Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Gods, but that man was a terrible liar. Fortunately, Cimak was too frightened to notice.

  “We must hasten, my lord,” said Morgant. “The emir Tanzir and his men await us below. I’m afraid we’ll have to go through the window.”

  “Just as Istarr did when the Demon Princes of old sent their dire assassins to slay him!” said Cimak, his eyes wide. He swayed a little, and would have fallen had Morgant not caught his arm.

  “Exactly like that,” said Morgant, steering the emir to the window.

  “I’ve written several epic poems upon those very events,” said Cimak, stumbling as Morgant pulled him along. Kylon embedded the grapnel into the windowsill and threw the rope out.

  “I’m sure you have,” said Morgant.

  “I shall write my own poem of these events!” said Cimak. “Five acts, with sixteen stanzas each, cast in the traditional style of the Istarish epic! I…”

  “Let’s make sure you live to write it,” said Morgant, suppressing his irritation. He only killed people who deserved it, but listening to Cimak’s poetry surely qualified. “Kyracian, help him down.”

  “So that was the real reason you wanted me along,” said Kylon.

  Morgant shrugged. “If you’d prefer, you could help the emir compose his epic.”

  Kylon sighed, got one arm around Cimak’s waist, and lifted him over the windowsill.

  ###

  The battle was over by the time Kylon and Morgant returned with Kuldan Cimak.

  Caina looked over the village square, the stench of blood and fire filling her nose. The Immortals had been in an impossible position. Dio and Shopur knew their business, and they had sealed off the square, trapping the Immortals. Shopur’s archers had scaled the rampart, pouring arrows into the Immortals. Even without hope of escape, the Immortals had put up a ferocious fight. They had killed seventeen of Dio’s men, nine of Shopur’s, and twelve of Tanzir’s before they had at last been defeated.

  Eighty dead Immortals, twenty-five dead mercenaries, twelve dead soldiers…and if the civil war did indeed begin, this was just the beginning. It was too late to turn back now. She would see this through to the end.

  No matter how bloody.

  Morgant and Kylon walked to Tanzir’s horse. Between them walked a short, pot-bellied Istarish man in a disheveled robe, his eyes bloodshot and his face unshaven. He was about Caina’s height, but he was at least fifty pounds heavier, his skin considerably darker.

  Well. If Malik Rolukhan had never seen Kuldan Cimak, Caina supposed she could impersonate him well enough.

  “My lord emir!” said Morgant, his voice ringing over the battlefield. “As commanded, we have rescued the honorable and noble emir Kuldan Cimak, and have brought him into your august presence.”

  Tanzir blinked, looked at Caina and then at Morgant, and she saw the understanding come over his face.

  “Kuldan, my friend,” said Tanzir. “I am very pleased to see you unharmed I was quite concerned for you. You are so unworldly, and you were thrust unprepared into the snake pit of our nation’s politics.”

  “I knew it had to be a plot,” said Cimak. “Just like in the ancient epics.”

  “Ah…yes,” said Tanzir. “I fear that Grand Wazir Erghulan and the Brotherhood saw you as a potential obstacle to their goals, and sent you to the Inferno to have you assassinated.”

  Cimak nodded, his bloodshot eyes wide. “I had heard rumblings of discontent in the southern emirates, but I had no idea matters had advanced so far.” He drew himself up, trying to look as dignified as a hungover man could look while wearing a disheveled night robe. “I will pledge myself to your cause, to rid Istarinmul of the tyranny of the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir!”

  “Splendid,” said Tanzir.

  “Perhaps I can compose an epic of our glorious victory to come,” said Cimak.

  Tanzir did an admirable job of concealing his flinch.

  “That would be splendid,” said Tanzir, turning to one of his officers. “Khalmir! See to it that the honorable emir is given proper accommodations.”

  Two of Tanzir’s soldiers escorted Cimak away as the emir looked around in bewilderment.

  Tanzir let out a long breath. “I suppose that went well.”

  “As well as can be expected, anyway,” said Nasser. “Dio, Shopur. You have my thanks, and you shall have the agreed sum, along with an additional death bonus for each man that you lost. Laertes will have your gold.”

  “And since you are unemployed now,” said Tanzir, “I am looking to hire good fighting men, and there are not many fighting men that can stand against Immortals.”

  Dio and Shopur both agreed, and Tanzir sent them with another of the khalmirs to sign contracts and receive payment. For a moment, Caina was alone with Tanzir, Nasser, Laertes, Kylon, and Morgant.

  “Thank you for your aid,” said Caina in a quiet voice. “This would have been harder without your help.”

  Tanzir nodded. “If you can do something to weaken Callatas and his allies, it will be worth the loss of the men. The way to the Inferno should be clear now. I will keep my men here, along with the Black Wolves and the Company of Shopur. That way if there are any spies among them, they will not reach the Inferno to warn Rolukhan before your arrival.”

  “A good plan,” said Caina.

  “I will await news of you here,” said Tanzir. “Whether success or failure.”

  “I suggest we rest here for the night,” said Nasser, “and then continue south to the Inferno in the morning. It is four days from Korundush to the Inferno, and we shall need to make preparations.”

  “Agreed,” said Caina, dropping from her saddle. Kylon had a satchel full of documents, likely Cimak’s official papers. She needed to have a look at them, and then prepare her disguise…

  She froze.

  A gleam of metal caught her eye.

  Kylon was at her side in a second. Likely he had detected the alarm flooding through her.

  “What is it?” said Kylon.

  Caina picked up the knife that had been half-hidden in the dirt of the square. It was a short, slender knife, its blade curved. The weapon was smooth and gleaming and unmarked, and looked as if it had never seen use.

  “What is that?” said Tanzir, peering at it. “What a useless knife. Too thin for battle, I think. I suppose you could use it to cut parchment or scale a very small fish.”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina, her mouth dry. “I don’t know what it is.” She looked at Nasser. “Someone is following us.”

  “If so,” said Morgant, that cold gleam in his pale eyes, “they will regret it bitterly.”

  Chapter 11: The Master Alchemist

  Four days later Caina climbed the mountain road, her gleaming leather boots clicking against the stony ground, her rich robes stirring around her in the cold wind coming from the snowy peaks overhead.

  She wore the ceremonial robes and jeweled turban of an Istarish emir, a jewel-studded scimitar and dagger at her belt, a long cloak of black hanging from her shoulders. She wore a false beard, a layer of makeup upon her face making her look older and more weathered. Hopefully the disguise would fool Rolukhan, though it made climbing the mountain road difficult.

  “This,” said Nerina, breathing a little hard, “is quite a lengthy climb. Over four thousand nine hundred and twenty-nine steps so far, and I estimate another two thousand before we are finished. Little wonder they prefer to use horses.”

  “Aye, but you have short legs,” said Morgant. “It is fewer steps for the rest of us.”

  Caina looked at the others.

  She was disguised as Kuldan Cimak, and they were disguised as the emir’s retinue. Nasser, Laertes, Morgant, and Azaces had donned the chain mail and spiked helmets of Istarish footmen. Kylon was dressed as a gladiator, with ornate leather armor and a Kyracian helmet. Often Istarish nobles included former gladiators in their retinues, to act as bodyguards and enforcers. Since Rolukhan knew Kylon on sight, Caina had insisted that he don a fake beard,
and she herself had applied the makeup to give him a fake scar and age his features. Nerina was not strong enough to bear the weight of chain mail for long. So Nerina instead was disguised as Kuldan Cimak’s mistress, with a dress and headscarf of gold and black, jewels upon her fingers and in her ears, her face shaded with makeup and blush.

  Caina had applied that, too. Nerina had never considered using makeup in her life. She looked nervous and tired, her fingers constantly plucking at her belt. Given that Malcolm might be imprisoned within the Inferno’s walls, Caina did not blame her. Additionally, the fear would enhance Nerina’s disguise, given that anyone would be nervous upon entering the Inferno.

  Caina looked back at the stone road that zigzagged its way up the side of the rocky foothills. It was in good repair, though obviously ancient, patched here and there with newer stonework. A few yards ahead rose a stone stele of about Caina’s height, its weathered surface carved with ornate hieroglyphics and diagrams. A chill went through her at the sight. The first time she had seen Maatish hieroglyphics had been upon an ancient scroll, and that scroll had led to her father’s death. The spell upon that scroll had almost killed everyone in Malarae when Maglarion used it.

  “What is that?” said Nerina.

  “A milestone, Madam Strake,” said Nasser. “Posting the distance back to the ancient city of Khaset, once the capital of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. It praises the glory of the pharaoh that first constructed the Inferno.”

  Morgant snorted. “You read ancient Maatish now, do you?”

  “No,” said Nasser, “but I know the history. In ancient days the Maatish pharaohs constructed the Inferno as one of the border fortresses of their realm. In the final days of Maat, one of the Great Necromancers ruled the Vale, a sorcerer named Kharnaces.”

  “If this Kharnaces was anything like the other Great Necromancers,” said Caina, remembering the terrible power Rhames had displayed in Caer Magia, “he would have been a terrible foe.”

  “He was worse than the usual Great Necromancers,” said Nasser. “From what the histories claim, he was brilliant, but nonetheless a madman. The other necromancer-priests of Maat named him the Great Heretic, for he spurned the worship of Anubankh and the other traditional gods of old Maat. They waged war upon him and destroyed him…and then the Bloodmaiden arose and destroyed the Kingdom of the Rising Sun in her fury.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard that story,” said Morgant, smirking at Caina.

  “Once or twice,” said Caina.

  “The Inferno was abandoned when Maat fell, and in time the Padishahs claimed it,” said Nasser. The white smile flashed in his dark face. “If we survive and return to Korundush, I’m sure the emirs would be happy to recite epic poems of the tale.”

  “And recite,” said Laertes, “and recite, and recite, and recite.”

  “You do not approve?” said Morgant.

  “Brevity is a virtue,” said Laertes. “One you would do well to cultivate.”

  “At my age it would be a crime to deny the world the benefit of my wisdom,” said Morgant.

  “Should you acquire any,” snapped Nerina, “I shall then try to divide by zero, for clearly the fundamental laws of nature shall have altered.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and Azaces moved to her side. “I apologize. I am…overwrought.”

  Caina nodded. “Just let me do the talking when we get there.” She fought off the urge to scratch her false beard. “I would tell you to pretend to be afraid, but that hardly seems necessary.”

  Nerina nodded, her eyes miserable, and Azaces hovered behind her like a guardian storm cloud.

  “What is that smell?” said Kylon, lifting his face. “It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  Caina smelled it, too, a sharp, harsh smell, like the air after a storm.

  “Hellfire,” she said. “There must be an engine for manufacturing Hellfire within the Inferno.”

  They kept climbing in silence, passing the milestone steles every so often, and a few moments later they reached the top of the hill. The air was cold and stark here, the wind whistling down from the snow-capped mountains. A pair of stone watchtowers rose nearby, and a bridge extended from the top of the hill, reaching over a deep chasm to the face of the mountain itself. A gate had been carved into the cliff face, flanked by Maatish sphinxes, sealed by massive doors of wood and steel.

  The gate to the Inferno.

  Little wondered it had never fallen to an attacking army. The defenders within the Inferno need only to seal their gates and wait for starvation and disease to take their besiegers.

  A door opened in the base of one of the watch towers, and a half-dozen Immortals came forth, grim in their black armor and skull-masked helms.

  “Here we go,” muttered Caina. “Follow my lead.”

  No one argued with her.

  She took a deep breath, squared back her shoulders, and strode towards the Immortals, her robe and black cloak billowing around her. The Immortals came to a halt, their blue-glowing eyes fixed upon her.

  “Identify yourself,” said one of the Immortals in a hollow voice, purple stripes upon his black armor making him as a khalmir.

  “You there,” said Caina, imitating Cimak’s formal Istarish as best she could. “I demand to speak with the Lieutenant of the Inferno at once.”

  “Identify yourself,” repeated the Immortal khalmir.

  “I have been set upon by bandits,” said Caina, “delayed by dust storms, and been forced to leave behind the city of Istarinmul, the shining light of civilization in the world, and instead decamped to these desolate and frozen heights. Yet all this I do willingly, nay, even joyfully, for the honor of the Most Divine Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon and the glory of the Istarish nation.”

  The Immortals stared at her as if she had grown fur.

  “Identify yourself,” said the Immortal again.

  “Do you not recognize me?” said Caina, throwing back her cloak with a dramatic gesture. “I have been dispatched from the capital to serve the Most Divine Padishah on the borders of his realm, to report to the Lieutenant of the Inferno as his loyal khalmir. Really, fellow, you ought…”

  The Immortal khalmir took a step forward, armored hand falling to the handle of his chain whip.

  “You. Will. Identify. Yourself,” grated the Immortal.

  Caina swallowed and made no effort to conceal the fear that went over her face. Many of the nobles of Istarinmul feared the Immortals, even those nobles the College had granted the honor of an Immortal bodyguard. “I am Kuldan Cimak, emir of Istarinmul, dispatched by the Padishah to serve as a khalmir under the Lieutenant of the Inferno.”

  “You will have documents,” said the Immortal. “Produce them.”

  Caina snapped her fingers. Nasser stepped forward with an elaborate bow, proffering up the satchel of documents. She drew out Cimak’s official commission as an officer of the Inferno and handed it to the Immortal. The black-armored warrior took it, unrolled the scroll, and scanned the lines of formal Istarish.

  “Can you even read, fellow?” said Caina, putting noble hauteur into her voice. “One of my men can read it to you, should it prove necessary.”

  The Immortal khalmir took the scroll. “You shall wait here.”

  “Make haste,” said Caina. “The Lieutenant will not like to be kept waiting, and nor shall I.”

  The Immortal moved away with a marked lack of urgency, and Caina settled in to wait.

  ###

  Kylon waited, going through the exercises to calm his mind and prepare himself for battle. He had learned those exercises long ago as a child to control his arcane senses, to keep the emotional auras of others from overrunning his mind, and he had found them useful to prepare himself for a fight.

  Hopefully there would not be a fight.

  Not yet, anyway.

  He felt the cold emotional sense of the Immortals. They had the same sort of ice in their minds that Caina did, but while her ice surrounded rage and passion, the ice of the
Immortals ringed a black, malignant cruelty, a love of pain and death that Kylon had rarely felt anywhere else. The Immortals were monsters. They had once been men, but something had twisted them into monsters.

  That twisting had happened within the Inferno.

  Caina paced back and forth, muttering extravagant curses in Istarish, including several words that Kylon had not yet actually learned. He was always amazed at how thoroughly Caina could transform herself. Had he actually not known her, he would have assumed that an Istarish emir stood before him, an arrogant and petulant fool of a man. Yet none of the emotions on her disguised face reflected in her aura. She was concentrating on maintaining the masquerade, accompanied by the coldness he knew meant she was preparing for action.

  He also sensed tremendous dread coming from Azaces, though the silent warrior remained impassive. Perhaps he feared that Nerina might lose her head if she saw Malcolm again, that she might panic and get them all killed.

  The massive gate to the Inferno swung open with a groaning boom, and the ozone smell of Hellfire grew stronger. A troop of Immortals marched out, their steel boots clanging against the stone bridge. At their head walked a tall, gray-bearded Istarish man in a gold-trimmed white robe and turban, a dagger in his sash. His face was proud and stern, with a crooked beak of a nose, and black eyes that flashed like chips of obsidian.

  A wave of uncontrollable hatred rolled through Kylon, and in that blazing moment he wanted nothing more than to draw his sword, summon all his power, and cut down the white-robed man. For that was Malik Rolukhan, a Master Alchemist and the Lieutenant of the Inferno. With Cassander Nilas, he had brought the Red Huntress to New Kyre, and the Red Huntress had murdered Thalastre.

  It took all of Kylon’s strength to hold still, to keep his face impassive. He might have been able to cut down Rolukhan before the Master Alchemist brought his potent sorcery to bear, but there were at least forty Immortals with him, along with however many more waited in the watch towers.

  For that matter, Kylon was not sure he could have killed Rolukhan.