Read Online Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) by Jonathan Moeller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Moeller
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incorrectly.
That should have troubled him. He knew it ought to have troubled him.
Instead he found the sensation fascinating.
He walked across the arid plains of the Trabazon steppes, the grass crunching beneath his boots, his long black coat rippling around his legs in the dry wind. He had not seen anyone else today, whether travelers or nomads or bandits, which was a pity because he really wanted to kill someone.
That was new.
Cassander had been in the Umbarian Order for most of his adult life, rising to high rank, and an Umbarian did not reach high rank without a great deal of ruthlessness. Cassander had killed enemies, repeatedly and without hesitation, and had no qualms about killing people if it was the most efficient way of achieving his goals. True, he had enjoyed killing his enemies, but the killing itself had simply been another chore to be done, like lacing his boots or maintaining his defensive wards.
Now, though…he enjoyed killing on the visceral level that some men enjoyed drink or drugs or sharing a bed with a woman.
It was possible that he had done something to himself.
He smiled at the thought.
The motion hurt. The explosion at the Corsair’s Rest had cost Cassander his left arm and most of the left side of his face. A reservoir of life force in one of his bloodcrystals had kept him alive and lucid. He had stumbled away from Rumarah and into a band of Istarish nomads.
Cassander had killed them all…and from their corpses he rebuilt himself.
He smiled again, flexing the fingers of his new left hand. It was a little bigger than his original hand, and his balance was off. Yet it functioned without any problems. Using necromancy, he had taken the arm from a dead Istarish nomad and grafted it to his charred shoulder, the necromantic power weaving together flesh and bone. He had done the same for the damaged side of his face, grafting skin over the charred flesh.
It hurt quite a lot. Yet the pain seemed…abstracted. Almost as if it was happening to someone else. He found the pain fascinating now, the same way death fascinated him.
It was possible, Cassander supposed, that the necromancy had warped something within him, had given him a lust for violence and death that he had not previously possessed.
It was just as well.
Unless Cassander missed his guess, he was going to have to kill a lot of people soon.
“You keep smiling,” said a woman’s voice, low and sardonic and amused.
Cassander looked at his companion. She was a young woman with a pretty face, her eyes bright and blue and her hair long and blond. The woman wore armor the color of blood, and a Ghost shadow-cloak hung from her shoulders, rippling and snapping in the wind like a haze of shadow.
She looked young and harmless, but Kalgri the Red Huntress was neither.
“And why should I not?” said Cassander. He knew Kalgri was dangerous, that he should not trifle with her, but for some reason he could not make himself care. “It is a fine and lovely day, and I am walking through the countryside with a beautiful woman at my side.” His voice had changed as well, becoming a hard rasp. Likely some of the silver fire had damaged his throat.
Kalgri smiled. “Flattery was more effective before you burned half of your face away.”
“I didn’t burn it,” said Cassander. “Caina Amalas did that.” Rage stirred within him. “And you failed to warn me.”
She offered an indifferent shrug. “If you failed to notice the obvious, that is not my fault. Perhaps you should have realized something was amiss when I ran out the door.”
His fury subsided. She did have a point. “Perhaps.”
In hindsight, he realized what had happened. Caina must have stolen a vial of Elixir Restorata from an Alchemist. Yet Cassander had spent a great deal of time studying Caina Amalas, and knew that her mother Laeria Scorneus had sold Caina to one of the disciples of the Moroaica. Obviously Caina had survived the
That should have troubled him. He knew it ought to have troubled him.
Instead he found the sensation fascinating.
He walked across the arid plains of the Trabazon steppes, the grass crunching beneath his boots, his long black coat rippling around his legs in the dry wind. He had not seen anyone else today, whether travelers or nomads or bandits, which was a pity because he really wanted to kill someone.
That was new.
Cassander had been in the Umbarian Order for most of his adult life, rising to high rank, and an Umbarian did not reach high rank without a great deal of ruthlessness. Cassander had killed enemies, repeatedly and without hesitation, and had no qualms about killing people if it was the most efficient way of achieving his goals. True, he had enjoyed killing his enemies, but the killing itself had simply been another chore to be done, like lacing his boots or maintaining his defensive wards.
Now, though…he enjoyed killing on the visceral level that some men enjoyed drink or drugs or sharing a bed with a woman.
It was possible that he had done something to himself.
He smiled at the thought.
The motion hurt. The explosion at the Corsair’s Rest had cost Cassander his left arm and most of the left side of his face. A reservoir of life force in one of his bloodcrystals had kept him alive and lucid. He had stumbled away from Rumarah and into a band of Istarish nomads.
Cassander had killed them all…and from their corpses he rebuilt himself.
He smiled again, flexing the fingers of his new left hand. It was a little bigger than his original hand, and his balance was off. Yet it functioned without any problems. Using necromancy, he had taken the arm from a dead Istarish nomad and grafted it to his charred shoulder, the necromantic power weaving together flesh and bone. He had done the same for the damaged side of his face, grafting skin over the charred flesh.
It hurt quite a lot. Yet the pain seemed…abstracted. Almost as if it was happening to someone else. He found the pain fascinating now, the same way death fascinated him.
It was possible, Cassander supposed, that the necromancy had warped something within him, had given him a lust for violence and death that he had not previously possessed.
It was just as well.
Unless Cassander missed his guess, he was going to have to kill a lot of people soon.
“You keep smiling,” said a woman’s voice, low and sardonic and amused.
Cassander looked at his companion. She was a young woman with a pretty face, her eyes bright and blue and her hair long and blond. The woman wore armor the color of blood, and a Ghost shadow-cloak hung from her shoulders, rippling and snapping in the wind like a haze of shadow.
She looked young and harmless, but Kalgri the Red Huntress was neither.
“And why should I not?” said Cassander. He knew Kalgri was dangerous, that he should not trifle with her, but for some reason he could not make himself care. “It is a fine and lovely day, and I am walking through the countryside with a beautiful woman at my side.” His voice had changed as well, becoming a hard rasp. Likely some of the silver fire had damaged his throat.
Kalgri smiled. “Flattery was more effective before you burned half of your face away.”
“I didn’t burn it,” said Cassander. “Caina Amalas did that.” Rage stirred within him. “And you failed to warn me.”
She offered an indifferent shrug. “If you failed to notice the obvious, that is not my fault. Perhaps you should have realized something was amiss when I ran out the door.”
His fury subsided. She did have a point. “Perhaps.”
In hindsight, he realized what had happened. Caina must have stolen a vial of Elixir Restorata from an Alchemist. Yet Cassander had spent a great deal of time studying Caina Amalas, and knew that her mother Laeria Scorneus had sold Caina to one of the disciples of the Moroaica. Obviously Caina had survived the
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