The Ghalian Code: Space Assassins 3 Read online

  The Ghalian Code

  Space Assassins 3

  Scott Baron

  Copyright © 2020 by Scott Baron

  All rights reserved.

  Print Edition ISBN 978-1-945996-38-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  “Some Warriors look fierce, but are mild. Some seem timid, but are vicious. Look beyond appearances; position yourself for the advantage.”

  – Deng Ming Dao

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  Preview: Death From the Shadows

  Also by Scott Baron

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Ornate boots crunched loudly, their steps echoing in the silent halls as they ground deep into the debris littering the formerly opulent estate’s tower. Delicate sculptures lay in ruin, smashed to shards, and artwork and decorative wall hangings depicting brighter times rested on the ground where they’d fallen in the chaos.

  Blood was everywhere. Red blood, green blood, even some blue blood. All manner of men and women had fought and died here, some by magic, but most by far more primitive means.

  Blades and cudgels had cut a brutal swath through the poor house staff who happened to be caught outside of the defensive lines on the ground floor. They had been slain with no discrimination, and with no mercy. The attack had obviously been swift and had taken them unaware, despite their state of general readiness.

  Smears of green blood on the floor where the attackers’ bodies had fallen were sticky testament to the efforts of the estate’s security teams. They had fought well, the man thought of the slain staff at his feet. Only his guards lay there, however.

  The enemy had taken their dead and wounded with them, leaving neither overt signs of who had led the attack, nor whom they worked for. But he knew. Who else would dare to do such a thing? And in his own home, no less. A show of force in a visla’s estate while he was away on business.

  It was a ballsy thing to do, and against Visla Dinarius Jinnik, it was particularly so. The man had power. More than any visla for at least thirty systems. Someone had made a calculated choice in this attack.

  Visla Jinnik kept moving, stepping over the cold bodies of his men. The magical lift discs to the upper floors seemed to still be functional, but he cast a protective spell around himself as he boarded, just in case the intruders had left behind any little surprises for him in the way of wards or traps.

  He went straight to the top of the tower. The level containing his personal quarters. A place staffed by his most trusted men and women and protected by his most skilled guards. Just as was the case down below, the scene was one of carnage.

  Here, however, the fighting had apparently been far more intense. The walls, he noted, were greatly damaged by some dangerous magic gone astray. It was one of the reasons magic was almost never used in close-quarter fighting.

  While spells could be greatly effective against an approaching enemy, once you were in the thick of combat, those same spells could just as easily take out your own men by accident as well as your intended target.

  And while that was bad on land, it could be even worse in space, blasting a hole in the side of a ship and venting attackers and defenders alike into the frigid void.

  So, no one used spells in this kind of fighting except as a last resort. Which, judging by the stray damage, it had been.

  That little quirk of magic was what led to the development of enchanted blades. While they were somewhat limited by their wielder’s reach, the magical weapons could slice through armor and flesh alike.

  All of Visla Jinnik’s personal guard carried them and were well trained. And their proficiency with the weapons was apparent by the corpses and limbs strewn about the place.

  The fighting had obviously been fierce, as a few of the Tslavar mercenaries sent to invade his home still lay dead on the floor, their comrades unable to retrieve their bodies in the heat of battle.

  Despite the horrible loss of life, Jinnik smiled, though it was pained, not one of joy. Merely one of appreciation. His men had served him well, and their surviving families would be well taken care of for it.

  He looked at the uniform on one of the few mercenary bodies left behind. No markings. Nothing to tie the man to any one cause or organization, as he had expected. They were an anonymous fighting force, and if seen or even captured, their true loyalty would be easy enough to deny.

  On he continued, crossing the wide foyer by the lift discs and heading into his personal chambers. Furniture was scattered and smashed, and the signs of fighting were even more intense in the narrower confines of the corridor.

  Something caught his eye. Something horrible. A servant’s head had been severed and placed carefully on the leg of an upturned table. The visla paused and stared at this new horror, his boots now slick with gore.

  “Poor Sidisa. You did not deserve such an end,” he said to no one in particular. Not for lack of ears around him, but because all of them were dead.

  He felt his already bubbling rage grow even stronger. Even in the heaviest of combat, this was just not done. There was no tactical purpose for such a thing. Except one.

  Someone was making a point.

  He carefully scanned the area, taking in every detail he could. Then, with a heavy heart, he walked to the doorway of the room adjacent to his own suites. Four of his most trusted guards lay dead at the threshold, fallen where they had made their last stand.

  He took a deep breath, then stepped over their bodies into the room.

  The damage inside was minimal. Barely noticeable, in fact. All of the violence had taken place leading up to this place. The crux of it all. The true reason for the assault on so fortified an estate.

  There were bloody bootprints marking the floor, but only one body in the room. Her name was Willa, and she had been with the family a long, long time. A gentle soul, and a wise teacher. And now she was as dea
d as the others, long cold where she lay on the floor.

  Visla Jinnik bent down and picked up a doll. It was the likeness of a man called Suvius the Mighty. A great gladiator warrior, and his son’s favorite. His grip tightened around the doll as his emotions threatened to take control.

  The static buzz of agitated magic around him began to thicken into a dangerous crackle of power and rage as his anger grew stronger. It was a family condition. His father had it, his father’s father had it. And more likely than not, his son would too, one day. If he lived.

  Jinnik breathed deep, calming his mind and heart as he’d been trained since his powers began to truly manifest and grow in strength when he was only twelve, just a few years older than his son. Slowly, the dangerous magic receded back into the visla, but only just.

  He forced himself to look at the room with a clear mind, pushing emotion aside, at least for a moment. Then he saw it. A single, sealed note on the small table placed in the middle of the room where it could not be missed.

  He picked it up. Not a speck on the envelope, not a drop of blood or smear of soot. This had been left for him after his son was taken. He turned it over and stared at the seal. One he knew all too well.

  Jinnik strode from the room, jaw tight as he headed to his personal study. He would open it there, and then he would plan what to do next.

  A bit of motion caught his eye and he stopped and turned, his gaze falling on what he had missed when he entered. A column had tumbled in the fray, and beneath it a Tslavar mercenary lay pinned. His injuries were severe, but not fatal.

  “Please, help me,” the man asked, exhausted from days of struggle to pull free of the enormous weight.

  “Help you?” Visla Jinnik said, the angry magic crackling around him once more. “Oh, I’ll help you.”

  He raised his hand, focusing his power, and released it with one barking spell. “Hokta!”

  The green man didn’t even have the opportunity to scream as he was crushed into an unidentifiable bloody pulp.

  Jinnik lowered his arm. An arm that was not wearing a konus or slaap. This was his own power, not that stored in any magical device like the unpowered needed. It had been a fair expenditure, but not enough to completely deplete the crackling, angry excess magic buzzing around him.

  But the violence had helped. At least a little. And slowly, the magic began to pull back into his body. He had killed the one witness he could have interrogated, but with the letter in his hand, there would be no need.

  For now, he needed to sit and to think. And once he had a plan, then, and only then, would he would act.

  Chapter Two

  “Mop that shit up! And make it quick!” Darzus growled at the resort’s newest laborer. “I swear, Binnik, you’re fucking useless!”

  “On it, sir. Yes, yes. Right on it!” the man replied, hurrying off with his bucket, mop, and rags, as well as the barely powered konus the maintenance manager had provided him when he started.

  It was a shit job.

  Literally.

  Cleaning up after guests and making sure the waste was all disposed of properly and the pipes unclogged. The slim band of the work konus on his wrist contained just enough stored magic to help with the finishing touches of a cleanup, or to activate the emergency removal protocol spell for truly big issues.

  But today, it was used for freshening the air after Binnik had manually removed whatever clog might have been causing the backup.

  In this case, a Baringian wedding party had gotten a little too festive in the bridal suite and attempted to see just how much the novel waste system could suck down. It was not the first time, and it would most certainly not be the last.

  Things backed up and overflowed often in the facility. But that was why such an extensive cleaning and maintenance staff was on hand, and why Binnik had been accepted for the new job on the spot.

  In a galaxy where magic handled everything, including making the toilets flush and their contents disappear and rematerialize in the waste removal area far away, the resort’s quaint and old-timey ways were a nostalgic throwback to many centuries prior. And the wealthy paid a hefty premium to experience it.

  There were other novel aspects besides the antiquated waste system. Fountains that used pipes to spray water rather than spells, for instance. And a lift to the first five floors that utilized an odd counterweight system to raise the platform, rather than a magically powered lift disc.

  Of course, for anything over the fifth floor, lift discs were used. Novelty was one thing, but courting a plummeting death merely accessing one’s suites was not anyone’s idea of a fun vacation.

  It was one of the most exclusive and difficult resorts in which to acquire lodging on all of the beautiful world of Grandall, and that was saying something. The main cities were the playground of the wealthy and powerful, full of hotels, spas, and resorts offering anything and everything their patrons could desire.

  And here, in the capital city, this was the most sought after of all. To acquire a room, let alone a suite, would cost what some made in a year, and for VIP chambers, mere coin would not be enough.

  Power brokers and influential people frequented those hallowed grounds, recreating in resplendent luxury, while the peons below went about their dull daily lives. It was the most exclusive of air they breathed, surrounded by their peers.

  But someone still had to clean up the shit. And one of those someones was poor Binnik.

  The man wore the dark, patterned uniform of the lowest of service staff, designed to hide the stains and smears acquired in their daily labors. Unlike the finely dressed guest assistance staffers, Binnik and his ilk were the bottom of the social ladder, and as such, they were ignored by all. All but their tyrannical manager, that is.

  It was the type of job one took as a last resort. A last resort, within a resort, as it were. It was also the perfect cover for an assassin preparing for a most audacious hit.

  Hozark had been in position for nearly a month playing the part of Binnik the sewage worker. The master assassin had settled into the roll with ease, and he had even added a few additional enhancements to his normally repugnant uniform. Namely, a lingering odor of feces, slightly stronger than the rest of his compatriots.

  That, combined with his appearance as the lowest of the low, put him in the perfect position to do what he needed for his pending job. Being a sanitation worker in this place had made him more invisible than any magical shimmer cloak ever could.

  And all without setting off any hostile magic detectors in the process. For, in addition to being exclusive, this place was also more secure than some fortresses. Weapons of any kind were strictly forbidden, and magical items brought by any but the guests and their guard staff would be confiscated and the offending bearer thrown in jail.

  So here he was. Unarmed, alone, and mopping up shit.

  It was grunt work, and hard labor, but his wiry muscles were more than up for the task. And his labors had allowed him to case the entire facility from the inside, giving him nearly free rein not only in the hallways, but within even the most exclusive of the suites and facilities.

  Within three days he had the basics of the guard positions, patrol patterns, and shift changes committed to memory. By the end of the second week, he had discerned the location of every ward, trap, and surveillance spell in the resort.

  And best of all, he was ignored. Treated like less than a person by patrons and upper-level staff alike. And as he worked, invisible to them simply by the nature of his job and apparent social status, they talked. They talked and talked, and spoke with a careless ease that made him privy to a great many secrets likely thought too sophisticated to mean anything to the shit cleaner’s peasant ears.

  So Hozark listened. And he noted. And he gathered up many pieces of the puzzle he and the rest of the Wampeh Ghalian were digging into. Namely, who within the Council of Twenty had been so brazen as to target a master of the order of assassins, and why.

  The attempt upon Maste
r Prombatz had failed, but only just. The unlikely twist that he had given his contract to an aspiring young Ghalian trainee as his final test before becoming a full-fledged member of the order had been his saving grace.

  Aargun, the young aspirant, had been captured rather than Prombatz, and while the master assassin was gravely injured in the process, it was Aargun who suffered the most.

  He had not faced mere tortured. That would have been expected of any who captured an assassin, and was a reality they were all aware could befall any of them. But, rather, he had been experimented on. Drained of much of his blood, his eyes and tongue removed to prevent him seeing his captors or speaking of the experience.

  Aargun was rescued, eventually, in a brazen attack on a Council stronghold, but he would never heal fully. And all that Hozark and his comrades had learned in that rescue was that Visla Torund, who they had thought to be behind the plot, was merely a lower-level player. It was Visla Ravik, it seemed, who was actually pulling the strings.

  Or maybe not. The name Maktan had been called out in the last breath of an emmik as he lay dying in their friend Laskar’s arms. But it made no sense. Visla Maktan was the least offensive of any of the Council of Twenty. And as they investigated him in depth after that incident, he kept coming up clean.