Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (6 page)

Or, more precisely, not since Callatas had removed Nahas Tarshahzon from the public eye. 

He really should have taken Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon captive as well, but he hadn’t seen the need, knowing he could find the Prince whenever he needed.

His teeth ground together. Another mistake of pride. Well, it didn’t matter now. He had dispatched the Kindred to take Kutal prisoner. Most likely Prince Kutal was dead or had fled into exile. 

No matter. Callatas had no further need of him.

A small knot of Istarish nobles and Immortals stood at the base of the dais, speaking in low voices. They looked up as Callatas approached, and he spotted the Grand Wazir in their midst. Erghulan Amirasku was in his late fifties, still strong and fit despite his age, with close-cropped, receding gray hair and a great beak of a nose. He wore plate armor, the armor spotted with blood and dust, and the other nobles and Immortals looked just as dusty and weary. 

They had indeed faced battle…and it looked as if they had lost. 

“Grand Master,” said Erghulan. He looked at Callatas, at Kalgri, and then back at Callatas, his hand twitching towards the hilt of his scimitar. “That…is the Red Huntress.” A murmur of fear went through the nobles. “She slaughtered a score of Immortals the last time she was here.”

Kalgri smiled. “It’s so sweet that you remember.”

“Enough,” said Callatas. “What happened?” 

Erghulan hesitated. “You disappeared. You disappeared from the city, and I thought we would have the aid of your spells when we marched against the rebels…”

The Grand Wazir had indeed failed. Already he was trying to make excuses for his defeat.

“Urgent matters called me from the city,” said Callatas. “I gave you every Immortal in Istarinmul, and I sent Master Alchemist Rhataban with you as well…”

“He’s dead,” said Erghulan.

Callatas blinked. “What?”

“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.