REVENANT
WINDS
THE TAINTED CABAL: BOOK ONE
MITCHELL
HOGAN
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
REVENANT WINDS
All rights reserved.
Published by Mitchell Hogan
Copyright © 2017 by Mitchell Hogan
First Printing, 2017
Map by Maxime Plasse: maxsmaps.com
Cover by Damonza.com
Table of Contents
Revenant Winds
Copyright
Also by Mitchell Hogan
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Wiraya West
Wiraya East
Illustration
Prologue: An Unexpected Gift
Chapter One: Hard Choices
Chapter Two: Tests of Faith
Chapter Three: Dark Business
Chapter Four: A Reluctant Bargain
Chapter Five: North of the World
Chapter Six: A Divine Goal
Chapter Seven: Deep Waters
Chapter Eight: A Fortuitous Encounter
Chapter Nine: Red Finches and Assassins
Chapter Ten: Hungers
Chapter Eleven: An Initial Task
Chapter Twelve: One Step Forward
Chapter Thirteen: A Gathering of Strangers
Chapter Fourteen: Unpleasant Answers
Chapter Fifteen: Sorcerous Attachments
Chapter Sixteen: Another Invitation
Chapter Seventeen: Truths and Chains
Chapter Eighteen: Complications
Chapter Nineteen: Uncertainties
Chapter Twenty: Leaving
Chapter Twenty-One: A Winding Road
Chapter Twenty-Two: Cherish
Chapter Twenty-Three: Journey of Tears
Chapter Twenty-Four: Sketchy Plans
Chapter Twenty-Five: Sparks
Chapter Twenty-Six: Old Tales and Nightmares
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ancient Revelations and Fresh Wounds
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Aftermath
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Confrontations
Chapter Thirty: Additions
Chapter Thirty-One: Blood and Sorcery
Chapter Thirty-Two: Ruin
Chapter Thirty-Three: Guardian
Chapter Thirty-Four: Blood Sacrifice
Chapter Thirty-Five: Walking on Ice
Epilogue: Judgment
To my readers
ALSO BY MITCHELL HOGAN
The Sorcery Ascendant Sequence
A Crucible of Souls
Blood of Innocents
A Shattered Empire
At the Sign of the Crow and Moon—novella
The Tainted Cabal
Revenant Winds
Tower of the Forgotten—novella
Science Fiction
Inquisitor
With love to Isabelle and Charlotte, who are too wonderful for words.
Acknowledgments
To the editors who have to endure my writing before it is polished, a mountain of gratitude: Derek Prior, Abigail Nathan, and Nicola O’Shea.
A great many thanks to those who volunteered to beta read this book and gave their valuable time and feedback: Ray Nicholson, Matthew Summers, Tim Chambers, Toby Lloyd, David Walters, Belle McQuattie, Mark Chamberlain, and Devin Madson.
I would also like to thank all those readers who took a chance on an unknown author and purchased A Crucible of Souls and then went on to finish my Sorcery Ascendant Sequence. Without you, this book would never have been possible. I am living the dream, and for that I will be forever thankful.
Prologue
An Unexpected Gift
SOMEONE HAMMERED ON THE door.
“Niklaus! I need to … Get your hands off me! I need to speak to Nik …” The strident voice of Volkmar trailed off as he was silenced by the heavies outside.
Niklaus du Plessis stared at the cards in his hand and stifled a curse. Another bad hand. He forced his face into as neutral an expression as he could muster in his inebriated state. Should he stay in on the hope his fortune would change? By the blood of his ancestors, that would be on his tombstone: Here lies Niklaus. He hung in there, say that for him, until everything he was, or could have been, drained away to nothing. Bloody fool.
A life renewed and perpetually extended by the goddess, but for what? An eternity of drinking and gambling? Had she granted him a gift all those centuries ago and then changed her mind? Or had it been a curse all along? He’d been in this forsaken city of Sansor for months and still hadn’t discovered what she wanted of him. She’d used him for numerous missions in the past, but over recent months he’d had no instructions. Abandoned …
No, she valued him. He’d proven himself many times over. She wouldn’t desert him.
He often found his thoughts lingering on the goddess whenever he had a spare moment, and sometimes when he didn’t. She was exquisite—in beauty as well as intellect—and he had become obsessed with joining her. Making her his, and ruling together.
He poked at his meager pile of royals and glanced at the other players in the smoke-filled room, eyes lingering on the cocksure noble who’d taken most of his coins. He’d forgotten the man’s name—Al-something? As if the noble needed more money than he already had.
Volkmar might be an annoying ass and the city’s craziest sorcerer, but he paid well. Damn well. For hardly any effort on Niklaus’s part. There was no point wasting what little he had left continuing with the game; Volkmar’s insane plans would fill his empty purse again.
“I’m out,” he said, throwing his cards on the table and barely missing a puddle of spilled wine. He scooped up his remaining coins and stood, knocking his chair over as his sheathed sword tangled with its legs.
Niklaus intercepted the heavies at the entrance just as one of them was about to pitch Volkmar into the muddy street. “It’s all right, Pirkko, he’s with me.” He stayed the bouncer with a hand and a brief smile. His reputation still meant something to some people.
Volkmar brushed down his patched robes and glared at Pirkko.
“He’s just doing his job,” Niklaus said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Volkmar nodded his bald head, jowls wobbling.
Dawn’s half-light lit the sky to the east. Had it been that long? Niklaus felt a weary weight descend on him. Another night wasted. Still, there was tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Since the goddess had chosen him, time was all he had.
The sorcerer strode off, muttering to himself, then stopped abruptly. “Did you see that?” he said, peering into a dark alley.
“No. What was it?”
“Shadows moving. When they shouldn’t. I know I’m close. That’s how I know. She’s teasing me.”
Crazy old man. No wonder the other sorcerers laughed at him.
Niklaus knew which “she” he referred to. The Lady Sylva Kalisia, one of the old gods, with dominion over the moons, pain, and suffering. A name whispered to children to scare them into obedience. Niklaus knew all too well what her presence felt like, and a fleeting shadow in an alley didn’t come close. If the goddess wanted her presence known, you would feel it in your bones, in the animal musk and leather scent in the air, in the caress of her scorching breath on your skin, in the painful ache of your balls.
“I take it you need me to test your latest sword?” he said.
“What? Oh, yes. You’re the best. She wouldn’t want anything less. And I can’t displease her.”
“Thinking you’re the best is a sure way to get killed,” Nikla
us replied. “But I could enter the annual Silver Blade competition at the Boneyards, see how I fare.” Even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t. “But I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment. Very busy.” His well-worn excuses sounded weak even to himself.
“You’re the best,” Volkmar repeated. “You train every day, no matter what. She wants the best. Deserves the best.”
He was right, of course, about the goddess deserving the best. But Niklaus still thought the man was deluded. What use would the goddess have for a weapon?
“You’re a fool,” he said.
Volkmar nodded. “Maybe.”
The sorcerer led the way to his laboratory, a decrepit house with a large yard. Niklaus waited outside while Volkmar retrieved the sword from its hiding place. Its wrapping of pristine purple velvet was incongruous against the sorcerer’s stained robes. The gleam in Volkmar’s eyes when he unwrapped the cloth to reveal his latest creation showed his devotion.
Niklaus drew in a sharp breath. The mottled blade shone like a ribbon of moonlight. It was forged from the metal of a fallen star, using techniques only powerful sorcerers were capable of. Etched into the first third of the blade and on the hilt were cryptic sorcerous runes.
He unbuckled and discarded his own sword and reverently took possession of the new blade, testing its heft and balance. Without thinking, he slipped into a basic form and completed it flawlessly, then started another, more complex. Soon he was sweating and breathing heavily—a good feeling, one he always missed. With a sword in his hand, he felt … whole.
Niklaus stopped, form completed, the sorcerer’s blade raised high in the upper guard. Reluctantly, he lowered it.
“It’s … perfect.”
He couldn’t think of another way to describe the blade. As it was, it was worth a small fortune. Imbued with sorcery, its value increased tenfold. And if Volkmar’s crazy plan worked …
Ever since the goddess had touched Niklaus, directing him, even gifting him with powers, he had wanted to be able to contact her of his own accord, not wait like some lapdog begging for scraps. And, dare he even think it, meet her as an equal.
It would be interesting to see what happened with Volkmar and the sword, but he’d grown fond of the sorcerer.
“I don’t know if you should continue with this,” he said. “Some things are better left alone.”
“Old sorcery before the new,” Volkmar replied, ignoring his advice. “Old when these hills were mountains.”
“People have been messing with the old gods for ages, trying to leech their power. Not much remaining of them—the ones left alive anyway.”
“Because they didn’t ask. They just wanted to take. They didn’t respect the old gods.”
“You think if you ask nicely, they’ll hand over their power for nothing? Fool!”
“No, not for nothing.” Volkmar’s head jerked to his right. “There! She’s here—or a messenger. It’s a sign. Tonight, it is. Both the moons are full. I cannot wait any longer.” He rubbed his hands together and chuckled.
“Enough,” Niklaus said gruffly, tired and eager to be gone. “I can’t see how you could make a better blade. Now, where are my coins?”
“Of course. Thank you.” Volkmar spilled gold coins into Niklaus’s palm, then gripped his arm with a liver-spotted hand. “You’ll come tonight, won’t you? At sunset. You must. I’ve invited all my colleagues to see the birth of my dream. A grand spectacle. They won’t be laughing then, oh no.”
Niklaus prized away the bony fingers. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Good! My triumph needs everyone’s … participation. There is much to do to prepare for the rituals.”
~ ~ ~
Niklaus stumbled from the tavern, guided by the hand of the establishment’s bouncer. He tripped over his feet and landed heavily in the mud. He struggled upright and wiped his sticky clothes down as best he could. Another day gone. What was one more added to his eternal existence?
As he squinted at the orange sun disappearing behind the buildings, something tickled the back of his mind, and a soft, seductive woman’s voice whispered in his ear, Don’t you have somewhere to be?
He blinked blearily around. There was no one close. Passers-by were giving him a wide berth, like he had the plague or something. Didn’t they know who he was?
Where had the time gone? Then he remembered: Volkmar. He was probably late and would miss the senile old coot’s “triumph”. At least he should turn up to console him. Drown both their sorrows in strong drink. A capital idea.
Volkmar’s house was dark and silent. A cold wind swirled leaves around the entrance. There was a faint sulfurous scent and the smell of hot metal, as if from a forge. Cloaks and coats hung in the entry hall, and many pairs of muddy footprints made their way toward and under the door to Volkmar’s study.
The door was locked.
“Volkmar, you old bastard, open up!”
Silence.
“Blood and damnation!” Was this some sort of trick? He wouldn’t be played for a fool.
He kicked the door—once, twice. A third time and the lock broke. He strode inside.
“I swear, if—”
The stench of iron and piss, fear and death. And underneath it all a woman’s perfume laced with leather. Her scent.
Blood everywhere. A dozen corpses, eyes dripping scarlet. Clothes torn ragged. Faces rigid with terror. Mouths open, screaming silently. Volkmar’s colleagues, come to witness his triumph or bask in his failure.
Well, he guessed the sorcerer had shown them.
Volkmar was sitting against a wall, a smile on his face. In his hands was the sword, but it had changed. Still perfect. Still a silver ribbon, but now it glowed faintly as the moonlight through the window struck the blade.
Niklaus licked his lips. He approached Volkmar and knelt. The old man was dead.
He touched the sword, barely a caress. A tingle of energy traveled up his arm, and his chest tightened.
Near the hilt was a new engraving of exquisite detail, worked into the metal between this morning and now: a naked woman, kneeling, wings extending outward from behind her shoulders. Her mouth was curled in a sardonic smile.
Sylva Kalisia. The Lady. Niklaus’s goddess, who had touched him centuries ago.
Who better to wield such a blade than him?
Niklaus took the sword from Volkmar’s grip and backed away. With trembling hands, he discarded his own blade and sheathed Volkmar’s triumph.
He snorted. “Huh, I guess you did it, old man.”
He looked around at the price Sylva Kalisia had exacted for the gift of her power. The sorcerer had to have known, and he’d wanted Niklaus to be here. One soul less, but the Lady had still accepted the sacrifice. It seemed she still had a use for him. Still required his unending servitude.
The blade is yours, Sylva whispered. You will be rewarded above all others.
Her words came from inside him, as if spoken directly into his soul. Niklaus swallowed, fear twisting his gut. But the sound of her, the scent of her, the thought she’d been in this very room caused his head to spin and his groin to ache.
Burn this place, she said. There must be no trace of Volkmar’s sorcery left behind.
“I …” Niklaus said, voice breaking. “As you wish.”
If you please me, your rewards will be great.
Niklaus felt lips brush his ear, a hand pressing into his groin. He groaned, wits dribbling from his head like a lustful adolescent.
Before he left the house, he toppled candelabras into curtains and smashed lamps, spreading their flaming oil onto furniture and bedding. Once outside, he watched as flames ravaged the building, devouring all evidence of what had happened.
Pale light bathed the streets around him, and he looked up at the glowing moon. Realization hit that he’d taken—no, accepted—the goddess’s sword, and maybe there was a debt to pay. Along with the niggling disquiet that sometime in the future, she felt he would need a blade enhanced with arcane power
s.
Niklaus stood there for long moments and pictured his old life being consumed for the second time. As if the raging heat cleansed his soul, allowing him to be born anew.
Chapter One
Hard Choices
THE BROAD STONE DOOR of the ruins stood open. For the moment, all was quiet. Aldric Kermoran loosened his khopesh in its sheath. The crescent blade was sometimes difficult to draw and he didn’t want it sticking at an inopportune time. Closing his eyes, he whispered a brief prayer to his god, Menselas. With a finger, he rubbed the catalyst implanted under his skin, close to his heart, without which sorcery was impossible.
Moving slowly, deliberately, he sidled through the entrance and peered down the steps leading into blackness. White, threadlike fungi grew around the door and trailed inside the tomb. Farther in, oyster-shaped mushrooms sprouted from the walls, their surface covered with fingernail-sized scales that glowed with a faint violet luminescence. Violet scaleskins were only found inside ancient ruins, and scholars thought the light they emitted was a product of sorcerous leakage.
Apart from the mushrooms, there was nothing chasing away the dark. Aldric breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever had broken the ancient wards to enter the tomb was far enough inside that there was no telltale glimmer from whatever light source they carried.
Simple treasure hunters were the likeliest culprits. Men and women who thought the enigmatic ruins contained valuable artifacts, metals and gems they could sell for easy coin. They were right, of course, but some of these forgotten places contained things much, much worse.
For thousands of years, these tombs and repositories had remained hidden, unplundered, the works of an ancient race about whom little was known, even by the most educated scholars. But what they did know was that whatever was sealed inside was better left undisturbed.
Whoever had entered the tomb would likely spend hours exploring. That meant Aldric had time to investigate their camp and decide on a course of action. He turned his back on the hole in the cliff face and made his way along the escarpment.
When he reached the camp, he saw it was … disorganized. Hastily erected lean-tos, three of them, that would barely keep a drizzle off their occupants. The canvas was patched in many places, its edges frayed. A ripe stench came from behind nearby bushes where they’d dug a shallow hole to use as a latrine. Close by lay the half-butchered carcass of a deer, uncovered.
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