Ghost Nails (7 page)

And his eyes were…wrong.

They were blue. Most men of Anshani and Istarish
descent had brown or black eyes, but there were always exceptions.
Yet this man’s eyes were a pale, ghostly, blue. The color of flames
licking at the bottom of an iron pan.

No one had eyes that color.

The old beggar looked at Caina, his eyes
widening.

“Who are you?” said Caina in Istarish, remembering to
keep her Caerish accent in place.

“Wraithblood,” he whispered.

“Wraithblood,” said Caina. “That is your name?”

“Wraithblood,” said the old man. “Coins. Give me
coins. I will buy the black blood again. And then I shall see my
wife and sons and my daughters. They all died so long ago. I can…I
can tell them I am sorry. I can…coins.” He raised his wasted hands,
as if to paw at Caina’s legs, but they dropped into his lap.
“Coins. I will buy wraithblood. Buy the black blood.”

“What happened to you?” said Caina.

“I…I do not remember,” said the old beggar. “The
blood…the blood takes away the pain. I…I think…”

His strange eyes grew huge, and he shied against the
wall.

“I can see you,” he whispered.

“Of course you can,” said Caina. “I am right
here.”

“The shadows,” said the beggar. “I can…I can see all
the shadows. So many shadows! They are following you! All the
shadows!” He began to weep. “Don’t let them hurt me, please, don’t
let them…”

“I won’t hurt you,” said Caina. “I…”

“Here, now,” said a gruff voice. “What is this?
Begging is illegal.”

Caina turned, and saw a stout man approaching. He was
about twenty-five, and unlike the slaves and the beggars, he looked
well-fed. He wore gleaming chain mail beneath a jerkin of black
leather, and a scimitar rested at his belt. A steel badge pinned to
his jerkin showed a hand holding a coiled, thorn-studded whip.

The sigil of the Slavers’ Brotherhood of
Istarinmul.

This man was a Collector, one of the Brotherhood’s
lowest ranks, a hunter who ranged about seeking new slaves for the
Brotherhood’s markets.

Or one who kidnapped solitary foreigners from the
docks.

Such as Caina.

“His eyes,” said Caina.

“Eh?” said the Collector, surprised. “What about
them?”

“Is he sick?” said Caina.

“What?” said the Collector. “No, he’s addicted to
wraithblood.”

“What is wraithblood?” said Caina, watching for the
Collector’s associates.

“A drug,” said the Collector. “The poor and other
such vermin prefer it. Apparently it gives visions of dead loved
ones and other such rot. Eventually it drives its users insane and
turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm over the street.
“You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have them
killed and spare honest men the stench.”

“Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at
her with barely concealed greed. A plan, hard and cold, came
together in her mind. “Which way to the Cyrican Quarter? I’ve
messages to deliver.”

“Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up
the street with the warehouses and take a right turn at the public
fountain. You will come to the Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”

In between her frenetic exercise sessions and
throwing knives at the mast, Caina had taken the time to memorize a
map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s directions were wrong.

Likely leading her into a trap.

“Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another
word.

She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her
shoulder to see the Collector hastening away, no doubt to warn his
friends.

The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full
of terror.

Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like
the old man, their eyes transformed to that pale blue color.

And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of
a sorcerous aura.

Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate
concerns at the moment.

She turned the corner and walked down the street
lined with warehouses. It was deserted at the moment.

The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into
a slaver’s inventory.

Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of
the warehouses. The masonry was rough, and she found ample
handholds and footholds. A moment later she climbed to the roof,
and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to avoid the
skylights.

No one ever looked up.

She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and
crawled to the edge of the roof. The street ended in a square
surrounded by three towering, rickety tenements of whitewashed
brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the square, and the
place looked deserted.

Save for the four men in black leather jerkins
waiting there. One of them carried a net, and another a set of iron
shackles. Their plans for Caina were clear enough. Likely they
planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the fighting
pits.

She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined
their reaction once they learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina
was not unattractive, and she knew how to dress and carry herself
to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the massive scar across
her belly would keep them from selling her to some nobleman’s
harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic
servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong
backs for the mines.

Well, she would inflict far more serious
disappointments upon them before the day was done.

Caina crawled back along the roof and peered through
one of the skylights. The warehouse below was deserted, and stored
massive heaps of bulging sacks, lashed in place by rope nets. After
a moment’s examination, Caina realized that the sacks held rice.
The plantations of Istarinmul grew coffee and fruit and olives and
many other things, but the Istarish themselves ate a great deal of
rice.

Enough rice to pile it in sacks twenty feet high.

Caina dropped through the skylight and landed on one
of the piles, a puff of dust rising from her boots. She scrambled
down the net to the floor, and examined the knots for a moment.
Then she drew her short sword and went to work, cutting ropes here
and there. She stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, and after a
moment’s thought hid her heavy pack behind another one of the
piles.

She was going to have to run very quickly, and she
did not want it slowing her down.

Then she went out the front door, making sure to
leave it open behind her.

Caina walked the remainder of the street and into the
square. She ought to feel frightened, she knew, but she felt
nothing but an icy indifference. Though she did feel anger.

Quite a lot of it, now that she thought about it.

She took on more step into the square as the
Collectors moved toward her.

“Welcome,” said the Collector she had spoken with
earlier, smiling as he raised a club. “You’re going to come with
us. Put down your weapons and come quietly. If not, well…you’ll
fetch just as high of a price with a few bruises.”

Caina made an expression of terror come over her
face, and then spun and ran for the rice warehouse.

“Take him!” roared the lead Collector, and the men
sprang after her.

They were fast. Which made sense, since they
kidnapped people for a living. Caina head the crack of leather as
two of the Collectors unfurled whips, no doubt to entangle her legs
and pull her down.

But she had a head start, and she dashed back into
the warehouse.

And as she did, she yanked a dagger from its sheath
and slashed through the remaining rope holding the massive stack of
rice sacks in place.

The Collectors ran through the door after her.

“You’re just making it harder on yourself,” said the
leader, grinning. “I am going to…”

Right about then the twenty-foot stack of sacks
collapsed, and two or three tons of dry rice fell upon the
Collectors.

The sheer force of the impact drove one man to the
ground with such force that his head cracked against the hard
floor. The other three men disappeared as dozens of forty-pound
rice sacks fell upon them with bone-cracking force. Caina heard
limbs snap, heard the Collectors scream. One man clawed his way
free, and Caina cut his throat before he regained his feet. Another
was trapped beneath three sacks, screaming in pain, and Caina put
him out of his misery.

The lead Collector staggered to his feet, his left
arm hanging at an odd angle. He turned towards Caina with a furious
curse, but she seized his left arm and twisted. The Collector fell
with a scream of agony, and she kicked him in the gut and sent him
sprawling. He tried to stand, but she put her boot on his broken
arm and he went rigid.

“Who are you?” whispered the Collector.

“Why did you try to take me?” said Caina.

“The…the Brotherhood,” said the Collector, “they’re
buying slaves right and left.” His words tumbled out in a terrified
rush. “It…it ought to flood the market, but the prices keep going
up and up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it wasn’t personal,
I just need the money…”

She looked into his eyes and saw the fear there. And
for some reason she remembered the final words of Horemb the scribe
before he passed to the next world, the words he had claimed would
one day aid her.

“The star is the key to the crystal,” she said. “Do
you know what that means?”

“I…I don’t know, I swear,” said the Collector. “A
poem? I don’t know. Let me go. I’ll do whatever you want. What do
you want?”

The question cut into her like a knife.

She remembered Corvalis, remembered his strong arms
around her. His dark wit, and the way his green eyes flashed when
he found something funny. The aplomb with which he had masqueraded
as Anton Kularus, merchant of coffee. His mouth against hers, his
body against hers…

She did not know what might have passed over her
expression, but dread flooded the Collector’s face.

“I want Corvalis back,” she told him, “but I will
settle for one less slave trader in the world.”

He started to scream, but her dagger cut the cry
short.

Caina cleaned her weapons and her hands and stepped
over the mess to the door. Whoever found the dead Collectors would
likely assume they had fallen to fighting and accidentally knocked
over the sacks. So long as Caina departed quickly, she need not
worry about vengeance from the Brotherhood or the dead men’s
families.

Odd, that. She had just killed four men…and she felt
nothing at all. Once she would have felt guilty over it. But now,
it seemed, she felt nothing but grief.

And rage.

Still, the Collectors had deserved it. How many
innocent men and women and children had they sold into slavery?

Again Caina felt the overwhelming sense of futility,
but shoved it aside with some effort.

She left the warehouse, made sure she was unobserved,
and set off for the Cyrican Quarter and the House of Agabyzus.

Click on this link to continue
reading
Ghost in the
Cowl
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4903)
.

***

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in
battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son
of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants
him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes
terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury
from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his
blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the
shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent
priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity.
Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow
before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of
terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and
torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only
slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a
warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once
noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark
magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power
and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the
strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and
lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself,
and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read
Demonsouled
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=880) for free.
Mazael's adventures continue in
Soul of
Tyrants
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=911),
Soul
of Serpents
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1287),
Soul of
Dragons
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1727),
Soul
of Sorcery
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1845),
Soul of
Skulls
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2808),
and
Soul of
Swords
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3599),
along with the short stories
The Wandering
Knight
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3073),
The
Tournament Knight
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3677), and
The Dragon's
Shadow
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2635).
Get the first three books bundled together in
Demonsouled
Omnibus One
(http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4442).