Ghost in the Pact

by Jonathan Moeller

  “He’s right, you know,” said Morgant. “About the unintended consequences.”

  “What?” said Caina.

  “If he had just paid me for the mural, he could have avoided all sorts of trouble,” said Morgant.

  Callatas let out an irritated growl, the shadow in his eyes darkening.

  “Perhaps you should have heeded your own lesson,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

  ###

  The domed chamber was very much like the Hall of Fire in the Inferno, albeit on a smaller scale. The dome of the ceiling rose a hundred feet overhead, studded with crystals that made it look as if stars glittered within the stone. Thousands of rows of hieroglyphics marked the walls in endless rows of strange symbols. When Caina had first come here, she had wondered if the hieroglyphs were hymns of praise to the Maatish gods or maledictions upon Kharnaces for the heresy of worshipping the nagataaru. Thanks to the knowledge that Kharnaces had forced into her skull, Caina could now read the inscriptions. Some of them were indeed curses upon Kharnaces for his heresy, and others were warnings urging intruders to turn back lest they share the punishment of Kharnaces for his vile crimes.

  It was a pity that Callatas could not read the warnings. Much evil could have been averted. Of course, even if he had been able to read the warnings, the damned fool would have pressed on, heedless of the cost, heedless of the slaughter and the misery and the ruined lives left in the wake of his mad quest to reform humanity…

  Callatas had indeed been wrong. Caina was not like him. She had started on the path of the Ghosts to keep others from enduring the kind of pain her mother and Maglarion had inflicted upon her. Caina had no illusions about the nature of humanity, but she still wanted to save people, to free them, to let them live their lives free of the kind of sorcerous terror that men like Callatas and Cassander wielded.

  Callatas, by contrast, had such contempt for humanity that he wanted to destroy them and replace them with the twisted creatures of his own vision.

  Caina shook her head. Callatas would not turn back from his path for any reason…and neither would Caina turn back from her determination to stop him.

  One way or another, only one of them was going to leave Pyramid Isle.

  “This,” said Callatas, “is where we part ways.”

  Six separate archways opened off the domed chamber, leading into different parts of the Tomb. The last time, only one of the archways had been open, luring Caina into the trap Kharnaces had laid for her. Now all six archways stood open, the massive stone slabs of their doors pushed to the side.

  “Such a lovely stroll we had,” said Kalgri. “We really must do it again sometime.”

  “Let’s not,” said Caina.

  “Do not worry,” said Callatas. “We are going to meet again very soon.”

  She met his dark eyes, watching the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis pulse and flare within in time to his mood. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I suggest,” said Callatas, “that you find and destroy those canopic jars as soon as possible. If you think to delay so Kharnaces will kill me for you, he will likely overcome me and then come to kill you.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Caina. “And I suggest that you turn your full attention to fighting Kharnaces. If you think to let him kill me first and then destroy the canopic jars yourself, likely he will destroy you, and then kill me.” She smiled at him. “But if you time it right, you might get killed and I might destroy the canopic jars before Kharnaces can find me. An ideal outcome, don’t you think?”

  “We shall see,” said Callatas. “Until we meet again, Caina Amalas. Which, I promise you, will be sooner than you like.”

  Without another word he turned and strode towards the passage leading to the apex of the hill. Kalgri lingered a moment, grinning in anticipation at Caina, and Caina forced herself to meet the Huntress’s blue eyes despite her fear.

  “If you wait here too long,” said Caina, “you’ll miss all the killing.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, my dear,” said Kalgri with a reedy giggle. “There will be enough killing for even me before we’re finished here.”

  She turned and followed Callatas up the passage, vanishing as her shadow-cloak merged with the darkness filling the Tomb.

  “Gods,” muttered Caina at last.

  “Was he always like that?” said Morgant.

  “No,” said Annarah. The strain was evident on her face. Caina felt a stab of sympathy for her. Callatas had been a mentor to Annarah just as Halfdan had been a mentor to Caina, and the pain of that betrayal had to be profound. “I think…I think he believed in a lie he told himself. I think he believed that Iramis was perfect and without flaw, and when he learned otherwise…he chose to believe a different lie.”

  “What?” said Morgant. “No, no. I mean those speeches! Those endless, pompous speeches.”

  Caina snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

  “I do like to talk. But my speech is witty and urbane,” said Morgant. “I don’t expound endlessly upon philosophy.”

  To Caina’s surprise, Annarah laughed. “Actually, he was always like that. The lords and loremasters called him Callatas the Wise, but the initiates called him Callatas the Longwinded. Behind his back, of course.” Her laughter faded. “And now the time for speeches is over. We must hurry. If we do not destroy those canopic jars, Kharnaces shall prevail, and nothing we or Callatas do will matter.”

  “Aye,” said Caina, drawing a deep breath. “This way.”

  She led the way to the passage that led to Kharnaces’s library, and then to his throne room. If she was right, Kharnaces had concealed his canopic jars there, perhaps they could destroy them before the Great Necromancer reacted.

  If Caina was wrong, she and Annarah and Morgant would die…followed shortly thereafter by everyone else in the world as the nagataaru swarmed through the shattered barrier of the netherworld.

  Chapter 20: Immortals

  For a frozen instant Kylon stared at the charging army, trying to guess the intentions of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku. Kylon and the nomads had only disabled two of the Hellfire catapults, but four of the engines were still intact. If Erghulan had sent his horsemen to pursue the nomads, he could have driven the raiders off, and then stationed troops of Immortals around the catapults.

  Then Kylon understood. Their distraction had worked too well. Erghulan had feared that the enemy had gotten behind his lines, that he would be trapped between two hostile forces. So rather than wait, he had charged Tanzir’s army, hoping to break through in a single massive attack.

  It was a rash tactic…but it probably would work. Erghulan’s heavy horsemen were the match of Tanzir’s mercenaries. And the Kaltari and the southern militias were doughty fighters, but the Immortals were ferocious and brutal warriors. Could the Kaltari stand against the Immortals?

  Kylon didn’t know…but if he had to bet, he would have wagered on the Immortals.

  It seemed that Erghulan had made that same gamble.

  Tibraim halted, the nomads forming up around him once more. Kylon kept running and rejoined the others, the valikon still in his fist.

  “Nasser!” he called.

  Nasser waited on his horse, his scimitar red with blood in his right hand. Laertes reined up next to him, adjusting the straps on his heavy shield. Tibraim looked back and forth at the charging Immortals, scowling and muttering to himself in Istarish.

  “It seems,” said Nasser, calm as ever, “that we have inadvertently started the battle.”

  “Let us attack!” said Tibraim. “We can take the foe from behind and ride through them like the wind of the steppes.”

  Nasser was already shaking his head before Tibraim stopped speaking. “We cannot. We are simply too few. If we try to charge the foe, we shall be overwhelmed in short order. We could harass them with arrows, but that will have little effect on anything at this point.”

  “Perhaps we ought to rejoin the host,” said Laertes.

  “By the time we get there,” said
Kylon, watching the black steel of the Immortals’ armor glinting in the sun, “the battle will be joined. Or it will be too late. The Kaltari are fierce fighters, but they might not be able to stand against that many Immortals.”

  “No,” said Nasser. “Without aid, I fear they will not be able to hold.”

  “What aid can we give them?” said Laertes. “A hundred horsemen and a stormdancer could not turn the tide against five thousand Immortals.”

  “No,” said Nasser again. “We should withdraw and rejoin Lord Tanzir. If he is forced to fall back, he will need assistance to keep the…”

  “Wait,” said Kylon, an idea coming to him. He looked over the battlefield, gauging the distances. It would mean difficult timing, but if they acted at once…

  “Lord Kylon?” said Nasser.

  “Erghulan is giving up on using the Hellfire catapults,” said Kylon. “By the time he reaches Tanzir’s army, they’ll be out of range. But Erghulan’s own men…”

  “Are still within range of the catapults,” said Nasser. “You suggest we seize control of one of the catapults and bring it to bear against the Immortals?”

  “Yes,” said Kylon. “Right now.” The Immortals were still in their close-packed formation, and if a dozen Hellfire amphorae landed among them, the results would be devastating.

  “A daring plan,” said Tibraim. “I like it! Let us turn the enemy’s own weapons upon him!”

  “Agreed,” said Nasser. He pointed at the next catapult, and even from a distance Kylon saw a number of Immortals still guarding it. “Ride!”

  The nomads put heels to their mounts and charged, and Kylon drew on the sorcery of air for speed, running alongside them. The score of Immortals guarding the catapult saw the horsemen coming and scrambled into a line, raising their scimitars and chain whips. Behind the Immortals Kylon saw a flash of white from the robe of an Alchemist, followed by a flare of golden fire.

  “Mazyan!” shouted Kylon, and the Oath Shadow looked at him. “Keep the Immortals off me! I’ll handle the Alchemist!”

  Mazyan gave a curt nod and turned his horse towards the Immortals.

  Then the golden fire flared, and a burst of brilliant flame erupted over the heads of the Immortals. It touched two of the charging nomads, and both the riders and their horses transmuted into statues of pale blue crystal. Three more riders slammed into the suddenly motionless statues, tumbling from their saddles.

  Kylon gritted his teeth, put on another burst of speed, and jumped.

  The sorcery of wind lifted him in a soaring leap, and he shot over the Immortals’ heads and landed between the Alchemist and the catapult. The Alchemist wore the white battle armor Kylon had seen before, a full helm masking his features. Golden fire played around his left hand, and in his right he held a long metallic fork, a bright blue-white spark playing between the tines.

  Kylon had seen sorcerous weapons like that before. The Immortals started to turn towards Kylon, but by then Mazyan had leapt among them, followed a moment later by the nomads.

  The Alchemist thrust his fork towards Kylon, and a snarling blast of blue-white lightning leapt from the sorcerous weapon. Kylon cast his own spell, pushing out his left palm. The sorcery of the stormdancers and the stormsingers of New Kyre was the power of storm and wave and sea. Kylon knew the basics of manipulating lightning, but never had been very good at it, and certainly had never tried to use it in battle.

  But it was easier to disrupt a spell than to work one.

  Kylon cast a simple ward around himself, and the lightning struck his palm and rebounded, grounding itself in the steel rods of the catapult with a thunderclap. For an awful moment he was sure that it had struck the dozen amphorae of Hellfire loaded in the engine’s throwing arm, but none of the sparks reached the amphorae.

  He raced forward, lifting the valikon, and the Alchemist cast another spell. Another lance of golden fire burst from his white gauntlet, and Kylon snapped up the valikon. The sword shivered in his hands as the golden fire struck it, but the blade unraveled the spell in a flare of brilliant sparks. Kylon kept charging, and the Alchemist snarled beneath his helm and flung something small from his belt. Kylon jumped to the side, kicking off the side of the catapult, and the object missed him by a few yards. It struck the ground and shattered, and he saw the harsh red gleam of Hellfire.

  An instant later the Hellfire exploded in a pillar of howling red flame, one yard wide and six tall. The heat struck Kylon like a hammer blow, but he was far enough from the fire that it did not injure him. The Alchemist was moving already, casting another spell. Kylon raced at the Alchemist, white mist swirling around his fist, and leaped as the Alchemist threw another bolt of transmuting fire. The blast missed Kylon, but he heard the familiar tearing shriek of living flesh transmuted into blue crystal as the spell struck the nomads. Kylon landed and swept the valikon at the Alchemist. The Alchemist stumbled back, trying to dodge, but the white metal of his cuirass deflected the valikon’s edge with ease.

  But Kylon was already punching with his left hand.

  The gauntlet of ice had frozen around his fist, but this time he had made another change to it. In the gladiatorial games of Istarinmul, sometimes the gladiators fought with a weapon called a cestus, an armored glove reinforced with razor-sharp spikes. Kylon had made himself a cestus of ice, the frozen gauntlet ending in a three-inch long spike as sharp as a dagger.

  His left fist smashed against the front of the Alchemist’s helmet, and he heard the crunching noise as the icy spike plunged into the Alchemist’s face. There was a gurgling scream of pain, and the spike snapped off as the Alchemist stumbled back, his armored hands flying to his face. That exposed his neck, and Kylon brought the valikon around.

  The Alchemist fell motionless to the ground, his blood watering the grass of the steppes.

  Kylon looked for other foes, but the nomads had already ridden down and killed the Immortals, though they had taken casualties, and several new crystalline statues stood here and there. Mazyan stepped over a dead Immortal, the smokeless fire in his eyes matching the sword in his hand, and shook his wrist as his blade of force dissipated.

  “The catapult is ours,” said Nasser. “Laertes!”

  Laertes dropped from his saddle with a grunt, squinting at the catapult, and then at the Grand Wazir’s charging army, the lines in his brow deepening with concentration. Then his eyes widened. “Fortune smiles on us this day. Watch this. Don’t stand in front of the catapult.”

  Laertes strode towards the right side of the catapult, towards the massive gears that filled the center of the machine. There was a large windlass there, along with a long steel lever. Laertes squinted at the lever for a moment and nodded to himself, his emotional sense tightening.

  “Lord Kylon,” said Laertes. “Get ready. You’re the strongest one here thanks to your sorcery, and we’ll need that strength in a moment. Tibraim, have your men start bringing over amphorae of Hellfire from that wagon.” He pointed to the wagon. “Quickly! And for the gods’ sake don’t drop any of the damned things. Mazyan, Nasser. We had best be ready to fight. Once the enemy realizes what we’re doing, we’ll need to defend ourselves. Or run for our lives.”

  Laertes might have retired from the Imperial Legion, but he still gave orders like a centurion, and the nomads hurried to obey. Even Kylon found himself moving to obey, and despite the grim situation he almost smiled. He had heard Caina say more than once that no one gave orders quite like a centurion. It was evidently a common proverb in the Empire, and Kylon saw that it had some truth to it.

  “Let’s see what happens,” said Laertes.

  He reached up and pulled the steel lever.

  There was a massive clang, followed by a tremendous twanging noise, and the catapult’s throwing arm blurred forward with terrific speed. A dozen Hellfire amphorae soared into the air, tumbling over each other. Each one of those amphorae, Kylon judged, would hold about six or seven gallons of Hellfire. The crystal vials that the Alchemists threw in battle
held maybe an ounce or two, and they had produce columns of flame as tall as a man. Thirty gallons of Hellfire going up all at once…

  Two of the amphorae smashed against each other in midair, shattering, a rain of Hellfire droplets falling upon the advancing Immortals.

  “Move!” roared Laertes. “Get that damned Hellfire over here. Twelve amphorae, move! Lord Kylon, give me a hand!”

  Laertes seized the handles on the massive windlass, and Kylon saw at once what was needed. He sheathed the valikon, drew on the power of water sorcery, and grabbed the handles, straining. Inch by inch they forced the windlass to rotate, and Nasser hurried to lend his strength to the effort. Kylon suspected it would normally take five or six men to move the damned thing, but with the aid of water sorcery, the three of them managed it, the catapult’s arm lowering foot by foot…

  Then the Hellfire erupted.

  The remaining amphorae had landed in the midst of the Immortals’ formation, and a bloom of fire thirty yards across erupted from the ground. Kylon looked up for a moment, stunned, and saw hundreds of Immortals flattened by the explosion, saw dozens more go tumbling through the air like leaves caught in the wind, limbs flailing. Crimson flames erupted throughout the formation as the Hellfire from the shattered amphorae ignited, ribbons of fire dancing atop the Immortals. The shock went through the entire center of Erghulan’s army as the Immortals’ charge came to a sudden halt, the Immortals scrambling to get away from the raging fireball.

  “Move, damn you!” roared Laertes, stepping away from the windlass. “Get those amphorae into the basket. Quickly, quickly!” The nomads rushed to obey, piling the amphorae into the basket at the end of the arm. Kylon stepped back from the catapult, reaching for the hilt of the valikon. The Immortals had frozen in surprise for a moment, but that moment would not last long. Sooner or later they would rush the catapults, or Erghulan would come to his senses and send his horsemen to ride the down.