Ghost Light

GHOST LIGHT

Jonathan Moeller

***

Caina Amalas is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, one of
the Emperor's elite spies and assassins. Summoned to the aid of a
desperate merchant, Caina finds herself facing an assassin more
deadly than any she has ever fought.

An assassin who harvests the souls of his
victims.

And unless Caina is clever, she will become his
latest victim…

***

Ghost Light

Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover image copyright JC_Design | iStockPhoto.com
& Milan Kopcok | Dreamstime.com & [email protected] |
Depositphoto.com.

Ebook edition published February 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either the product of the author's
imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic
or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without the express
written permission of the author or publisher, except where
permitted by law.

***

Caina wondered how many men had died where she
stood.

The ruined mansion loomed out the darkness, charred
pillars and broken walls raking the night sky like the fingers of a
dying man. Ten years ago a sorcerous fire had raged through the
mansion, killing every last man, woman, and child. The ruins still
stood, a half-crumbled mountain of marble and broken statues, a
tangled maze of shadows and yawning doors. The nobles of the
capital of the Empire considered the spot accursed, and dared not
rebuild over the ruins.

Which made it a perfect spot for a clandestine
meeting.

Caina glided from shadow to shadow, her Ghost
shadow-cloak and clothing merging with the darkness. She had spent
a great deal of time practicing stealth, much of it under great
duress, and her boots made not a whisper of sound against the
cracked marble of the floor.

She could not say the same, alas, of the man she had
come to meet.

Karsat Qassar stood under a cracked pillar, one hand
resting upon the hilt of his scimitar, the other wiping against the
side of his fine blue robe. He looked much like any other Istarish
merchant - proud, prosperous, and plump.

Yet few Istarish merchant wore expressions of such
terror.

Caina stepped into the pale moonlight, letting her
boots click against the stone floor.

Qassar spun with an oath, scimitar flying into his
hand. The tip trembled in his grasp, the rings on his fingers
glittering.

"The Living Flame protect me!" he spat. "Who the
devil are you? What are you? Speak. Speak!"

His fear did not surprise her. She had seen it
before. Wrapped in her cloak, her face hidden beneath a mask, she
must look like some sort of specter risen from the netherworld.

"You sent for me, Karsat Qassar," she said,
disguising her voice with a rasping hiss. "You appealed to the
Emperor of Nighmar for protection."

"You," said Qassar, his voice rising half an octave,
"you are one of the Ghosts? But...no, no, the Ghosts are only a
myth, a legend..."

"Do I look like a legend?" said Caina. Most people
considered the Ghosts, the Emperor's spies and assassins, to be
fanciful tales, stories spun by ambitious fools to cover their
failures. "You appealed to the Emperor for protection. Will you
have it? Speak!"

Qassar stared at her for a moment, his throat
trembling beneath the point of his oiled black beard. Then he gave
a sharp nod, flung his scimitar to the ground at her feet, and
dropped to his knees.

"I will pledge my life, fortunes, and sacred honor to
the Emperor of Nighmar," said Qassar, "and this I swear by the
light of the Living Flame."

Caina's eyebrows rose behind her mask. She had not
expected this.

"And what," said Caina, "do you ask of the Emperor in
return?"

"Save me," said Qassar.

And before Caina could ask, the story came pouring
out of Qassar.

"My fortunes prospered, and the Grand Wazir of
Istarinmul craved my lands and wealth. So he framed me for horrid
crimes, and seized my lands. I fled to the Empire with my family,
but even that was not enough. The Grand Wazir sent assassins after
us." Qassar's face had gone gray with fear. "He sent Cynoshard
after me. Cynoshard took my wives and children, one by one. And now
he has come for me."

Caina said nothing. The assassins of Istarinmul had
evil reputations. Men whispered stories about their exploits. But
the tales told about Cynoshard made the other assassins look like
virgin priestesses.

If Cynoshard was after Qassar, he was lucky to be
alive.

And sane.

"Come with me," said Caina. "We'll take you to a
safehouse, as soon..."

Nausea stabbed into her gut, and a wave of crawling
tingles, like needles jabbing into her skin, washed over her.

Caina stepped back in alarm, drawing a dagger in
either hand.

"What?" said Qassar, looking back and forth. "What is
it?"

As a child, Caina had been the captive of a
necromancer and his students. They had done things, bad things, to
her, but she escaped. Yet ever since, the presence of sorcery
inspired a physical reaction in her. A...sensitivity, of sorts.

And now she sensed the presence of sorcery, powerful
sorcery.

"We need to run," said Caina, "right..."

Darkness swirled behind Qassar, and for a moment
something like a pillar of black fog shimmered around him. And then
a man stepped out of the crawling darkness, young and fit, clad in
finery, a naked sword in his hand. He would have been handsome,
even beautiful, if not for the tattoo of a grinning skull that
marred his face.

Cynoshard.

His cloak writhed and twisted about him like
something alive. It looked as if it had been fashioned out of
living shadow. At first she thought it was a shadow-cloak like her
own, but Caina felt the waves of sorcerous power flowing from the
thing, like heat radiating from a fire.

And she could almost hear it slithering against the
ground, the whispers echoing in her head...

Qassar screamed, seized his sword and made a wild
slash with his blade. Cynoshard flicked his wrist, and his
longsword sent the scimitar spinning across the cracked marble
tiles. Caina doubted she could take the assassin in a straight
fight. She was not a large woman, and Cynoshard had six inches of
height and seventy pounds of muscle on her.

But only fools fought fairly.

And Cynoshard wore no armor.

Her right hand blurred, dipping to her belt, and came
up with a throwing knife. Caina stepped forward, her arm and
shoulder thrown back, and flung the knife. And then another, and
another, all in the space of three heartbeats, all hurtling for
Cynoshard's throat.

But the assassin was faster.

His cloak twisted around him, and again Cynoshard
disappeared into the swirling darkness. Caina's knives sped through
the column of shadow, and clattered uselessly against the far wall.
An instant later Cynoshard reappeared, sword leveled at Qassar's
throat.

"Well," he said, his voice resonant and strong. "What
is this? One of the Emperor's pet Ghosts?" He laughed. "Qassar,
what a delightful gift you've brought me! I so enjoy listening to
the Ghosts scream, for days on end. And your head will look lovely
besides all the others."

Caina flexed her hands, her mind racing. She carried
two daggers and her throwing knives, but if the sorcerous power of
Cynoshard's cloak transformed him into a shadow, she doubted they
would do her any good. She also carried a curved dagger of rare
ghostsilver, and ghostsilver was proof against sorcery. He would
not suspect that she possessed such a rare weapon, and if she
plunged the blade into him, she doubted his cloak's power would
save him.

But he would not let her get that close. And if she
threw the blade and missed...

"Well?" said Cynoshard. "Nothing to say, little
Ghost?"

"You talk too much," said Caina.

Cynoshard sneered, shoved Qassar to the ground, and
stepped forward.

And vanished into writhing shadows.

Caina flung herself backwards.

An instant later Cynoshard materialized before her,
his sword a silver blur in the moonlight. The blade tore through
the space her throat had occupied a moment earlier. Caina spun,
daggers in hand, and stabbed. Cynoshard danced aside, his sword
blocking the dagger in her right hand as he dodged the blade in her
left.

And as he turned, the skirt of his writhing cloak
spun over her left arm.

The night-black cloak passed through her arm as if it
were not there, and a deathly chill shot into Caina's chest. She
stumbled back, trying to keep her balance, and the strange whisper
she heard from the cloak swelled into a chorus of voices.

Inside her head.

Free us free us slaves tormented trapped forevermore
let us go free us free us FREE US...

She took several steps back, trying to stay out of
Cynoshard’s reach. He circled to her left, smiling, his sword
spinning in his right hand. Behind him Qassar crawled across the
floor, panting in terror, reaching for his discarded scimitar.

Cynoshard frowned…and then his smile returned.

He disappeared in a swirl of black mist and
reappeared over Qassar.

“Is that the best you can do, Ghost?” said Cynoshard.
“The Ghosts have grown even more impotent than I remember. Return
to your precious Emperor and report your failure. Perhaps I’ll send
him Qassar’s head…after I kill his wives in front of him, of
course.”

Cynoshard seized Qassar’s hair and disappeared in the
writhing shadow, taking the Istarish nobleman with him.

Caina stared into the darkness, the taste of failure
bitter in her mouth. Cynoshard would kill Qassar – if Qassar was
lucky – and there was nothing she could do to…

No.

The mind was a more potent weapon than any blade, her
teachers had always said, and she had seen that proven true over
and over again.

Why hadn’t Cynoshard just killed her? Because he had
been a fool to leave her alive – he could take her in a straight
fight, but he she was only one woman. If she reported back to the
Ghosts, they had the resources to track him down and kill him. He
had no reason to leave her alive…

Unless he was trying to lull her into false
confidence.

The voices thundered inside her head.

Free us set us free we are tormented and chained and
trapped forevermore free us free us FREE US…

Caina flung herself to the side as Cynoshard stepped
out of nothingness behind her, his sword plunging for her back. She
tried to position herself for a stab, but his longer blade let him
stay out of reach of her daggers. Again Cynoshard slashed at her,
and Caina ducked, snatched up Qassar’s scimitar, and attacked.
Their blades met again, and again. But it was no good. Caina could
not match his strength, and she had never been that capable with a
long blade.

The voices screamed in her head.

Free us free us the pain the pain never stops the
agony we are chained forever let it end let it end free us free us
FREE US…

Cynoshard drew his sword back for the kill.

Only fools fought fairly.

Caina spun, dodged the thrust, and raced deeper into
the ruined mansion. She leapt over a fallen statue and hastened
into a maze of half-fallen walls, piled debris, and leaning
pillars. Tangled shadows lay thick over the rubble, along with pale
patches of moonlight.

Creating a thousand perfect hiding places.

Cynoshard could not kill her if he couldn’t find her.
And here, in this wrecked mansion, she could stalk him even as he
stalked her. If she could get behind him, plunge her daggers into
his neck before he disappeared into the living shadows of his
cloak, the fight would be over quickly.

That damned cloak.

What was that thing? She still heard the voices in
her head, fainter now, but still continuing their litany of
despair. Did Cynoshard hear those voices? Plainly the cloak gave
him the power to walk through the shadows, covering a dozen yards
in a single step, but sorcery always carried a price.

Caina wondered what kind of price he had paid for
that cloak.

The voices in her head doubled in volume.

An instant later Cynoshard appeared atop a nearby
pillar, his cloak writhing and twisting around him like an animal
in its death throes. He gazed over the ruin for a moment, his eyes
sweeping past Caina, and then disappeared in a swirl of darkness.
An instant later he reappeared atop a ruined wall some distance
away, his back to her.

Caina smirked. He hadn’t seen her.

She crept forward, every muscle rigid with tension,
her boots silent against the cracked floor. Cynoshard flickered
from ruined pillar to broken wall to piled rubble, his cold eyes
roving over the shadow-choked ruins. But Caina knew how to move
silently and unseen, and bit by bit she drew closer to the
assassin. He was flitting from place to place faster now, the scowl
on his tattooed face deepening.