Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (2 page)

Caina sprinted down the street towards the Crimson Veil. Nerina still struggled in Azaces’s grasp, shouting Malcolm’s name, but Azaces’s grip did not loosen. He slung Nerina over one shoulder like a sack of flour and raced after Caina, Nerina’s head bouncing against his back. That probably hurt, but dying upon an Immortal’s scimitar would hurt much more. 

Immortals raced after them, swords in hand, armored boots clanging against the street. Despite their bulk and the weight of their black plate armor, they began to draw nearer. Caina and Azaces could not outrun the Immortals, and they definitely could not outfight them. 

So Caina would have to outthink them.

She dodged right and raced into an alley between two coffee houses. The air smelled better than the alley behind the Crimson Veil, the scents of roasting coffee and cooking bread coming to her nostrils. The clatter of running boots filled her ears, drawing closer. Caina turned again and came to another street, one lined by houses. The houses stood four stories tall, their walls covered in brilliant white plaster, most of them built around a square interior courtyard. Compared to the sprawling palaces of the Emirs’ Quarter these houses were modest, but they were palatial compared to the tenements of the Anshani Quarter. 

They were also perfect for what Caina had in mind. 

She dashed across the street, Azaces a half-step behind her, and pointed. 

“There,” she said. “That door. Get…”

Azaces ran to the door, raised his boot, and started kicking. On the third kick the lock splintered free, and the door shuddered open just as the first Immortal emerged from the alley behind them. Azaces pushed through the door, and Caina hurried after him. The entry hall was empty, a thin film of dust covering the floor. The house’s owner had been killed four years earlier during the battle of Marsis, and Caina had learned his heirs were suing each other over possession of the house. She had considered establishing a safe house here, a refuge stocked with supplies and weapons, but had never gotten around to it.

Just as well. The Immortals would butcher anyone who got in their way, but there were no innocent people here for them to kill. 

She looked at Azaces. He was breathing hard, but did not look exhausted yet. 

“Can you run?” said Caina to Nerina.

“Malcolm,” she whispered. She was crying, tears falling from her eerie blue eyes. “It was him. I swear…”

“Go,” said Caina, and she ran for the stairs at the end of the entry hall.

They got to the third floor by the time the Immortals smashed their way through the door. Memories flashed through Caina’s mind, and she remembered fleeing from the Immortals on the streets of Marsis during Rezir Shahan’s doomed attack, on the night she met Nasser Glasshand, on the night she had fled from Grand Master Callatas’s palace after stealing the journal of the loremaster Annarah.

Gods, but she was sick of running from Immortals. 

On the other hand, it had kept her alive, so she shouldn’t complain. 

They reached the top floor and Caina looked around, her heart pounding like a drum against her ribs. If she had chosen wrong, they were about to die. But, no, she hadn’t been wrong. The Istarish often spent the cool of the evening upon their rooftops, and whoever had built this house had been no different. A ladder rose against the wall, leading to the roof.

“Azaces,” said Caina. “The roof, quickly.”

Azaces scrambled up the ladder. Caina had never seen anyone climb a ladder while carrying a grown woman over one shoulder, but Azaces did it with aplomb. He scrambled onto the rooftop as Caina heard the boots of the Immortals upon the stairs. She hauled herself up the ladder, rolled onto the roof, and kicked the trapdoor shut behind her. It was thick and heavy, but it would not stop the Immortals for long. 

Caina got to her feet, saw Azaces staring at her, the question plain on his scarred face. 

“We run,” said Caina. “Can you jump from roof to roof while carrying her?”

Azaces hesitated, then managed a nod.

“No.” Nerina’s voice was a croak. “No, he can’t. The amount of force he can generate is insufficient to bear our combined mass over the alleyways. But…I can run. I can run. Put me down.” Azaces lowered Nerina to her feet, and she wavered as she regained her balance. “Oh, I am a fool, Ciara. I’ve gotten us all killed, haven’t I?”

“Probably,” said Caina, grabbing Nerina’s arm and urging her forward. “Shut up and run.”

They sprinted to the edge of the roof and jumped, making for the next house. Nerina wobbled a bit, but she made the jump. A crash filled Caina’s ears, and she saw the Immortals haul themselves out of the trapdoor and onto the roof. 

“Oh,” said Nerina in a small voice, her eerie eyes wide. “I calculate that we cannot outrun them.”

“No,” said Caina, looking around.

Azaces drew his two-handed scimitar, the steel flashing in the morning sunlight.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” said Nerina. “But it was Malcolm, I swear it was Malcolm. He was with the slaves, I am mathematically certain of it. I…”

“Quiet,” said Caina, yanking one of the throwing knives from her sleeve and gripping the blade between her fingers. It wouldn’t help much. She was very good with throwing knives, but the Immortals were armored from head to foot, and hitting one of their unarmored spots would be difficult.

“Why did we go to the roof?” said Nerina. 

“Because,” said Caina. “No one ever looks up.”

Nerina blinked. “The Immortals did.”

Five of them advanced across the roof of the abandoned house.

“Aye,” said Caina, looking at the street below, “no one ever looks up…unless they’ve been warned.”

She saw a blur in the corner of her eye. 

“We should run,” said Nerina. “What are we waiting for?” 

Caina felt a mirthless smile spread over her face.

“A storm,” she said.

The Immortals jumped over the alley between the two houses, and then a gray blur slammed into the Immortal on the right.

###

Kylon’s life had once been filled with certainty and purpose, but in the last two years it had dissolved into chaos.

Once he had been a stormdancer of New Kyre, using his skills with blade and elemental sorcery to defend the Kyracian people, acting as his sister Andromache’s strong right hand. Then Andromache had perished in Marsis, slain by her own folly, and Kylon had become the High Seat of House Kardamnos. He had led the fleets of his nation in battle, negotiated peace with the Empire, married an honorable and kindly woman, and become a leader of his nation.

All that had ended in a single day, dying with Thalastre and his unborn child upon the sword of the Red Huntress. 

So Kylon had come to Istarinmul to die. 

The Master Alchemist Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas, magus of the Umbarian Order, had arranged for the Red Huntress to murder Thalastre and Kylon’s guests. Kylon had come to Istarinmul to avenge his wife and unborn child. He hadn’t expected to succeed, hadn’t even expected to survive the process.

He wouldn’t have, either. He should have died beneath the Craven’s Tower as it burned around him.

Instead, Caina Amalas had saved his life…and Kylon had realized there was far more at stake than his vengeance. Malik Rolukhan and the Red Huntress were but the outstretched hand of the ancient evil that had festered in Istarinmul, an ancient evil that would devour the world. 

Kylon was certain of so little now.

He was, however, entirely certain that he would not permit the Immortals to kill Caina. 

So he drew on the power of water sorcery to fuel his strength and leapt into the air, the spell giving him the strength of a tidal wave. He timed his leap exactly right and slammed into the Immortal closest to the street. The impact knocked Kylon towards the roof, but it also sent the Immortal tumbling to the ground.

The sound of clanging armor and cracking bone came from the street below.

Kylon hit the roof, rolled, and whirled to his feet, the sorcery of air lending him speed. The remaining four Immortals landed at the edge of the roof, and Kylon spun, driving his fist with all the strength and speed his sorcery could grant. His blow landed in the center of the nearest Immortal’s cuirass, and the strike threw the Immortal backwards and sent him tumbling to the alley.

Again the crack of shattering bone echoed out. 

The Immortals were deadly warriors, and they drew their scimitars and charged with admirable speed. They spread out around him, one coming from his left, another from his right, and one straight at him. The men had obviously fought as a unit before, and knew how to attack without getting in each other’s way. 

Kylon leaped backwards, the sorcery of air fueling his jump, and landed a dozen paces away. That gave him the time he needed to draw his sword and dagger. Once he had carried a blade of storm-forged steel, wrought by the stormsingers of the Kyracian people, stronger and sharper and lighter than any other blade. It had been no match for the Red Huntress, and the sword of the nagataaru had cut through the blade as if it had been made of straw. The Nighmarian dagger and broadsword that Kylon now carried were good weapons, but they were simply not the equal of a stormdancer’s blade. He had been able to sheathe his blade of storm-forged steel in killing frost, but if he tried that with his current blades, they would shatter like glass from the intense cold. 

But that was all right. 

He had seen how Caina used her wits, rather than main force, to defeat her opponents, and it had occurred to Kylon that he could do the same. Kylon would never be a powerful sorcerer, but he had been underutilizing what powers he did have.

He raised his sword and dagger, calling on the sorcery of water, and freezing mist swirled around the dagger’s blade. A rime of frost covered the weapon. Had anyone else touched it, their skin would have frozen at once, but Kylon’s command over water sorcery protected him. The cold also made the weapon incredibly fragile, and one good tap would shatter it. 

The Immortals hesitated at the sight, and Kylon threw the dagger.

It struck the chest of the Immortal on the left and shattered into a thousand glittering splinters. The white mist rolled over the Immortal’s cuirass, and a rime of frost sheathed the black armor. The plates covering the Immortal’s sword arm disappeared beneath a thin layer of ice. It would not last long beneath the harsh Istarish sun, but for just a moment, the Immortal’s sword arm was locked in place. 

That moment was all Kylon needed.

His broadsword stabbed forward, sinking into a gap in the armor, and the skull-masked warrior let out a groan of pain, blood spraying from his helmet. Kylon ripped his blade free and spun to face the remaining two Immortals. The one on his right attacked, and Kylon parried, his blade blurring as he deflected the Immortal’s furious swings. 

The second Immortal pulled the chain whip from his belt and swung it. Kylon raised his left arm and drew on the power of water to strengthen himself. The chain coiled around his left forearm, biting into the leather of his bracer. It would have shattered the bones of his arm if not for his strengthening spell. He yanked with all his strength, and the Immortal jerked forward, surprised by Kylon’s maneuver.

He fell right into the path of the Immortal on Kylon’s left, and the scimitar crunched through black armor. The Immortal with the whip bellowed in surprise and pain, and Kylon snapped his sword around and finished the warrior, yanking his arm free from the chain whip. The final Immortal started to rip his sword free from his dying companion, but Kylon was faster. He swept his sword around, smashing into the side of the black helmet. The blade did not penetrate the black steel, but the blow stunned the Immortal, which was all Kylon needed.

He surged forward in a burst of speed and knocked the Immortal from the roof.

No need to kill the Immortal himself when the long fall would do it for him. 

Again he heard the clatter of an Immortal landing in the alley and turned around, shaking the drops of blood from his sword as he did so. 

Nerina Strake stared at him, her mouth hanging open in surprise. Azaces gripped his scimitar with both hands, his dark eyes hard. All men were water, in the end, and Kylon’s arcane abilities gave him the ability to sense emotions. Both Nerina and Azaces were stunned. Kylon realized they had likely never seen a Kyracian stormdancer in battle before. 

Caina’s eyes met his. He might not have recognized her, had he not been looking for her. She wore the robe and turban of a Cyrican merchant, her face shaded with a false beard and makeup. He was amazed at how thoroughly she could transform herself into so many different disguises. Yet by now he knew those cold blue eyes anywhere.

A strange flicker of emotion went through her. Usually her emotional sense was like cold ice wrapped around an angry fire, but lately there had been something different in it, something he could not quite identify. Like a fracture running through the ice.

“Good timing,” she said.

“The timing would be better if we left,” said Kylon, looking at the street. More Immortals were running into the abandoned house. Any minute they would notice the corpses in the street. 

“Agreed,” said Caina, heading for the trapdoor in the center of the roof and pulling it open.

Morgant the Razor, the most famed assassin in Istarinmul, was waiting for them. 

###

Caina stepped to the side as Azaces and Nerina hurried down the ladder.

Morgant smirked at her.

He was over two hundred years old, but he did not look a day over fifty-five. As usual, he wore black trousers, black boots, a stark white shirt, and a black coat that hung to his knees. Beneath the coat he wore a sword belt around his hips, a sheathed scimitar hanging on the left side and a dagger with an enormous red gem in the pommel upon the right. His eyes, pale and cold beneath his close-cropped gray hair, met hers. 

“I forget,” said Morgant, his Istarish carrying a thick burr of a Caerish accent. “We were trying to assassinate Kuldan Cimak, correct? Or were we trying to kidnap him? Though attacking his Immortals in the Old Bazaar wasn’t a good way to do either, really. If you wanted to kill yourself, there are more convenient ways to…”