Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (19 page)

“You look like you’re about to kill someone,” said Kylon.

“Do I?” said Morgant. “Well, good for you, because I am. Coming, Exile?” He turned to Caina. “Have your mercenaries deal with the Immortals. I’ll bring you Cimak.” He thought for a moment. “In fact, I will bring you Cimak…and he will thank you for kidnapping him, and thank Tanzir as his deliverer from certain death.”

Caina raised an eyebrow. “And just how are you going to accomplish this?”

“Lies and flattery, of course,” said Morgant, and he described his plan. 

“I think that would work,” said Caina. “And if we can get Cimak on our side, that will make our task all the easier. Tanzir would appreciate his cooperation, too.” 

Morgant smiled. “Then you are planning to overthrow the Padishah and the Grand Wazir?”

The cold blue eyes looked at him without blinking. “I am going to do what is necessary to stop Callatas.” Her lips thinned. “If that includes overthrowing the Grand Wazir, so be it.” 

“Well, then,” said Morgant. “Let’s see if the Kyracian and I can deliver you a tame emir.”

Caina nodded. “Be careful.”

She wasn’t talking to him, Morgant knew.

“I always am,” said Kylon. 

Caina snorted. “Liar. But, then, so am I.” She turned her horse back towards Nasser and the mercenary captains.

Morgant and Kylon stared at each other for a moment. 

“Come along, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “I suspect we might need to kill a few people before we find Cimak.”

Kylon did not look pleased, but he followed Morgant as they circled to the south, making their way alongside a field full of ripening wheat. Tanzir had passed orders that the men were to avoid trampling the crops. Morgant had to approve of his foresight. More people died of famine and plague during war than of swords and spears. 

Tanzir was definitely smarter than some of his ancestors. Especially the ones Morgant had killed.

They reached the hill’s south side, and Morgant considered it for a moment. The Immortals had not bothered to place a guard upon the ramparts or outside the village. No doubt they thought themselves secure in the heart of the Vale. Since the village watchmen were currently opening the gates for Tanzir, the Immortals would soon learn otherwise. Morgant flicked his eyes over the houses rising within the village’s walls. The inn was the largest building in the village, four stories tall with a flat roof. Morgant had passed through Korundush before, and he knew that the brothel occupied the top floors of the inn. 

Kuldan Cimak would be there, in the inn’s most luxurious suite.

“There were are,” said Morgant. “Jump to the top of the wall and then throw down the rope.” He passed Kylon the coiled rope. 

“That’s it?” said Kylon. “That’s why you wanted me along?”

Morgant shrugged. “That and the stimulating conversation, of course. Do hurry. I suspect Nasser and his friends are going to start killing Immortals any second.”

Kylon ran to the wall with a burst of speed, climbing up the steep slope. Morgant hurried after at a slower pace. As he drew nearer, Kylon jumped, leaping far higher into the air than a normal man could manage. He kicked off the wall about two thirds of the way up, the momentum driving him further, and seized the battlements and heaved himself over. The stormdancer hooked the grapnel to the stone, and Morgant scrambled up, his palms gripping the rope, his boots rasping against the wall. 

It occurred to him that this would be an excellent time for Kylon to kill him, yet Morgant knew the thought would not occur to Kylon himself. Kylon Shipbreaker was not the sort of man to murder in cold blood. Unless Kylon thought that Caina was in danger from Morgant, of course. Then Morgant would never see the blow coming. 

“Now,” said Morgant, pulling up the rope and coiling it anew. “The rooftop of that inn against the wall.” He took a look around. None of the villagers seemed to have noticed them, most likely because everyone was watching the armed men filter into the village square. Whatever else the Black Wolves and the Company of Shopur might have been, they made excellent distractions. 

To his credit, Kylon did not hesitate, but nodded, grabbed the rope, and jumped again. He hit the inn somewhere around the third floor, and to Morgant’s mild surprise, Kylon climbed up the smooth wall with ease. The reason became clear a moment later. White mist swirled around Kylon’s hands, and when he touched the wall a patch of thick ice appeared. The cold likely would have frozen off the skin of a normal man, but Kylon’s power protected him, and he scaled the wall with ease.

A handy trick. Morgant had never seen a stormdancer do that before. A moment later the rope came down, and Morgant scaled the wall rather less gracefully. Still, he was over two hundred years old. Allowances had to be made for age.

“Will you cut through the ceiling with your dagger?” said Kylon, voice low as he retrieved the rope. A mass of black-armored Immortals marched into the village square, coming to confront the mercenaries.

“No,” said Morgant, crossing the roof. “I’ll use the trapdoor. Much less noisy.” He dropped to one knee and opened it, revealing a ladder descending to the inn’s top floor. “Feel free to cut through the roof if you want.” 

A shout rang out, followed by the roar of men charging as they flung themselves into battle. Morgant saw that fighting had begun in the village square, with the Black Wolves and Tanzir’s horsemen charging into the Immortals. Shopur’s archers scrambled up to the ramparts of the village’s walls, sending volleys of arrows into the skull-masked warriors. Morgant saw Kazravid loose an arrow, sending an Immortal sprawling to the ground with the shaft jutting from the eyehole of his masked helm. 

“Splendid,” said Morgant. “The timing is perfect. Follow me, and be ready to fight.”

He hurried down the ladder, drawing his red scimitar and his black dagger the minute he got to the bottom rung. Morgant found himself in a corridor with doors on either side, the walls paneled in gleaming, polished wood, crimson tapestries hanging here and there. The air was heavy with the scent of last night’s incense and perfumes, and his nose caught the aroma of baking bread as the kitchen slaves prepared breakfast for the guests. Morgant beckoned, and Kylon drew his sword and followed him. 

He turned a corner and stopped. The inn’s most luxurious suite was at the end of the hallway, its door closed. Four Immortals stood guard there, starting forward as they heard the screams and the shouts coming from the village square. 

They stopped as they saw Morgant and Kylon. 

“Take the ones on the left,” hissed Morgant, and Kylon gave a sharp nod.

“Identify yourselves,” said the first Immortal as the others drew scimitars or chain whips. The whips would be clumsy in the confined space of the hallway, but the Immortals could swing them with sufficient force to crush bone.

“Greetings, loyal soldiers of the Padishah!” said Morgant, striding forward, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his black dagger. “I’m here to kidnap your emir and kill you all. Will that be a problem, or can we get on with it already?” 

The Immortals stared at him. 

Morgant sighed and glanced back at Kylon. “People are so offended by honesty. That’s the big problem, you know. People simply cannot handle honesty.”

Kylon gaped at him. 

“Kill them,” said the lead Immortal, raising his chain whip.

“Ah!” said Morgant. “That’s more like it.” 

Kylon raised his sword, drawing a dagger with his left hand. Morgant strolled forward, weapons hanging loose at his side, his posture relaxed and unconcerned. The lead Immortal took one quick step, snapping his heavy chain whip towards Morgant’s throat.

Morgant ducked, flicking his black dagger to the side. The blade sheared through the chain lash as if it had been made of soft cheese, and the end fell to the floor, the severed links glowing. The dagger jolted in Morgant’s hand, and the Immortal staggered at the sudden change in his weapon’s weight, the truncated whip bouncing uselessly against his left arm.

In that moment of confusion, Morgant struck. 

He sprang forward, lashing the dagger down in a single vicious slash. The Immortal had not yet recovered from his swing, his arm still pressed against his chest. The black dagger tore through the Immortal’s helm, opened his cuirass and his chest, and severed his right arm. Blood spattered across the gleaming wooden walls, and the ripped edges of the Immortal’s black armor glowed white-hot from the sorcerous power of Morgant’s dagger. The Immortal fell dead, and the warrior behind him charged. Morgant retreated, snapping up his scimitar to parry the blows of the Immortal’s sword.

Something white and deadly cold shot past Morgant’s head and slammed into one of the Immortals on the left. The dagger shattered as it struck the Immortal’s shoulder, but the white mist sheathing the blade spread into a layer of thick frost over the Immortal’s armor. The Immortal started to break the ice, but Kylon was already moving, his sword stabbing to plunge into a gap in the Immortal’s armor plates. The warrior fell with a snarl of fury, and Kylon ripped his blade free to face the second Immortal on the right. 

Morgant retreated, falling into a rhythm has he parried and blocked the furious attacks. The Immortal was stronger than he was, and with every step Morgant had no choice but to fall back. The Immortal raised his scimitar for a killing blow, and Morgant angled his crimson scimitar to block the strike.

At the last minute he twisted, dropping his scimitar and raising his black dagger. The Immortal might have seen the danger, but by then the black-armored warrior had committed to the stroke. The black dagger sheared through the Immortal’s scimitar an inch above the hilt, and the weapon shattered. The Immortal stumbled, and Morgant drove his dagger through the Immortal’s helm and into the skull beneath. 

He ripped the dagger free and turned to aid Kylon, but the stormdancer had already prevailed. The last Immortal lay upon the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Kylon took a deep breath and shook the bloody droplets from his blade. 

“Good work,” said Morgant. 

“All that noise has probably alerted Cimak to our presence,” said Kylon. “He will not come willingly.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” said Morgant, lifting his black dagger. The hilt was getting warm beneath his fingers. The spell upon the dagger worked by nullifying friction, letting the weapon cut through almost anything. Unfortunately, the sorcery stored all that heat in the blood-colored gem within the dagger’s pommel, and sooner or later the heat had to be released. 

Morgant knew right where to put it.

He stepped over the dead Immortals and cut open the lock with a slash of his dagger. The door swung open, revealing an opulent bedroom with a thick carpet, silken hangings upon the walls, and an enormous bed large enough to hold six at once. A young, plump Istarish man in a disheveled robe lay on his back across the bed, his mouth hanging open, his snores filling the air. From the windows rose the sounds of the fighting in the square. 

“He’s asleep?” said Kylon, incredulous. “He actually slept through all that?”

“Depending on how much he drank last night, he might sleep through the Apotheosis itself,” said Morgant, looking over the room. A small desk stood near one of the windows, and a sheaf of official-looking documents sat atop it. “Take the papers. The Balarigar will want to have a look at them. Let me do the talking.”

Kylon went to collect the documents, while Morgant crossed to the wall, touched his dagger to the silken wall hanging, and released the stored power. At once the curtain caught fire, the flame spreading to the wall. He walked to the bed, reached down, and pinched Kuldan Cimak’s nose shut. A moment later the emir started thrashing, and Morgant removed his hand as Cimak sat up, cursing and sputtering.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Cimak. “Who are you? What…”

His black eyes widened as he saw the flames spreading across the room.

“Men have come to kill you, my lord emir!” said Morgant. “They will burn down the inn around our ears. We must flee, quickly!” Kylon slung a satchel of papers over his shoulder. 

“What?” said Cimak, looking back and forth as his alarm struggled with his hangover.

“Master Alchemist Malik Rolukhan commanded the Immortals to kill you!” said Morgant. “They’ve set fire to the inn and are waiting for you at the door. The emir Tanzir sent us to rescue you. Quickly, my lord emir, quickly.” He hauled the pudgy young man to his feet. “We must flee before the Immortals come to you.”

Cimak gaped at him, his foul breath on Morgant’s face, and nodded. “I knew it. I knew it! Those Immortals were up to something the entire time.” 

“That is exactly right,” said Morgant. “Fortunately, Tanzir Shahan in his farsighted wisdom saw through the dastardly plot and hired us to rescue you. My associate and I arrived in the nick of time.”

“Yes,” said Kylon in a flat voice. “What he said. That is what happened.”

Gods, but that man was a terrible liar. Fortunately, Cimak was too frightened to notice. 

“We must hasten, my lord,” said Morgant. “The emir Tanzir and his men await us below. I’m afraid we’ll have to go through the window.”

“Just as Istarr did when the Demon Princes of old sent their dire assassins to slay him!” said Cimak, his eyes wide. He swayed a little, and would have fallen had Morgant not caught his arm. 

“Exactly like that,” said Morgant, steering the emir to the window. 

“I’ve written several epic poems upon those very events,” said Cimak, stumbling as Morgant pulled him along. Kylon embedded the grapnel into the windowsill and threw the rope out. 

“I’m sure you have,” said Morgant. 

“I shall write my own poem of these events!” said Cimak. “Five acts, with sixteen stanzas each, cast in the traditional style of the Istarish epic! I…”

“Let’s make sure you live to write it,” said Morgant, suppressing his irritation. He only killed people who deserved it, but listening to Cimak’s poetry surely qualified. “Kyracian, help him down.”

“So that was the real reason you wanted me along,” said Kylon. 

Morgant shrugged. “If you’d prefer, you could help the emir compose his epic.”