Ghost in the Pact (18 page)

“I might,” said Kylon. 

“Well, don’t piss off the Emissary,” said Strabane. “We need her. If she tells the army that Sulaman isn’t the rightful Padishah or that we’re doomed to defeat, they’ll believe her.”

“I shall hold my tongue,” said Kylon.

“Pity your woman isn’t here,” said Strabane. “She’d think up something clever. She got us out of old Callatas’s damned Maze, and shot the Huntress off the side of Silent Ash Temple.” He snorted. “Never thought I would want the help of a woman in battle…but like you said, these are unprecedented times.” 

“Aye,” said Kylon, thinking of Caina. It had been seven days since they had left Istarinmul. She might have reached Pyramid Isle by now. She might have confronted Callatas by now.

Callatas might have killed her. 

“Aye,” said Kylon again, and they lapsed into silence after that. 

By mid-morning they reached the main road. 

Admittedly, it was not much of a road. The Great Southern Road made its way southeast around the rocky Highlands, so the main road through the hills was more of a well-worn track. Yet they made better time once they reached the road. It led into a wide valley between two rocky hills, their slopes terraced to support crops. The Kaltari had not let a single inch of arable land go to waste. 

At the other end of the valley, Kylon saw a small band of horsemen. The Kaltari typically wore dark green or gray, but the riders wore robes of bright colors, orange and yellow. Kylon could have seen them from a mile off. He had seen robes like that frequently during his journeys across Anshan and Istarinmul.

“Monks of the Living Flame,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Strabane. “I reckon we’ve found the Emissary.” He smirked. “Before Erghulan’s lads did, too. No one knows the Highlands like the Kaltari. Come on.”

The monks reined up, and Strabane’s warriors came to a stop twenty yards away. Strabane dropped from his saddle, beckoning for Kylon to follow him. Together they walked to the monks. There were perhaps twenty of the monks, men and women both. From what Kylon understood both men and women could dedicate themselves to a life of service to the Living Flame, though they were forbidden from cohabitating. 

In their midst sat a woman in early middle age, clad in a worn robe of yellow and orange. She looked Anshani, with dark hair and skin, and eyes like two disks of polished onyx. Her appearance was unremarkable, but her gaze met Kylon’s and he felt a jolt of power. Her eyes seemed to slice right though him, measuring and weighing him. The Surge’s gaze had felt the same way. 

Kylon did not like the sensation. 

“Greetings, Brothers and Sisters of the Living Flame,” said Strabane with a bow. He sounded more polite than Kylon had ever heard him. “I seek the Emissary of the Living Flame.”

“You have found her,” said an old Anshani man. He dropped from his saddle, wincing a little, and bowed. “I am Karzid, abbot of the community of the Brothers and Sisters at Silent Ash Temple. Might I know who you are?” 

“I am Strabane, headman of Drynemet,” said Strabane. “The emir Tanzir Shahan received your message, and sent us to escort you to his host.” 

“That was a kind gesture of the emir,” said Karzid, “but it is not necessary.”

“With respect, abbot, Lord Tanzir disagrees,” said Strabane. “Our scouts reported that the Grand Wazir sent horsemen into the hills. We believe they have come to capture or kill the Emissary. Lord Tanzir wishes us to see you to safety to his host.” 

“Then we thank you, lord headman,” said Karzid. He spread his hands. “We are unarmed, and have no means of defending ourselves.” 

“It speaks ill of the Grand Wazir that he is willing to attack priests and priestesses,” said Strabane. “The servants of the gods should be left alone during war, lest we draw their wrath upon our heads.”

“A practical perspective,” said Karzid with a dry smile, “but you can imagine I quite agree with it. We are in your hands, lord headman, and look forward to meeting the emir Tanzir and the son of the Padishah.”

Strabane started to answer, but a woman’s voice interrupted him. 

“Stormdancer,” said the Emissary. 

Her voice, like her appearance, was unremarkable, but Kylon felt the power there.

“Emissary?” said Karzid.

The Emissary dismounted and walked forward, limping as if her right hip pained her. As she approached, Kylon extended his sorcerous senses, feeling the Emissary’s emotional aura. Her aura was grave and solemn, though colored with pain from her hip. He also felt power within her, a vast and terrible power, as implacable as a glacier. 

It was like looking into the eyes of the Surge, and Kylon flinched a little before he could stop himself. 

“Yes,” murmured the Emissary, stepping a few yards away. “You understand.” 

“This is Kylon of House Kardamnos, honored Emissary,” said Strabane. “He has been a valuable ally in many fights. Saved my life once, when some demon-cultists got the better of me.”

“I know who he is,” said the Emissary. Her dark eyes met Kylon’s. “He is the stormdancer. He is the one the demonslayer has chosen to bear the valikon. And that means you shall soon be tested in a terrible challenge.”

“Tested?” said Kylon. “By you?” 

A wave of anger went through him, his sword hand curling into a fist. He knew it was irrational. He knew that the Emissary had nothing to do with Thalastre’s death. Yet his anger at the Surge seemed to fixate upon her. He felt the Kaltari and the monks staring at him, and resolved to keep silent. Let the Emissary speak her prophecy. It would likely make no sense anyway, and then they could begin the journey to join Tanzir…

“Not by me,” said the Emissary, “but by two terrible foes, two enemies undefeated and unconquered. Both will come for you, stormdancer. Starting right now.”

Kylon bit his tongue. He would not argue with the Emissary in front of men who revered the Living Flame. Then his brain started working through his furious emotions, and he realized that she had just given him a warning. 

“Strabane,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Strabane. “There.” He pointed at the road behind the monks. The road curved around the base of the rocky hill, but Kylon noted a faint brown smudge against the blue sky. 

A dust cloud, likely thrown up by the hooves of horses.

“Looks like we just beat Erghulan’s men,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Strabane. “Lord abbot, move!” Karzid blinked and hastened forward, urging the Emissary and the other monks forward. “Everyone, dismount! Keep the enemy away from the monks and the Emissary!” Strabane glanced at the Emissary. “I don’t suppose you can foresee if we’re going to win or not?”

“Our fates, lord headman,” said the Emissary, her calm unperturbed, “are in your hands.” 

But she looked at Kylon as she said it. 

The Kaltari warriors moved into a ring around the monks and the horses, raising their shields and drawing their swords. Strabane drew his own blade, a huge two-handed greatsword. Kylon thought it a cumbersome weapon, but he had to admit the Kaltari headman knew how to get the most from the blade. 

A moment later the horsemen burst into the valley.

There were thirty riders, and judging from their expensive armor, they were likely the personal guards of some emir or another. They wore chain mail shirts and the spiked helmets common to Istarish soldiers, and carried lances and scimitars. Horsemen usually had an advantage against infantry, but in this cramped valley, the horsemen would be unable to use their mounts’ speed and maneuverability. Maybe they would dismount and fight on foot like the Kaltari. If they did, the advantage would rest with Strabane’s warriors, who possessed greater numbers…

Then Kylon saw the man in white armor.

The white armor looked similar to the armor of the Alchemist Kylon had killed in Istarinmul, but far more ornate and adored with gold trim around the edges. A white cloak with golden trim streamed from his shoulders. Master Alchemists wore white robes with gold-trimmed cloaks, so Kylon supposed the custom would carry over to their battle armor. The armored man carried an enormous hammer of white steel, its head resting casually against his shoulder. The thing had to weigh at least eighty or ninety pounds, but he bore it with ease. His bronze-skinned face was shockingly youthful – younger than Kylon’s, younger even than Caina’s, and Caina was five or six years younger than he was. 

Yet Master Alchemist’s black eyes were old and hard, full of contempt and arrogance. Master Alchemists could renew themselves using Elixir Rejuvenata, an alchemical elixir brewed from the ashes of unborn children cut from their mothers’ wombs. Likely this Master Alchemist was far older than he looked. 

Then, as the Master Alchemist drew nearer, Kylon sensed something else.

Malice and rage and an endless cruel hunger radiated from within the white-armored man. There was a nagataaru spirit within the Master Alchemist, and a powerful one. That meant the man would be able to move with the same speed and power as the Red Huntress, and could also wield the powerful spells of a Master Alchemist.

He would be a deadly foe. 

“Strabane,” said Kylon. “That Alchemist has a nagataaru.”

Strabane looked at Kylon, at the Master Alchemist, and then at Kylon.

“Hell,” muttered Strabane.

“Let me deal with him,” said Kylon. 

He lifted the valikon, the Iramisian glyphs upon the blade starting to glow as the sword reacted the presence of a nagataaru.

Strabane snorted. “No objection. He’s all yours.” 

The Master Alchemist reined up and lifted a hand, his gauntlet gleaming. “Hear me, warriors of the Highlands! I am Rhataban, Master of the College of Alchemists of Istarinmul. I seek the Emissary of the Living Flame.” 

“You have found her, Rhataban, disciple of Callatas,” said the Emissary. Her voice was quiet but it carried throughout the valley. 

“Splendid,” said Rhataban with smooth courtesy. “We have come to escort you and your attendants into the presence of the Grand Wazir. I do hope these rebels have not troubled you unduly.”

“These rebels,” said the Emissary, “are following a trueborn son of the Padishah. Unlike you, Master Rhataban.”

“I assure you,” said Rhataban, a hint of a smirk on his youthful face, “that the Padishah is quite alive and well. As you shall be. As for this charlatan who claims to be Prince Kutal, I fear you are simply deluded. Come with us, and we shall show you the truth of…”

“The truth?” said the Emissary, her voice cracking like a whip. “You wish the truth, slave of the nagataaru? Then have it! You care not who sits upon the Most Divine Padishah’s throne, for like your master Callatas, you have sold your soul in bondage to the nagataaru.” An uneasy murmur went through Strabane’s men. Some of them had fought Kaltari nagataaru-worshippers alongside Strabane and Kylon at Shaman Hill. “Your master has spread poison among the people of Istarinmul, offering them up as a sacrifice to the nagataaru…to the demon that now lives behind your eyes.”

For a moment Rhataban said nothing, and the two groups of soldiers eyed each other.

“I see,” said Rhataban at last. “The time for secrecy has passed? Shall we speak plainly?”

“You can lie to the Grand Wazir and the collection of fools surrounding him,” said Emissary. “You cannot lie to me. Not when I can see the serpent coiled around your heart.”

Rhataban laughed. “How dogmatic. How like an old woman! You fear what you do not understand. You think we are slaves of the nagataaru? Nonsense. No more than you are a slave to your horse. The nagataaru will give us the power to create a new humanity, one better and stronger than the old.” 

“Lies,” said the Emissary.

“The Grand Master has proclaimed it to be so,” said Rhataban. “Those of us who are his disciples are the first of the new humanity.” 

“Then your Grand Master is a liar and a fool,” said the Emissary. “You do not see how the nagataaru have twisted your thoughts, how they have poured poisonous lies into your hearts. You will not create a new humanity with the Grand Master’s Apotheosis. You will work only destruction. The nagataaru shall devour the world and leave only ashes and bones behind…”

“Enough!” said Rhataban, and a pulse of purple fire flickered in his dark eyes. “You are indeed a fool. I had hoped to take you to the steppes before I slew you, but cutting you down here will serve just as…”

He fell silent, and his head turned to stare at Kylon. Rhataban’s eyes narrowed, a thoughtful frown coming over his face, and Kylon had the impression that he was speaking with his nagataaru. The Huntress had done the same thing several times, listening to the counsel of the Voice. 

“You,” said Rhataban, pointing his hammer at Kylon. “I know you. The stormdancer! Kylon Shipbreaker. The bearer of the valikon.”

Kylon said nothing, the valikon’s blade flickering with a harsh white flame. 

Rhataban sneered. “The demonslayer’s lover. Kotuluk Iblis has decreed her death.” He blinked, as if surprised to hear the words that had come from his mouth, but kept talking. “The Grand Master shall reward me greatly for your death.”

“Then do it,” said Kylon. 

“Kylon Shipbreaker!” said Rhataban, and purple fire blazed in his eyes as he donned a helmet of white steel. “The man who broke the Empire’s western fleet! Let us see if I am able to break you! Attack! Take the Emissary!” 

The horsemen spurred their horses forward, and Rhataban leaped from his saddle, raising his massive hammer high. Despite the weight of his armor and weapons, he jumped from the back of his horse with the grace of an acrobat, the hammer falling like a thunderbolt. Kylon seized the sorcery of air and flung himself to the side, moving with the speed of the wind.

It barely saved his life. 

The hammer struck the ground in an explosion of dirt, the heavy head missing Kylon by inches. He struck back with the valikon, the white-burning edge hammering against Rhataban’s armor. Yet the white steel was as strong as the armor of the Alchemist Kylon had fought outside of the Imperial Embassy. The valikon rebounded from Rhataban’s cuirass without leaving a scratch, and the Master Alchemist whirled, shifting his hammer to his right hand.