Ghost Light (2 page)

Good. Impatient men made mistakes.

Then Cynoshard appeared not four steps from Caina’s
hiding place, his back to her, the cloak of shadows twitching
against him. Caina glided from behind a broken statue of a
long-dead Emperor, Qassar’s scimitar drawn back for a stab.

And then the voices exploded inside her head.

Free us free us the torment never ends the chains of
darkness we are bound we are enslaved let it end oh gods let it end
free us free us FREE US FREE US FREE US…

Caina stumbled in pain, a gasp escaping her clenched
teeth.

Cynoshard whirled, eyes narrowed, and came at her.
Caina stumbled back, managing to beat aside his thrusts with wide
sweeps of the scimitar. She slashed at him with the curved blade,
but he blocked her attacks with ease. And every time she managed to
land a blow, he disappeared in a swirl of darkness, reappearing
untouched to continue his attack.

And still the voices filled her head with their
cacophony.

Again Caina turned and fled. Cynoshard’s sword
blurred past her head, and she dodged to the side. A moment later
he snatched a dagger from his belt and flung it at her, and Caina
jerked to the side. The hilt smacked into her hip with numbing
force, and she half-ran, half-fell down a pile of rubble, her leg
throbbing with pain.

She ducked behind a pillar, breathing hard, scimitar
in one hand.

Free us free us the agony we scream we weep we plead
we beg but the torture never ends and we weep we mourn free us free
us FREE US…

“Shut up!” hissed Caina, looking around for any sign
of Cynoshard.

And to her surprise, the voices fell silent.

But only for a little while.

She can hear us she can hear our torment she can hear
our pain…

“Who are you?” whispered Caina, risking a look
around. Still no sign of Cynoshard.

She did not really expect an answer, but one
came.

His victims his slaves his thralls he slew us his
blade rent our flesh and now our souls are bound to his amulet to
his sorcery our power used to shield him…

"He...bound you?" said Caina. She hurried to the next
pillar, crouching low, looking for any sign of her enemy.

We were his victims slain for blood slain for gold
but he has a talisman of sorcery and bound us to his cloak to
shield him from justice he will kill you look out he will KILL YOU
KILL YOU KILL YOU...

The voices rose to a thunderous shout, and redoubled
in volume.

Caina looked up to see Cynoshard leap off a wall,
sword angled down for a lethal stab. She leapt aside just in time
to avoid the lethal thrust, but Cynoshard's fist slammed into the
side of her head, sent her staggering. Cynoshard came after her
hard, and Caina retreated, the scimitar clanging under his
onslaught.

She broke left and raced through a ruined hall,
crumbling statues standing in shadowed niches. Another left,
through a half-collapsed ballroom, and then right, into a maze of
pillars that leaned like a crowd of drunken men. Caina sank into
the shadows, her head pounding, doing her best to keep her
breathing quiet.

She saw a flicker of darkness in the distance, but no
sign of Cynoshard.

She had eluded him. For now.

Kill you kill you kill you he will KILL YOU...

"I noticed," muttered Caina.

You must go or you will join us be chained with us
scream with us for all time...

"Do you have anything useful to say?" said Caina. "Or
will you aid me against Cynoshard?"

You cannot slay him he will slay you he will make you
scream you cannot defeat him...

"I cannot," said Caina, "but I can bring about his
downfall."

The voices fell silent.

"Tell me where Qassar is," said Caina. "If I find
him, we can elude Cynoshard and escape the ruins. Then I will
summon the Ghosts, and they'll hunt Cynoshard down and kill him.
Would that not please you?" She could not fight Cynoshard in a
face-to-face duel. But if she found Qassar, if she escaped with
him, and contacted the other Ghosts...they could deal with the
assassin.

For a moment the voices said nothing.

Then they returned in a whispering rush.

The fat lord the plump princeling our master left him
in the ruined hall where the proud men sat where they screamed and
burned and wept as their flesh ran like the wax of candles and they
screamed THEY SCREAMED AS WE SCREAM...

"The great hall, then," said Caina, and she set off,
creeping through the ruins, trying to ignore the maddened chorus
inside her skull. The mansion had burned, but it had been built in
the classic Imperial style, and Caina found her way to the wreckage
of the great hall with ease.

And to Qassar.

He lay upon the dais where the lord's high table had
once stood, wrists and ankles bound, mouth gagged, eyes bulging
with terror. Nearby lay two women and four small children, also
bound. Qassar's wives and children, no doubt. Apparently Cynoshard
had spared them. But why?

The answer came to Caina even as darkness swirled in
the hall's empty doors, as Cynoshard stepped out of the
shadows.

The assassin had kept them alive to kill in front of
Qassar.

To add their souls to his cloak.

And hers, as well, she realized.

“You should have fled, Ghost,” Cynoshard said, a lazy
smile on his tattooed face. His sword spun slow, deadly circles in
his right hand, like a viper preparing to strike. “Stealth would
have saved you, not steel. Now you will suffer for your
mistake.”

Join us join us you will join us in our torment in
our screams scream with you join us for he will kill you KILL YOU
KILL YOU…

“Suffer?” said Caina, stepping to the side. She heard
Qassar screaming into his gag, the women and children weeping into
theirs. “So you’re going to kill me and add my soul to that cloak
of yours?”

Cynoshard stopped, his eyes narrowing. His cloak of
shadows twisted like a banner caught in a storm. And for a moment,
just a moment, Caina caught a glimpse of an amulet of tarnished
silver resting against his chest, the shadows of the cloak bound
against it.

And through it.

Our shackles our chains our durance we are slaves
forever you will join us he will kill you kill you KILL YOU…

“Figured it out, did you?” said Cynoshard. A smile
spread over his face, distorted and hideous beneath the skull
tattoo. “Qassar is mine. His wives and children are mine. And you,
Ghost, you are mine.” His cloak flowed and writhed about him, the
whispering in Caina’s mind growing ever louder. “Your soul will
serve me until the end of days.”

He walked towards her, and again Caina saw the amulet
of tarnished silver against his chest, holding the cloak of shadows
in place.

Like a lock upon a chain.

Caina felt the weight of the ghostsilver dagger upon
her hip. The blade was proof against sorcery – and against objects
and weapons of sorcery.

Free us set us free let us go free us from our
torment free us free us FREE US…

One chance. She would have one chance at this.

She set her weight, lifting Qassar’s scimitar in one
hand.

“If you want to kill me so badly,” she said, “then do
it already, and stop wasting my time with your tedious
speeches.”

Cynoshard sneered. “Gladly.”

He raced at her, sword raised, and Caina met him.
Despite the pain in her head, despite the throbbing in her leg, she
managed to block a dozen of his furious blows. Then he locked his
blade against hers and twisted her wrist, sending the scimitar
crashing to the ground.

Cynoshard drew back his sword for the kill.

Caina flung herself on him, hands reaching for his
throat. He caught her right wrist and shoved her away, lining up
his sword for a strike.

And as he did, Caina ripped the ghostsilver dagger
from its sheath and slashed it across his chest. The gleaming blade
struck the tarnished amulet, and cut through it like butter. It
fell in two pieces to the ground, the edges smoking.

Cynoshard froze in astonishment. “What…”

The tingling of powerful sorcery against Caina’s skin
redoubled, and the cloak shattered.

Shadows exploded from Cynoshard, racing across the
ruined hall like a flock of black birds. They swirled around the
hall, a whirlwind of darkness. The voices of the freed souls
screamed inside Caina’s skull, exultant with mad joy.

And then they fell upon Cynoshard like an
avalanche.

The assassin shrieked, slashing his blade in a futile
effort to drive off the shadows. But the steel of his sword passed
through the shadows, and they swarmed over him, wrapping around his
limbs like serpents, their screams of hate filling Caina’s head.
Cynoshard collapsed to the earth beneath the weight of the shadows,
and she heard bones snap, saw blood splatter across the earth.

She turned and cut Qassar loose from his bonds.

“Thank you, thank you,” said the merchant,
half-weeping. “You saved us, I cannot believe you defeated him,
you…”

Caina pressed a dagger into his hand, told him to see
to his wives and children, and walked to Cynoshard.

The assassin lay pinned to the earth, moaning, bound
by the crawling shadows of his ruined cloak. His eyes shifted to
Caina, and he tried to stand, tried to break away, but the shadows
held him fast.

“You shouldn’t keep slaves,” said Caina, voice quiet.
“They always turn against their masters.”

She seized his hair, pulled back his head, and cut
his throat.

The shadows’ cries of exultation mixed with the
joyous weeping of Qassar’s wives.

THE END

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Turn the page to read the first chapter of GHOST IN THE COWL,
Caina Amalas's first adventure in Istarinmul
.

***

Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas
stood on the ship’s deck and threw knives at the mast.

It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from
thinking too much. To distract herself from the memories that
flooded her mind if she was idle for too long. Sometimes she locked
herself in her cabin for hours and performed the exercises of
open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago,
working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every
muscle in her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes.

But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went
to the dark places. To New Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above
the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion laughing as he drove his dagger
into the back of the man who had raised Caina. To the Moroaica,
weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.

To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the
netherworld.

And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself
gazing at the veins in her arm, thinking of the knives she
carried.

She retained enough of her right mind to realize that
she was not thinking clearly, that her mood was dangerous.

So when that mood came, she went to the deck and
threw knives at the mast.

At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew
accustomed to it. They had been told that she was a mercenary named
Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers,
delivering contracts now that trade between Istarinmul and the
Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be
forgiven an eccentricity or two.

That, and she never missed the mast.

Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain
Qalim’s orders. Caina suspected that the sailors would have reacted
rather differently if they knew that beneath the disguise “Marius”
was actually a twenty-two year old woman, but she did not care.

She could not bring herself to care about very
much.

So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking
into the wood. Compensating for the motion of the waves and the
wind kept her mind busy. Pulling the knives out of the mast and
sharpening the blades anew kept her hands occupied.

The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless
attracted an audience.

When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New
Kyre’s harbor, she had expected to share the vessel with cargo.
Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or perhaps Anshani silk. The
Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly a year, and
cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.

She had not, however, expected to share the ship with
a circus.

More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus
Of Wonders And Marvels.

Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the
mast, and Master Cronmer himself approached.

Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the
shoulders and chest of a titan. He was bald, with a graying
mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a brilliant red coat. She
saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten bread and cheese
for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship carried.

“Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish
tongue. “You should come work for me.”

Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She
made sure to keep her Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and
raspy, as Theodosia had taught her to do.

“Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty
old merchants? You should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to
create a stupendous knife-throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind
his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll throw knives at some lusty
Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch from her skin, and
she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”