave error.

  His final error, as it happened.

  He hoped it had at bought enough time for the others to escape. One of the Immortals stepped too far forward, and Kylon seized the opening, his sword cutting through a gap in the armor and drawing a line of blood across the Immortal’s leg. The Immortal stumbled, and Kylon drove a killing blow into the warrior’s armpit.

  The other Immortals closed around him, and Kylon tore his blade free, knowing it would be too late.

  A spinning blur of steel clanged off the helmet of an Immortal lining up a fatal blow. The throwing knife did not penetrate the black, skull-faced helmet, but it did stagger the Immortal. Kylon recovered his footing and risked a glance back, and saw Caina striding towards him, another knife glittering in her hand.

  He shouted for her to run, and then a dark shape shot past her. Nasser charged into the fray, his scimitar flashing. An Immortal turned towards him, and Nasser punched with his gloved left hand. It was the most foolish thing Kylon had seen in some time. The Immortals’ helms were reinforced steel, and even with his sorcery-enhanced strength, Kylon could not drive his blade through the armor. He expected to hear the sound of shattering bone as Nasser’s hand broke against the skull-mask.

  Instead Nasser’s fist plunged through the steel helmet as if it had been wrought of paper, and the Immortal’s skull exploded in a spray of gore. Kylon did not recognize the sorcerous aura around Nasser’s left hand, but he certainly had not expected something like that. Nasser wheeled, catching another Immortal’s scimitar in his fist, and twisted. The motion should have torn his hand to bloody shreds, but instead he crushed the Immortal’s scimitar, jerking the warrior forward and burying his own blade in a gap between the armor plates. The Immortal fell, and Nasser spun to face another foe.

  An arrow buzzed past Kylon’s shoulder and sank into the eye of an Immortal’s helmet. Kylon saw Kazravid standing with his bow extended, his expression cool as he reached for another arrow. The anjars and khadjars of Anshan took pride in their skill as hunters, and few could match an Anshani noble’s skill with a bow.

  Yet more Immortals poured through the door.

  ###

  Morgant took his scimitar in his right hand and his black dagger in his left.

  He had lost the scimitar decades ago. The weapon had once been carried by the notorious assassin Red Carzim, and Carzim had paid a fortune to a sorcerer to forge and enspell the weapon, making it stronger and lighter than regular steel. Carzim had decided to collect the bounty on Morgant’s head. After Carzim’s regrettable and untimely death, Morgant had kept the scimitar for himself, and then lost it few decades later while avoiding a necromancer who had taken an undue interest in Markaine of Caer Marist.

  He was impressed that Caina had found the damned thing. Of course, it would mean nothing if the Immortals killed them. And the scimitar was less than effective against a warrior armored in heavy steel plates. Fortunately, Morgant had a far more potent weapon.

  He strolled into the fray, rolling the black dagger around his fingers, its red gemstone flashing. One of the Immortals sized him up, dismissed him as a real threat, and launched a lazy blow towards his head. Morgant snapped up the scimitar to deflect the blow, and slashed the black dagger at the Immortal’s cuirass. The Immortal made no effort to dodge, expecting his heavy armor to block the dagger.

  To judge from the agonized bellow that erupted from his throat, the Immortal had not expected the dagger to slice him open from chest to groin, blood and viscera gushing from his slashed torso, sizzling against the white-hot edges of his damaged armor. The Immortal collapsed into a bloody heap as Morgant stepped past him and brought the black dagger down again, opening an Immortal’s throat through the protection of a skull-masked helmet. The dagger pulsed with energy, growing hot beneath Morgant’s fingers, and he jabbed the weapon at another Immortal. The Immortal, perhaps realizing the danger, jerked back at the last moment, and the black dagger landed in his left forearm instead of his chest.

  It didn’t matter. Morgant focused his will upon the dagger, and it released its stored energy into the Immortal.

  The Immortal rocked back with an agonized howl, flames erupting from the joints of his armor and the eyeholes of the helmet. Morgant dodged as the Immortal thrashed in his death throes, greasy smoke pouring from his armor.

  A hulking figure leapt over the burning Immortal, a tall, scarred man in chain mail and leather, sword and dagger in hand. Morgant recognized Ikhardin, and the Kindred assassin surged forward within inhuman speed. Likely Ikhardin was drawing upon the power of the bloodcrystal in his torque. Better to keep the crystal’s power in reserve for healing. Though bloodcrystals drew their strength from death, and Kylon and Nasser and Morgant between them had killed nearly fifteen Immortals. Likely Ikhardin’s bloodcrystal had strength to spare.

  Ikhardin raced around the melee, making for Kylon. Morgant ran to meet him, his crimson scimitar and black dagger flashing. Kylon and Nasser and Laertes were doing a decent job of holding back the Immortals, though they would be overwhelmed sooner rather than later. If Ikhardin cut down Kylon, Nasser and Laertes and Kazravid would be killed all that much sooner.

  Morgant didn’t care. He could escape easily enough, if it came to that. Kylon, Laertes, and Kazravid meant nothing to him, and he thought Caina had rather a higher opinion of Kylon than the Kyracian merited. It would amuse Morgant if the great and arrogant Nasser Glasshand met his end fighting in a miserable tavern. It would make for an amusing painting, to be sure.

  Caina, though…this was a fine test. If she escaped from this trap, it would be further proof that she was strong enough, that she was clever enough to help Morgant keep his word to Annarah. If she wasn’t…well, it was time to disappear from Istarinmul anyway. The chaos that the Balarigar had unleashed would almost certainly trigger a civil war within Istarinmul, and the city would be dangerous until the dust settled. Morgant could vanish into the free cities or Anshan.

  Until then, he would give Caina a chance to prove herself.

  “Ikhardin!” he bellowed, charging at the Kindred assassin. Ikhardin spun to meet him, his scimitar blocking Morgant’s crimson blade. The Kindred assassin had guessed the danger of the black dagger, and did not try to block, retreating before its stab.

  “Old fool,” said Ikhardin, sneering. “Die.”

  He stabbed with inhuman speed, but Morgant had seen his footing change and was already dodging. The blades blurred past him, and Morgant struck with his scimitar. He opened a cut on Ikhardin’s forearm, and the Kindred assassin reeled back. The wound started to shrink as the bloodcrystal healed it, but that meant the crystal’s power could not enhance his speed quite so much.

  “It’s your lucky day,” said Mor
gant, waving the scimitar before him. “I’m Morgant the Razor, and if you kill me, you’ll please your Elder.”

  Ikhardin laughed. “Morgant the Razor has been dead for centuries.”

  Morgant grinned. “Lay my head before your Elder and see how he reacts.” The Elder’s reaction would have been comical, to say the least.

  “Easily accomplished,” said Ikhardin, and he attacked.

  ###

  Caina ran for the long bar running along one wall of the common room.

  She wanted to join the fight, but if she did she would die quickly. Caina had killed Immortals before, but in most of those fights she had simply gotten lucky. She did not have sorcerous strength like Kylon, a spell upon her left fist like Nasser, an enspelled weapon like Morgant, or skill with a bow like Kazravid. The ghostsilver dagger might have disrupted the spells upon the Adamant Guards, but it would do less against the Immortals, whose bodies had been altered by the alchemical elixirs they ingested. If she was going to help Kylon and Nasser and the others, she needed to create a distraction.

  Fortunately, the tools for such a distraction were readily at hand.

  The Shahenshah’s Seat served a wide variety of beverages. Beer and wine waited in large casks behind the bar, but there were more potent spirits available for patrons with money. Several clay amphorae stood in a row underneath the bar, and a quick sniff filled Caina’s nostrils with the sharp, numbing smell of Caerish whiskey. Caina looked for the stove, and then saw an Immortal fall beneath Morgant’s dagger, flames wreathing his flesh. He landed a few feet from the doorway, flames dancing in the gaps of his armor.

  That would work.

  Caina seized two amphorae by the handles, straining with their weight, and dashed forward. Kylon and Nasser and Laertes and Morgant were locked in battle against the Immortals, Kazravid loosing arrows whenever the opportunity presented itself, and took no notice of her. Neither did the Immortals, focusing their attention upon their foes.

  It gave Caina the perfect opening to fling an amphora.

  It spun end over end, clear liquor spilling from its mouth, and shattered against the dead Immortal by the door. Caerish whiskey was a powerful drink, and it burned even hotter. Bluish-white fire erupted over the dead Immortal and onto the floor, and Caina spun and threw the other amphora. It struck the burning Immortal and shattered, spraying burning whiskey in all directions. The flames spread across the floor, jumped to the shutters of the windows and the benches and tables. It also jumped to the rafters overhead, which began to burn. Belatedly Caina realized that the wood of the ceiling and benches and tables had dried out from years of the hot, rainless Istarish climate.

  The Shahenshah’s Seat was going to become an inferno.

  On the positive side, the wall of flames blocked the door. The charging Immortals stopped, unable to force their way through the flames climbing the walls and spreading over the floor. Their heavy armor protected them from sword and arrow, but it would be useless against the fire.

  “Go!” said Caina as Kylon and the others struggled against the remaining Immortals, cutting them down one by one. “We have to get out of here!”

  “The cellar,” said Nasser, his scimitar blurring through a flourish of brilliant swordplay. An Immortal fell dying to the floor. Around him Kylon killed another Immortal, and Laertes and Morgant finished still another. “The cellar, quickly! We…”

  A fireball erupted from the doorway, and Caina ducked, raising an arm to shield her face.

  The robed figure burst through the door, moving with speed to match Kylon, and the robe burned away and fell in smoldering scraps to the floor. Beneath the crumbling robe Caina saw an Adamant Guard, the armor grafted to his flesh glowing with heat, crimson flames dancing in his eyes.

  The Sifter had found a new body.

  The burning eyes fell upon Caina, and the ifrit surged forward with terrible speed.

  ###

  Kylon killed another Immortal, turned, and ran at Caina.

  He rammed his broadsword back into its sheath and yanked the valikon over his shoulder as he sprinted. The sigils carved in the ghostsilver blade flared to life, and the weapon seemed to vibrate in his hand, resonating like the blast of a mighty horn.

  The Sifter paused, its burning eyes turning to him, and one hand came up crackling with crimson fire.

  Kylon plunged the valikon into the Sifter’s chest. The sword ripped through the armor plates and into the dead flesh. The hilt thrummed beneath Kylon’s fingers, and the Sifter snarled. Kylon sensed the ifrit’s rage grow hotter.

  But the creature seemed only annoyed.

  “The weapons of Iramis,” hissed the Sifter in its crackling voice. “A potent blade. But only if I am clothed in living flesh.”

  The Sifter’s hand slammed into Kylon’s chest with terrific force. He hurtled backwards, still gripping the valikon, and crashed hard into a burning table.

  ###

  Caina stared at the Sifter, stunned.

  She had been certain, so certain, the valikon would destroy the creature. Perhaps the blade could only harm the nagataaru. Or perhaps the Sifter had spoken the truth, and the weapon could only destroy spirits clothed in living flesh. Either way, it didn’t matter, because Caina would never learn the truth.

  Because she was about to die for her mistake.

  She took a step back, but the Sifter was faster. It gestured, and Caina felt a surge of arcane power. A ring of crimson flames erupted from the floor, wide enough to encircle both her and the Sifter. The heat from the flames beat against Caina’s face, and she knew that anyone who tried to cross the ring would die in agony.

  The Sifter stepped towards her, its stolen face filled with glee.

  “Remove the pyrikon,” it said.

  “What?” said Caina.

  “Remove the pyrikon,” said the Sifter. “Give yourself to me. Permit me to devour you. Otherwise I shall kill you slowly, in more agony than you can possibly imagine. Then I shall do the same to your friends. Remove the pyrikon of the lost loremaster, or you shall know torment that few mortals have ever endured.”

  She started to answer, her eyes watering from the heat of the flames, and the Sifter surged forward, its right hand closing about her throat. It lifted her up, her bruised neck exploding with fresh pain.

  “Remove it,” said the Sifter.

  Caina yanked the ghostsilver dagger from her belt and stabbed at the Sifter’s arm. She felt the heat as it disrupted the spells upon the Adamant Guard’s corpse. Yet those spells no longer mattered. The Sifter inhabited the dead flesh, and it was the Sifter’s will that filled the Guard’s limbs with inhuman strength.

  Strength that was crushing her throat.

  “Remove the pyrikon,” said the Sifter. The fingers dug into her neck. “Remove it!”

  ###

  Ikhardin dodged from Morgant’s next strike, turned, and sprinted away with a burst of inhuman speed, leaping through a flame-wreathed window. Morgant blinked his stinging eyes, wondering why the assassin had retreated, and then realized the answer.

  It was getting hard to breathe.

  The fire blazed out of control, the air filling with smoke. In another minute or two anyone left within the Shahenshah’s Seat would either burn or choke. Ikhardin didn’t need to kill anyone. He needed only to wait until they fled from the building. Then the Immortals could cut them down.

  He saw Kylon smash into a table and collapse, saw Caina within the blazing ring, stabbing uselessly at the Sifter’s form. Nasser and Kylon and Laertes would soon overpower the remaining Immortals, but by then it wouldn’t matter.

  The fight was over. Caina had failed, and she had lost. She was too weak to prevail.

  Morgant stepped over a dead Immortal, pondering the best way to make his escape. Back up the stairs, he thought, to the roof before the fire spread further. From there he would make his way from rooftop to rooftop, as Caina and Kylon had while fleeing from the Sifter, and then escape Istarinmul entirely.

  He t
urned for the stairs and hesitated.

  Morgant could not have said why. The strong endured and the weak perished. That was the way of the world, and he had seen little evidence otherwise in two hundred years. He admired Caina for her cleverness and boldness, but she had not been strong enough to defeat the Sifter. She would not be strong enough to help Morgant keep his word to Annarah. Better to disappear and look for someone who could help him. Idly he wondered why the Knight of Wind and Air had thought Caina strong enough to succeed.

  Caina stabbed at the Sifter’s stolen body again, and in that moment she reminded him a great deal of Annarah at the end, her face defiant, her robes torn and bloodstained, the pyrikon in her hands thrust out, the staff’s length blazing with the light of the loremaster’s wards.

  A staff…

  Morgant blinked.

  Perhaps here was another test. A pyrikon had a will of its own. Callatas had taken Annarah’s pyrikon for his own purposes, but the pyrikon seemed to have chosen Caina.

  “Balarigar!” he roared, his voice cutting over the howl of the flames. “A staff! The pyrikon was once a staff!”

  ###

  Darkness swallowed Caina’s vision, but Morgant’s words reached her ears nonetheless.

  A staff?

  The pyrikon could change shape, she knew that. It had started as a ring, and had later changed shape to a bracelet and then an armband. At first she had not been able to remove it, but later the pyrikon had allowed itself to be removed, though it always returned to her hand or arm sooner or later.

  So what good would a staff do? The pyrikon had blocked the Sifter from entering Caina’s body, which was no doubt why the ifrit wanted her to remove it. The Sifter could not control Caina once it possessed her, but since it was going to burn her to ashes anyway, that hardly seemed necessary.

  Yet she focused upon the pyrikon, thinking of a staff.

  Arcane power surged through the bracelet, and it unwound from her wrist, jumping into her left hand. It expanded and swelled, unfolding and growing longer and thicker. The pyrikon had been a delicate bracelet, wrought of a strange metal like bronze. Now it extended into a staff about six feet long, intricate and slender yet solid in Caina’s fist.