Free Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) by Jonathan Moeller Page A

think I have not made preparations? If Callatas betrays me…what do you think I will do?”
    “Nothing,” said Kalgri. “Callatas is your superior in sorcery. Challenge him and he will crush you.”
    Cassander laughed. “Are you so certain of that, Huntress? For I promise you that the Umbarian fleet will sail through the Starfall Straits before the year is out.”
    “And if Callatas reneges on his promise to you?” said Kalgri. 
    “Then you will see death on a scale that even you cannot imagine,” said Cassander.
    “Indeed?” said Kalgri, and again her eyes flashed. “For I can imagine a great deal of death. What are you…”
    She went motionless, as motionless as a spider in its web.
    “You’re going to destroy Istarinmul,” she said. “Not conquer it. Not kill Callatas and the Grand Wazir. You are going to destroy the city.” 
    “Death,” said Cassander, “beyond imagination.”
    “How?” said Kalgri. “You don’t have the power to work something on that scale.”
    “I don’t,” said Cassander, “but I know where to get it. But there is a more important question we must answer first.” 
    “Which is?” said Kalgri.
    Cassander lifted his right hand and pointed it at her. A gauntlet of black steel covered his right hand, a crimson bloodcrystal pulsing on its back. Powerful spells crackled around the gauntlet, and it gave him the ability to use pyromancy without the sorcery of fire burning away his sanity. 
    Kalgri went very still again. 
    “Are you going to warn Callatas?” said Cassander.
    “No,” said the Huntress.
    Fire snarled to life around the gauntlet, harsh and bright, and a strange mad smile went over Kalgri’s features. 
    “You know,” said the Huntress, “I think I like you better now.” 
    “That doesn’t answer the question,” said Cassander. 
    “I don’t care about Callatas,” said Kalgri. “I don’t care about the Apotheosis. I don’t care about the Umbarian Order and your war with the Empire.”
    “What do you care about?” said Cassander, though he knew the answer.
    “Death,” said Kalgri. She grinned. “Death on a scale I cannot imagine.” 
    “Follow me,” said Cassander, “and you will have all the death you want and more.” 
    She was silent for a moment, and then looked to the north. 
    “You might have the chance to start now,” said Kalgri.
    Cassander frowned, wondered if she intended a trick of some kind, and then saw the dark shape of horsemen upon the horizon. 
    “Ah,” he said, dismissing the fire around his gauntlet. “I see. Well. We have had a long journey from Rumarah. Would you care for a little refreshment?” 
    “Be sure to leave some of the horses alive,” said Kalgri. “I would prefer not to walk the rest of the way to Istarinmul.”
    “Quite sensible,” said Cassander.
    The horsemen drew closer, about twenty strong. As they approached, Cassander took the opportunity to cast a few defensive spells around himself. Kalgri simply stood and waited, her arms crossed over her chest, that disturbing smile on her face. The horsemen drew into a circle around them and reined up. They wore chain mail and carried swords and whips and chains. Every man wore a vest of black leather adorned with a bronze badge shaped like a hand holding a curled whip. The men were Collectors, the lowest rank of the Slavers’ Brotherhood, scavengers who spent their time looking for captives to sell upon the auction block. Between the thousands of slaves Callatas had murdered to create his wraithblood and the terror the late Balarigar had inspired in the cowled masters of the Brotherhood, the price of slaves had exploded, and the Collectors had grown desperate for new inventory.
    This group had grown desperate enough to make the final mistake of their lives. 
    “You seem lost,” said the lead Collector, a thin, hatchet-faced man. 
    “Certainly not, good sir,” said Cassander. “I know exactly where I am.”
    “Ugly fellow, aren’t