Hozark's Revenge Read online

  Hozark’s Revenge

  Space Assassins 5

  Scott Baron

  Copyright © 2020 by Scott Baron

  All rights reserved.

  Print Edition ISBN 978-1-945996-40-5

  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.

  “It is often said that before you die your life passes before your eyes. It is in fact true. It’s called living.”

  – Terry Pratchett

  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

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading

  Also by Scott Baron

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The wet smack of a blood-dampened fist echoed off the cool stone walls. It was not the first blow to be cast on this day, nor would it be the last. The young woman hadn’t planned on being beaten today, but then, sometimes things just don’t go according to plan. And her plan was to find Visla Maktan.

  Visla Zinna Maktan was a difficult man to track down. Not just because he was one of the more powerful magic users in the combined systems, which afforded anyone a higher degree of security, but also because of another rather unique status.

  Visla Maktan was a member of the Council of Twenty, a galactic, power-hungry group that had strong-armed their way into controlling most of the known systems over the centuries.

  Given the sometimes truly heinous acts the Council carried out in their quest for more power and control of the inhabited systems not yet under their yoke, it was only natural that they would take security a bit more seriously than most. Scores of disgruntled people whose entire worlds had been forcibly placed under Council control, or who had witnessed their families enslaved or worse, would have great interest in causing the Twenty harm.

  But getting close enough to so much as lay a finger on one of the Council’s inner staff or guards was daunting enough of a challenge. To actually reach one of the Council themselves? It was only in those rarest instances of foolish overconfidence that an individual Council member had been reached. And even then, they were so powerful that the threat was neutralized with the greatest of ease.

  Recently, however, one of their own had not only placed himself in a precarious position, he had actually fallen in the process, his light snuffed out by a Ghalian assassin, and in front of his own men, no less.

  Word had spread like magic fire through the ranks, and the Council had reacted as one might expect of those whose braggadocio was often greater than their common sense.

  They had quietly doubled, or even tripled, their personal security details, while publicly downplaying the entire incident, stating the death of Visla Ravik had been no more than a fluke, and entirely of his own doing. That it had been a Ghalian assassin at whose hands––and fangs––he had fallen, was not mentioned at all.

  It was this unfortunate shift in security protocol that had snagged several infiltrators and spies, most of them actually under the employ of the other members of the Council. While they may have worked together as a unified body in public, the backstabbing and scrabbling for power behind the scenes was just as Machiavellian as found in any fiefdom or feudal world.

  But one spy was unlike the others who had been unexpectedly found out. One inoffensive and utterly benign woman of robust stature and sweet demeanor had been caught during a surprise sweep of Visla Maktan’s staff. She was a relatively recent hire, her orange skin and warm, yellow eyes only adding to her cheerful appearance.

  She had been working in one of the kitchens on one of the many worlds upon which Visla Maktan had a residence, helping keep things tidy, preparing staff meals, and procuring supplies from vendors.

  The visla hadn’t been to that world in ages, and there was no telling if or when he would be dropping in. His comings and goings had always been unannounced, but after the fall of Visla Ravik, they were even more so.

  And so it was that this spy passed the time, ingratiating herself to the other staff, building trust and establishing herself as an integral cog in the estate’s internal workings. This could have gone on for some time. The best of spies often spent years on assignment, worming their way into places so slowly that none ever once suspected they could be anything but what they appeared.

  Now, however, the sweet kitchen worker all had known as Zanna was beaten and chained in a dungeon, a guard keeping eyes on her at all times. That is, when she wasn’t being tortured by her captors.

  It had been a particularly specialized bit of casting that had pierced her magic during an unannounced sweep of the property’s grounds, and the Wampeh’s magical disguise had fallen in the process.

  “Ghalian!” the caster leading the sweep called out when Zanna’s orange coloring abruptly shifted back to her natural pale skin and black hair––much to the surprise of her fellow staffers.

  The guards who had been accompanying the caster quickly surrounded her, all of them training their blades and konuses on the intruder, ready to slay her if she so much as moved a muscle. Ghalian assassins were not to be trifled with, and it was only their relative distance from the target that had allowed them to survive as long as they had. Or so they believed.

  Zanna, however, was not an assassin. Her skills lay in her considerable gift for subterfuge and infiltration, not in fighting off hordes of armed guards. But escape was something spies were also trained in, and Ghalian were known to vanish into seemingly thin air from their cells when captured, leaving a great many confused guards to pay for their failure in their duties.

  This was different, however. A visla had recently been killed, and any spy was treated with a great deal more concern than in previous years. And a Ghalian? None wanted to face the wrath of their employer if one such as this escaped on their watch.

  “I will come quietly,” Zanna said, slowly raising her empty hands over her head.

  The guards led her to the estate’s dungeon, keeping their distance and having called in reinforcements.
Nearly two dozen now stood ready should she move to flee, though within the constricting environs of the subterranean corridor, to try would be utter folly.

  The time for escape would present itself, but this was definitely not it. To make such an attempt would mean certain death, and that was not what she had in mind. Not one bit.

  This particular estate was one of Visla Maktan’s smaller retreats, and as such, its dungeon facilities were quite small and lacking the myriad devices often used in prying the truth from prisoners that the larger facilities possessed. But once the head of the visla’s personal guard heard of this intruder, a specialist would be dispatched, and they would bring with them the full weight of the Council of Twenty.

  In the meantime, however, the locals would do what they could, crude as their methods may be. To pry any information out of a Ghalian would be a massive coup in their favor.

  “Who hired you, Assassin?” the captain of the guard asked.

  Zanna merely spat the blood from her mouth and smiled at him and shrugged. It was about all she could manage from her position, chained to an interrogation chair.

  “You can make this easy, or you can make it hard,” the man continued. “We have ways––”

  “Of making me talk?” the captive said with a chuckle. “I believe I have heard this speech once or twice before. I know how this works, Captain.”

  “Then you know I can make things very, very unpleasant for you.”

  “Indeed. But you should also know that I truly know nothing. I was simply hired to keep an eye on things around here, nothing more.”

  “Liar. Why would a Ghalian do this sort of job?”

  “We are not all about killing, you know. Information is an important bit of trade, after all. Your visla knows a thing or two about that, I’m sure. In fact, all of the Council have retained our services on many occasions.”

  The captain’s face remained impassive, but inside, he shuddered. The thought of these disguised killers silently lurking among the staff of other estates was terrifying.

  “I don’t believe you,” he finally replied. “But we have ways of––”

  “Yes, yes. Let’s just get on with it then, shall we?” she said with a resigned sigh.

  Zanna had been tortured before, and it was not pleasant in the least. But she had been well trained, and the Ghalian spy was more than prepared for whatever her captors had in store. And until the visla’s personal guard arrived, she would be treated with kid gloves.

  Or so she had thought.

  The caster who had been leading the search strode into the chamber and glared at the restrained woman. She could feel the relatively substantial power he possessed. An emmik, no doubt. Not as strong as a visla, but if possible, it would be nice to feed on him before making her escape.

  But that would require placing herself at a bit too much risk for her liking. Unless the opportunity presented itself, getting far away as quickly as possible would be the order of the day.

  “Who hired you?” the emmik asked as he turned his back to her and unlatched a small case on the nearby low table.

  “You know I cannot reveal that,” she replied. “But you likely also already know it is probably one of the other Council members. Such a suspicious group, always digging into one another’s affairs.”

  The emmik turned back around, and Zanna felt a sudden surge of fear in her body. On his wrist was a slaap, and a considerably powerful one at that. The magically charged tool was stronger than a konus, and entirely martial in function. Only a fool would attempt to use a slaap for torture spells. The results could be catastrophic.

  Or they could be effective at prying out even the most stubborn of secrets, though often at the cost of limbs and permanent damage to the subject. The wicked smile on the emmik’s face told her he was well aware of that fact.

  “Now, we have a few days before the visla’s man arrives to interrogate you. But I intend to get answers from you long before then.”

  The emmik flexed his power, melding it with the magic stored within the slaap, then uttered the smallest of torture spells.

  “Koxora malecti,” he said, testing out the device.

  Zanna writhed in pain, unable to contain herself.

  It was unlike a Ghalian. Their training typically allowed them to go to a safe place within themselves in these instances. But this emmik, greedy for recognition and advancement, was pushing the envelope, seemingly unaware of exactly how much damage he was truly doing. It was always a risk when the inexperienced did the torturing. But usually they were not in possession of a tool of this degree of power.

  The captive slumped in her seat, drawing in rapid breaths as she regained her bearings. She hadn’t cried out at least, of that she was proud. But this interrogation was going to be far worse than she had anticipated. And it just might kill her before she could make her escape.

  Chapter Two

  “Now, are you more in the spirit of cooperation?” the interrogator asked with a cool confidence in his voice.

  Zanna was drenched in sweat, her long dark hair plastered to her skin. Her eyes were bloodshot from the strain. Her lips chapped and cracked from the dehydration of the overwhelmingly powerful and damaging torture she had been subjected to.

  And it had only been a single day.

  She knew at this rate there was no way she would be able to withstand the barrage. Her carefully honed Ghalian mind might finally snap, and her many secrets would be theirs for the taking––provided they didn’t kill her in the process.

  It was not what she had hoped for by any stretch, but one option presented itself to her, and given the circumstances she found herself in, Zanna could think of no other alternatives.

  She drew upon what little energy she had left and raised her head to look her torturer in the eye. The emmik had done a fine job, she had to admit, and she had used up nearly all of the power stored away within herself in the process. Only the smallest bit remained. An emergency reserve Ghalian spies were trained to sequester and preserve at all costs.

  “You wish to know who hired me?” she said as her vision focused on the emmik. “To uncover the secrets of the Ghalian?”

  “You know I do. And, from what I have already shown you, I think you are now quite aware that it is only a matter of time before I succeed.”

  “Oh, you believe that, do you?” she replied, her composure returning slightly during this intermission in her torment.

  “We already know you are Ghalian, and you are obviously very well trained. But I can spare you this pain. Believe me, if you think this is bad, just imagine what Visla Maktan’s personal inquisitor will do to you.”

  She had a few ideas, and amazingly, they were better options than what this man was currently engaging in. The professionals would subject her to many types of torture, to be sure, but nothing near as permanently damaging as what this inexperienced fool had done to her.

  In his zealous haste, he had crossed a line, using incompatible forms of magic for what should be delicate and precise work. And with the visla’s men arriving in but a day, he was more than willing to continue. This was his one opportunity to show his worth and climb that ladder within the organization. Hell, he might even be promoted to the visla’s personal retinue if he pulled this off.

  Zanna had read the man, of course. Not using any magic, but simply relying on her skills of observation, as she’d done for countless years in her trade. This was a power grab, and no matter what she said, the man was blinded by visions of elevation in status and the better life that would accompany it. There was simply no way to deter him with talk.

  “You really think this is going to end well for you, don’t you?” she said as she slowly pulled her last stores of magic together, coalescing the power in a small bundle of potential waiting to be unleashed.

  “Oh, it will,” the man replied, confident in his complete domination of his prisoner. “You will tell me what I wish to know, or break in the process. I can see it in your eyes, you kno
w what I say is true.”

  Zanna shrugged. “Your technique, while extremely crude, is, admittedly, quite potent,” she noted. “And given enough time, I have little doubt that you would indeed gain from me the information you seek.”

  “As I said––”

  “But,” she continued, “you did not take one very crucial thing into consideration.”

  “And what is that?” he asked, cocky as ever, but with a slight uncertainty creeping into his voice.

  Zanna did not reply to him. She just stared, holding his gaze for several uncomfortable seconds. Finally, she flashed a little smile and spoke her final word.

  “Moragalis.”

  The lone utterance had barely passed her lips when her body suddenly thrashed once, then went still. The smile, however, remained on her lifeless lips.

  “What? But, how could she?” the emmik blurted as he raced to her side, quickly reciting every healing spell he could think of.

  None of them took hold, however, and his prisoner remained quite dead. She had killed herself rather than give up her secrets, and he was about to be in a world of shit for it. He might even learn some of Visla Maktan’s interrogator’s finest tricks, but not from the position of a bystander. It was the worst-case scenario he had not even thought to imagine.