Bound to the Eye (World of Ghost Exile Book 5)

  BOUND TO THE EYE

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  Morgant the Razor is the most feared assassin in three nations, and no foe has ever been able to overcome him, whether through sword or spell.

  But now an enemy attacks through his mind, through his dreams, and Morgant has no defense.

  Unless he finds a way to break the power of the Eye before its sorcery devours him forever…

  Bound to the Eye

  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright zoooom | Depositphotos.com &cokacoka | Depositphotos.com.

  Ebook edition published November 2013.

  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.

  Bound to the Eye

  Morgant the Razor, famed assassin, examined the row of gleaming blades on the table. After a moment he picked up a small knife, tested the edge, and sighed in satisfaction. It could cut through skin, muscle, fat, almost anything.

  He bent over his worktable, and cut a rectangle of canvas free from the sheet and attached it to a solid wooden frame. The canvas would make an excellent start for his latest commission. First he would sketch the outline on the canvas, then…

  Someone knocked at his door.

  Morgant turned, touched the hidden dagger strapped beneath his trousers, and picked up a solid wooden cane from the table. He started across his workroom, adopting the limp he feigned when masquerading as Markaine of Caer Marist.

  These days, it did not take much to masquerade as a half-mad old painter.

  “Who’s there?” he called through the door, adding a quaver to his voice.

  “Lord Gabriel Auraelis of the Nighmarian Empire desires to speak with you, painter!”

  “Does he?” said Morgant. All of Istarinmul had been murmuring with rumors of the handsome, haughty lord’s visit. Yet why would Auraelis wish to visit Markaine? Surely no Nighmarian lord would visit Istarinmul to commission a portrait?

  “Very well,” said Morgant. He threw back the locks, opened the door, and stepped back. The desert heat and sun blazed into the room.

  Two liveried guardsmen swept inside, casting suspicious glances at everything. They stood at either side of the door, hands on sword hilts.

  Morgant recognized Lord Auraelis at once. His black hair, gray eyes, and high cheekbones betrayed Nighmarian ancestry, just as his rich coat and jeweled longsword revealed his rank. Morgant met the lord’s cold gaze and took his measure. He could kill the boy in the space of two heartbeats. The guards were little better.

  Though the man standing behind Auraelis puzzled Morgant.

  A labyrinth of wrinkles scoured his brown skin, and his white hair and beard matched his flowing robe and high turban. An enormous uncut ruby hung from a gold chain around his neck. He seemed frail and harmless, yet he had the air of an Anshani occultist, which would make him far more dangerous than a Nighmarian lordling.

  “You are Markaine?” said Lord Auraelis.

  “My lord,” said Morgant. He had created the identity for himself years ago. As he grew older, it seemed he did more painting than killing. “Do you wish a painting?”

  “Perhaps,” said Auraelis. He stared at Morgant for a moment, as did the old man. “You have no servants? Surely a painter of your wealth and fame could afford a few slaves to open the door?”

  “My lord,” said Morgant. “I prefer to live alone. It aids my work. And as for slaves…why, I claim no right to hold men in fetters.”

  “Ah,” said Auraelis. “Odd. Still, a painter has every right to be odd.” His smirk widened. “I would like to commission a portrait from you, painter. I would like a portrait of Morgant the Razor.”

  “That would be difficult, my lord,” said Morgant, “for I have never seen the man.”

  The old man’s thin lips stretched into a smirk, fingers caressing the ruby.

  “Indeed?” said Auraelis.

  “He is very famous,” wheezed the old man. The ruby resembled a third eye against his white robe. “Surely you have seen him at least once?”

  “No, noble sir,” said Morgant, “It is said he is as a ghost.”

  “Have you ever heard of my father?” said Auraelis. “Lord Nicholas Auraelis?”

  “I have not, my lord,” said Morgant.

  “Oh? It is an interesting story,” said Auraelis. “Twenty-five years ago Morgant the Razor killed the magus-emperor of Nighmar.” That was untrue. Morgant had told the old tyrant that his enemies had come to kill him. The drunken fool had overreacted, jumped out a window, and plummeted to his death. “My father was the Lord Commander of the Imperial Guard at the time, and blamed for letting Morgant through. He was stripped of his lands and titles, left only with only few estates in remote provinces, and wasted away from shame. He died seven years past.”

  “A sorrowful tragedy, my lord,” said Morgant. “Have you come to Istarinmul seeking revenge on this wicked assassin?”

  “What?” Auraelis laughed. “Whatever for? My father was a fool. But Morgant…ah, Morgant has quite a price on his head. Whoever places Morgant’s head before the new magus-emperor’s throne will receive wealth and titles and land. I could care less about land, but gold…ah, gold, that is quite different.”

  “I see,” said Morgant. “So you have come to kill Morgant?”

  “No,” said the old man, his eyes glinting. “Morgant will kill himself.”

  “From grief over his hideous sins, no doubt,” said Morgant.

  “Well,” said Auraelis. “Think over my offer, painter.” He laughed. “I would very much like a portrait of the assassin. He will be the foundation of my fortune, after all. Fare you well.” He stepped into the street, his guards following. The old man offered one last smirk and turned. Again Morgant felt as if the red stone were a cold eye.

  He stared at the door in some puzzlement. What game had Auraelis been playing? Auraelis knew the truth, obviously. Why hadn’t he hired a dozen mercenaries and attacked? For that matter, why hadn’t his Anshani occultist worked any spells?

  Very odd.

  Morgant shrugged. He would take care. He had done nothing else his entire life, after all.

  He turned away from the door and resumed work on the painting.

  ###

  Later he went to bed, his weapons at his side in case Auraelis or his lackeys paid an unexpected visit.

  Morgant did not sleep often, but when he did, neither dreams nor guilt troubled him. Everyone he had killed had deserved it. Why should his conscience trouble him?

  Yet that night, he dreamed.

  He saw a woman standing at the foot of the bed. He had never seen a woman so beautiful, her skin like bronze, her hair like a veil of shadows. She wore only a costume of filmy veils. Her eyes seemed like dark fire, in odd contrast to her mournful expression. A wave of powerful longing swept through Morgant.

  “And just who might you be?” said Morgant.

  “I am the djinn Shalifa,” she whispered, “slave to the Eye, and Azif has sent me to kill you.”

  “Really?” said Morgant. He rolled from bed, black dagger in one hand and red scimitar in the other. “By all means, please try.”

  She glided towards him, eyes smolderi
ng. Morgant found himself unable to look away. And even as he stood dazed, she stepped past his guard, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. His weapons fell from his nerveless fingers. Her soft lips sent something like lightning through his nerves, and his blood raced as it not had for years.

  A moment later he had lowered her onto the bed.

  “You have a strange way of killing me, my lady,” whispered Morgant into her ear, once he had finished. “Unless you plan to exhaust my strength and finish me off then.”

  Shalifa laughed. The sound sent a thrill of pleasure through him. “You have exhausted me, mortal man. Such strength.” Her fingers brushed over his chest. “You were a slave once, were you not?”

  “Yes,” said Morgant, surprised. How could she have known that? Everyone he had known in his youth had died years ago, many of them at his own hand. “Long ago.”

  “What are a few years to one such as I?” murmured Shalifa. “They are nothing, but a ripple on the water. You were a slave once, yes. I see it on your soul, the scars.” Her smile widened. “I have never seen a mortal quite such as you. I have not finished with you yet.”

  Afterwards she vanished, and Morgant fell into a deep slumber.

  ###

  Morgant awoke with a cough, blinking as sunlight blazed through the window. He muttered a curse, rolled from the bed, and wiped the dried sweat from his brow. He had overslept…

  Morgant remembered the dream and laughed. “No wonder.” He had not had such a dream in years, even decades. It seemed there was still some life in his old bones.

  A wave of dizziness came over him, and he leaned against the wall. It passed, and Morgant resumed work on the portrait, keeping an eye out for Auraelis and his minions.

  No attackers came.

  ###

  That night he went to sleep and dreamed.

  Again the djinn Shalifa came to him, and again they lay together.

  “So tell me, my lady,” said Morgant. “Does this Azif still wish me dead?”

  “My master Azif cares nothing for you,” said Shalifa. Her bronze skin glistened with a thin film of sweat. “He has been commissioned to bring about your death.”

  “Has he?” said Morgant. He kissed her. “And you are the agent to bring about my death? I have killed many people, my lady, and yet I doubt any of them had quite so enjoyable a time as this.”

  “I will not kill you,” said Shalifa. “You will kill yourself.”

  “Really?” Morgant laughed. “And how shall I do that, hmm? Hang myself? Fall on a sword? Cut my throat with my own black dagger?”

  Shalifa sighed. She sounded almost despairing. “You will not be able to stop yourself.”

  “Oh?” said Morgant. He took her head between his hands and kissed her, hard. “Quite right. I can’t stop myself.”

  It lasted long into the night.

  ###

  Morgant awoke, watching the sunlight play across the ceiling’s crumbling plaster. He felt weary, despite his rest. Every detail of the dream remained vivid in his mind. How odd that he should have had the same dream two nights in a row. And why did he dream about someone named Azif? To his recollection, he knew of no one by that name.

  For a brief moment he wondered if he had been enspelled. Unlikely; a sorcerer would need to touch him to work such a spell.

  Morgant rolled out of bed, took two steps, and fell to one knee as a powerful wave of dizziness seized him. Cramps stabbed his stomach, and he threw up.

  He spat, snarled a curse, and staggered back to his feet. Some illness must have taken hold of him during the night. He almost laughed. After everything he had survived, would some back-gutter plague claim his life? It would have been funny, had his head not hurt so badly.

  Morgant shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He could scarce think through the exhaustion clouding his mind. He needed some rest, that was all. Some rest and he would feel fine.

  He collapsed back into bed and fell asleep at once.

  ###

  Again he dreamed of Shalifa.

  She came to him unclad. For a moment her sorrowful expression faded, and she smiled at him.

  “You have such vigor,” murmured Shalifa afterwards, her fingers tracing his face. “Such strength. Most men rarely last as long.”

  “Indeed?” said Morgant. “Where you gain such stamina, I cannot imagine. The immortal djinn have supernatural strength in every aspect, it seems.”

  “Most men have died by now,” said Shalifa. “Yet you endure.” An odd respect came into her eyes. “That is what you have always done, is it not? You freed yourself from slavery. How grand that must be!”

  “I suppose so,” said Morgant. “And what killed your previous lovers? Did you wear them out to exhaustion?”

  Shalifa closed her marvelous eyes. “Yes. Every time they lay with me, I drained away a bit of their lives. Piece by piece I took them, until they were nothing but dust. Some of them realized what was happening. They tried to resist, fought their desire, but in the end they came to me, weeping like little children.” She sighed. “I hope you will not die so miserably.”

  Morgant frowned. Something alarmed tugged at his brain, and then Shalifa opened her eyes.

  “Indeed?” said Morgant, kissing her. “Who could die weeping while doing this?”

  Her laugh was bitter, but she kissed him back.

  ###

  When Morgant awoke, he could not think through the colossal pain in his skull. He hissed, pressing his hands to his temples. After a few moments the pain lessened. Morgant stood up with a whispered curse. His legs felt like soft jelly and his heartbeat sounded erratic.

  “Auraelis,” he croaked. “Damn him.”

  Things came together in his reeling mind. He had often heard the Sarbian tribesmen of the desert tell tales about beautiful djinni that roamed the night. Any man who lay with such a djinn would die, so the tribesmen claimed, his life drained away.

  “Azif,” he muttered. Shalifa said someone named Azif had sent her to kill him. And Morgant had never learned the name of Auraelis’s pet occultist. Many occultists knew the secrets of binding djinni. Suppose Azif had done so? Had Auraelis hired him to carry out an assassination?

  Morgant’s trembling hands picked up the water jug in the corner. He took a long drink, water splashing against his chest. His stomach quivered and twisted, but he kept the water down.

  He had to find Azif and kill him. Otherwise Azif would send Shalifa to him, night after night, until Morgant perished. Another sorcerer might have worked a protective ward, for a price, but Morgant knew of no sorcerers he could trust with such a task. No, he had to find Azif.

  It took Morgant three tries to buckle on his weapons, but he got them on. He threw his cloak over his shoulders and tottered into the streets.

  ###

  Morgant searched all day and most of the night, and found nothing.

  It seemed Lord Auraelis had disappeared without a trace, much to the dismay of Istarinmul’s noble maidens. No one seemed to know where he had gone. A shopkeeper Morgant interrogated near the Gate of Swords claimed to have seen Auraelis riding north, recalled by the Emperor of Nighmar to fight a horde of invading barbarians. A second man said Auraelis had taken ship south, intending to seek a bride among the stormsingers of New Kyre. Still a third man said Auraelis had been slain after impregnating a lord’s wife.

  Morgant growled curses, fighting back despair. Auraelis had gone into hiding, and would sit back and wait while Shalifa took Morgant’s life bit by bit. Suppose Auraelis and Azif had fled the city? Morgant would die before he found them. No, Auraelis needed to remain close, to claim Morgant’s head and the reward before anyone else did.

  He leaned against a wall, trembling. He knew he had to stay awake. Every moment with Shalifa would drain his strength further. But his tired, aching body rebelled against his will. It wanted rest.

  And more, he wanted Shalifa.

  He desired her more than anything he’d wanted in years. If she had ap
peared before him right now, beckoning to him, he would not have had the strength to refuse.

  He would have gone to her willingly.

  Morgant shook his head. He could go no further without a little rest. He sat down and closed his eyes. He would take just a short rest.

  Instead, he fell asleep, rushing eagerly into the dreams.

  ###

  Shalifa awaited him, the very sight of her setting a fire in his blood. She smiled and beckoned to him.

  “No,” Morgant growled, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He reeled and tried to set himself, only to find that he had taken three lurching steps towards her.

  “Come,” said Shalifa. “You desire me, do you not? Come to me and I will ease the ache of that desire.”

  “You’ll also ease me of my life,” said Morgant. Despite himself, his eyes opened, and settled on her eyes, her burning dark eyes. “I…I will not.” His heart thundered in his chest, his blood burning.

  His resistance crumbled away, and he came to her with eagerness. What did death matter, weighed against her beauty? She purred with satisfaction, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “What do you desire, my lady?” he whispered into her ear. “You have made me desire you, have made death seem a small and meaningless thing. What do you desire?”

  “I desire you, mortal man,” Shalifa hissed. “What a strange thing. For you are nothing, just an ephemeral flicker in the space of my years.” Her eyes widened with sudden delight. “I may even think of you fondly, a thousand years from now.”

  “Indeed?” breathed Morgant. “Then I am just a passing amusement. What do you truly desire, my lady?”

  Shalifa hesitated. “I…I wish…” Her black hair pooled on the ground behind her head.

  “What do you desire?” said Morgant.

  Shalifa shuddered.

  “What do you desire?” said Morgant, breathing the question into her mouth.