“Kylon of House Kardamnos killed him during the battle,” said Erghulan.
“What? Impossible. How?” said Callatas. He could not comprehend it. Rhataban had been a Master Alchemist of great power and a skilled warrior, his prowess further enhanced by the mighty nagataaru that had inhabited his flesh. There was no way he could have been defeated by a Kyracian exile…
Callatas rebuked himself. Pride again! Kylon had killed Rolukhan and Cassander. Why not Rhataban? He took a deep breath, forcing back his fury. He had sent Erghulan and the army after Tanzir and the rebels. Caina must have sent Kylon to help them. Certainly, Kylon had not been on Pyramid Isle. Sulaman had been with them at the Desert Maiden. That meant…
“I did not see the duel,” said Erghulan, “but a hundred witnesses did. Rhataban went to kill Tanzir and Prince Kutal Sulaman. The Kyracian intercepted him and slew him.”
“Sulaman is with them?” said Callatas.
“Yes,” said Erghulan. “He and Tanzir are leading the army. The rebels now claim they are marching to put Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon upon his father’s throne, and…to rid the realm of the wicked Grand Master and the Grand Wazir.” He scowled. “Filthy traitors.”
“Likely they mean to install Tanzir as Grand Wazir in your place,” said Kalgri with a bright smile.
“Enough,” said Callatas. “How did you allow yourself to be defeated? You had every Immortal in Istarinmul in your host, to say nothing of the Hellfire engines.”
“Base deceit and trickery,” said Erghulan. “They somehow got behind my lines, probably by treachery, and seized several of the Hellfire catapults. In the resultant chaos, discipline collapsed, and Tanzir’s rabble forced my army from the field.”
“I see,” said Callatas, making no effort to keep the disgust from his voice.
“I returned to the city at once, to prepare for our defense,” said Erghulan.
“I’m sure,” said Callatas. “And I’m sure that if I went to the Towers of the Sea, I would not find a ship waiting to carry you and the greater part of Istarinmul’s treasury to exile in the western city-states.”
“Of course not, Grand Master,” said Erghulan, but Callatas saw the strain around his eyes.
The lie was so blatant that Callatas nearly killed him then and there. Once again, caution held his hand. It seemed victory was not quite as close as he thought. The full might of the southern emirs was coming to assail Istarinmul, to say nothing of any other allies that Tanzir and his band of malcontents might have recruited. If they interrupted Callatas at a critical phase of the Apotheosis, they might ruin everything.
“What is your strategy to defend the city?” said Callatas.
Erghulan hesitated. “To be blunt…I am not sure we can. We only have a few thousand loyal men left. The rest have fled, deserted, perished, or joined Tanzir and the Prince. Perhaps it would best to abandon the city, after all, Grand Master, to continue your work in a safer location…”
“Flee?” said Callatas. He tapped the end of the staff against the ground. “At the very cusp of victory?”
Erghulan blinked. “Then…it is almost finished?”
“Yes,” said Callatas. “The Apotheosis is ready. I have gathered all that I need to work the spell. When it is finished, the lords of Istarinmul shall become immortal and invincible, and they shall rule over mankind for all eternity.”
That wasn’t entirely the truth, but Erghulan didn’t need to know that.
“Then,” said Erghulan, “what do you require from me?”
“Hold the city,” said Callatas. “Keep Tanzir and Sulaman and their allies from taking the wall. I only require a few days to prepare the final spells. Once they are finished, the Apotheosis will be complete, the new humanity shall rise, and we shall be beyond all threat.”
Erghulan stared at him, and Callatas wondered if it would be necessary to kill him after all. That would be inconvenient. Erghulan was a boor, and he had just lost a battle to Tanzir, but Callatas needed someone to take command of the city’s defense, and Erghulan was still the Grand Wazir. There were no better candidates at hand.
A pity that Rhataban had gotten himself killed. The Master Alchemist could have held the wall against an army for months.
“Very well,” said Erghulan at last. “If you can do as you say, I shall hold the city until you finish your spells.”
“Go at once,” said Callatas. “Before you do, send some of the Golden Palace’s slaves to me. I require them to fetch a few items from my palace.”
###
Kalgri waited, watching the frenzied activity in the Court of Justice.
The Voice brooded and snarled and hissed in her thoughts, but for the moment, there was nothing for Kalgri to do. Based on the reports from the scouts, Tanzir’s army was still a few hours from the walls of Istarinmul, and Kalgri had no wish to fight an entire army by herself.
Especially while Kylon of House Kardamnos still carried that valikon. She would kill him, of course. Slowly and in great pain, if at all possible. She also hoped to tell him of Caina’s fate before he died, that she had been trapped on Pyramid Isle to be torn apart by the nagataaru or to hide until thirst killed her.
Kalgri would not, of course, do that in any way that put herself at risk. Not when there was so much killing at hand.
So she waited, watching the activity in the courtyard. The slaves made sure to stay well away from her, which she found endlessly amusing.
Callatas kept himself busy once he had changed out of his tattered garments and donned new, pristine robes of white and gold. He stood at the foot of the dais and cast spell after spell, gesturing with the Staff of Iramis as the Seal glowed with blue light. His powers carved three concentric rings of golden fire at the foot of the dais, the largest one a hundred yards across, arcane sigils flickering and dancing within the flames. Some of the spells Kalgri recognized as spells of summoning and binding, others as spells of warding and containment.
Some of them she had never seen before, and couldn’t even begin to guess their purpose. As much as she enjoyed irritating Callatas, as much as his temper and short-sighted pride often caused him problems, she had to admit that he was brilliant. The Apotheosis, the wraithblood, the spells he now cast…all of them were works of supreme skill.
A pity he was such a fool with his babble about a new humanity. The Voice knew the truth, and so did Kalgri. The nagataaru would devour this world, as they had devoured countless worlds before, and then move onto the next, and the next, and the next, for all time and for all eternity.
And she would be there with them, killing and killing and killing for all time.
Callatas straightened up, sweat glittering on his forehead beneath his turban. Evidently, the spells were a great strain. He looked towards the gate, and Kalgri saw a mob of slaves and Immortals, along with a team of twenty horses pulling a large cart.
A very large cart.
Curious, Kalgri strolled closer.
The large cart held a massive mirror in a reinforced steel frame, the entire thing nearly twenty-five feet long on each side. Dozens of guide ropes held it in place, and a score of slaves hovered around it, keeping it from wobbling. Given that it must have cost a fortune to build, Kalgri could see why they were so careful.
It looked like the Mirror of Worlds in every single one of Callatas’s wraithblood laboratories, albeit far larger. Apparently, the Apotheosis required a huge gate to the netherworld. Behind the carts pulling the huge mirror came a smaller cart, ringed by twenty Immortals in their black armor. A throne sat in the center of the cart, supporting a slouched figure in a ragged brown robe. Some sort of alchemical machine had been built into the throne, an intricate maze of glass and bronze tubes and valves. Through some of the tubes flowed a thick black liquid that looked familiar. Kalgri was certain she had seen that liquid before someplace. In fact…
Suddenly fascinated, she walked faster, approaching the cart.
“Do you understand now?” said Callatas. He had come up
behind her, smiling at the carts. “Have you seen the truth of wraithblood at last?”
“Bloodcrystals,” said Kalgri. It was, she had to admit, quite clever. “The wraithblood is made from thousands of tiny bloodcrystals. Bloodcrystals require a base…and you’ve made sure that your base stays alive.” She laughed. “Even if the base wishes that he died long ago.”
“He shouldn’t complain,” said Callatas. “He shall accomplish more than any of his ancestors ever dreamed.”
Kalgri stopped a few paces from the cart and looked at Nahas Tarshahzon, the Padishah of Istarinmul.
She had last seen him before the war with the Empire, and the years since had not been kind to him. Back then the Padishah had been tremendously obese, so fat that his face looked like a gray-bearded, bronze-skinned ball. Now he was little more than a gaunt skeleton, his wrinkled skin hanging in loose folds from his face and arms, his black eyes glittering with agony and madness. Shackles held him to the throne, and bronze spikes pierced his hands and his arms, linked to glass tubes that pumped with wraithblood. His veins had turned black beneath his skin, and Kalgri realized that his blood had been replaced entirely with wraithblood.
That made sense. Those who knew of wraithblood believed it was manufactured in the laboratories. It was more accurate to say that it was grown from the blood of murdered slaves and the power of the netherworld.
And this tormented shell of a man, chained to his throne, was the seed. The source of the wraithblood.
His eyes met Kalgri’s and the Voice moaned in pleasure as it sensed his agony and regret and sorrow.
“Kill me,” whispered the Padishah. “Oh, by the Living Flame. Kill me. Kill me before it is too late…”
“Fear not, Nahas,” said Callatas with a cold smile. “You asked me to make you immortal, and I keep my promises. You shall become part of the new humanity, whether you wish it or not.” He stepped back, lifting his voice. “Take the mirror to the center of the golden circles. Fear not – the fire will not burn. Place it exactly according to my…”
A soldier in the spike-topped helm and chain shirt of an Istarish footman ran into the courtyard and bowed. “Grand Master.”
“What?” said Callatas.
“The Grand Wazir sends word,” said the soldier. “The rebel army is within sight of the walls of Istarinmul.”
Chapter 4: The Siege of Istarinmul
The late afternoon sun beat down on the dusty plain and the hard-packed road, ripples of heat rising from the ground. The air was as hot and dry as the wind from a blast furnace, and Kylon of House Kardamnos squinted into the haze, his mouth tasting of dust.
Through the harsh afternoon light, he saw the walls of Istarinmul.
The city rose at the northernmost end of the peninsula, overlooking the Starfall Straits, towers and domes and palaces and slums and temples rising within its walls. It was one of the busiest ports and the largest cities in the civilized world, and thousands of ships passed through the Straits every year beneath the watchful eye of the Towers of the Sea.
At least, they had before the civil war had driven most trade, and Cassander’s near-successful destruction of the city had frightened off the rest of it. Now the army of Tanzir Shahan marched in the name of Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon to overthrow the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir and put Sulaman upon his father’s throne, restoring just and orderly government to the realm of Istarinmul once more.
If Kylon was honest with himself, he did not care about that. He did not oppose it, certainly, and as a younger man, he might have embraced the cause with fervor. Right now, he wanted to get into Istarinmul for one reason.
He had promised Caina he would meet her again at the House of Agabyzus in the Cyrican Quarter.
No matter how long it took, no matter what he had to do or how many battles he had to fight, he was going to find his way into the walls of Istarinmul and meet Caina again at the House of Agabyzus. And if anyone tried to kill her, he would kill them first, no matter what the Emissary might prophesy.
First, of course, he had to get into Istarinmul…and Kylon had seen enough battles to know that would be far easier said than done.
He rode with Tibraim and a score of Istarish nomads, scouting the way ahead of the main army. Tibraim was a short, bony man who seemed to drown in his brown robes and turban, his mouth twisted in a perpetual scowl above his bushy gray beard. Despite his ragged appearance, Tibraim and his nomads were among the best scouts Kylon had ever seen, and they took a gleeful delight in tormenting the enemy with arrows. Nasser Glasshand and Laertes rode next to Tibraim, Nasser with easy grace, Laertes with the grim competence of a former centurion.
Tibraim raised a hand, and the nomads came to a halt.
“We are not yet within bowshot of the walls, headman,” said Nasser, his voice deep and smooth and calm, “and if any foes sally from the southern gate, we can withdraw easily.” His right hand held the reins of his horse in a loose grip. His gloved left hand remained in a fist at his side, concealing the living crystal that had replaced the flesh and bone of his hand and forearm. Apparently moving the fingers pained him, so he only did it when necessary, like when using the fist to punch through an enemy’s helmet and skull with a single blow. Kylon had only seen the exposed crystal of that hand once, in the Desert of Candles, when he and Caina had followed Nasser to the fountain that held the crystalline remains of his wife and children.
“There are nearer foes, Nasser Glasshand,” said Tibraim. “Yes, there. Lying in ambush for us. Do you see the wagons ahead?”
Another mile or so, and they would come to Istarinmul’s caravanserai, the vast open field below the city’s southern walls where caravans assembled and departed the city. Right now the caravanserai was deserted, with abandoned wagons and tents strewn here and there. The approach of the rebel army had inspired the few remaining merchants to flee for their lives, leaving behind everything they could not carry.
“Aye,” said Nasser. “What about them?”
“I think a band of soldiers has taken refuge there,” said Tibraim, sweeping his hand towards a cluster of abandoned wagons. “Behold the tracks.” Kylon could make no sense of the dusty road and the stiff grasses next to it, but Tibraim had greater experience in tracking and hunting. “They saw us coming from a distance, and took shelter within the wagons.”
“I see,” said Nasser, glancing at Kylon. “Lord Kylon?”
Kylon nodded and extended his arcane senses, the sorcery of water that allowed him to sense the emotions of those around him. The ability was often a burden, and it had taken him years to learn the discipline necessary to wall off his own mind from the emotions he sensed. Still, it was often useful and made it difficult for enemies to sneak up on him. Kylon focused and felt the tension of the men around him, the cool calm of Nasser, the vigilance of Laertes, and the bloodthirst of the Istarish nomads.
They did like to fight.
“Twenty,” said Kylon. “Twenty men are hiding inside the wagons. I think…I’m not sure, but I think they plan to ambush us.”
“Splendid,” said Tibraim. “Let us kill them.”
“Perhaps we can persuade them to join us,” said Nasser. The army had overtaken numerous stragglers from Erghulan’s defeated army, and several groups had agreed to join Tanzir’s army. As far as Kylon could tell, he sensed no treachery from them, though Caina would have thought it a bad idea.
“Some of them are Immortals,” said Kylon. He sensed the endless murderous rage of the Immortals in the wagons, the fury induced by the alchemical elixirs that gave them inhuman strength and endurance. Many of the common soldiers had surrendered and joined Tanzir’s army, and even a few of the lesser emirs, but none of the Immortals had changed sides.
“Mmm,” said Tibraim. “You see, Glasshand? We must kill them all.”
“You are probably right, headman,” said Nasser. “Still, the attempt must be made. It will also give us an opportunity to turn their ambush back upon them. Lord Kylon?”
Around him the nomads spread out, adjusting their bows and loosening their quivers. The Immortals wore enough armor to deflect the lighter arrows of the nomads, but their armor had gaps.
Kylon rolled his shoulders, drawing on the power of water sorcery to make himself stronger and the power of wind sorcery to make himself faster.
“Greetings!” called Nasser. “We know you are hiding there. I suggest you surrender to us. If you wish, a place is waiting for you in the army of Prince Kutal, the rightful heir to the Padishah’s throne. If you prefer to surrender your weapons and depart in peace, that is acceptable as well. You…”
Kylon sensed the emotions of the men hiding in the wagons harden.
“Nasser,” called Kylon, lifting the valikon.
Nasser nodded and drew his scimitar, the steel blade flashing in the sunlight.
An instant later the enemy burst from their hiding place. About ten of them were common Istarish soldiers with their spiked helmets and chain mail cuirasses, armed with scimitars and short bows. The other ten were Immortals, armored from head to foot in black chain mail and black steel plate, helmets wrought in the shape of grinning skulls. The eye holes of their steel masks glimmered with blue light, a side effect of the alchemical elixirs that gave them inhuman speed and strength.
The Immortals rushed forward, while the soldiers hung back and lifted their bows, but Tibraim’s men were already moving. The Istarish nomads unleashed a storm of arrows with a yell, and four soldiers and two Immortals fell, riddled with arrows. The horsemen kicked their stubborn little mounts into a wild dance, loosing arrows as they galloped back and forth.
Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) Page 5