Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Morgant said nothing, his expression distant.

  Nasser snapped his fingers. “Morgant? This is hardly the time to let your attention wander.”

  Morgant blinked several times and shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” said Caina. “If you have the slightest suspicion of anything, tell us now. A single mistake here could be fatal.”

  “I’m remembering,” said Morgant.

  “Remembering what?” said Kylon.

  “My last visit here,” said Morgant. “When Annarah hid herself away in this damned hole.” He rubbed his forehead for a moment. “She took parts of my memory, made sure I couldn’t remember where she had hidden the Staff and the Seal. I also lost some of my memories of the Inferno in the process.” He scowled. “The Halls, the Halls of the Dead, everything Rolukhan told us, all of it…I used to know that. But I lost it.”

  “And now it’s coming back?” said Caina.

  “Yes,” said Morgant. “Parts, anyway.”

  “Perhaps you’ll remember something useful,” said Kylon.

  “I’ve forgotten more useful things that you’ll ever know, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “And as it happens, I do remember something useful. I know how we can get to the Hall of Torments without fighting our way through a hundred Immortals.”

  “Just how shall we do that?” said Nasser.

  For once, Morgant did not smirk. “By crossing through the Halls of the Dead.”

  “That is madness,” said Nasser. “There must be hundreds of undead down there.”

  “Thousands,” murmured Caina. The others looked at her. “The aura…the necromantic aura is easily powerful enough to sustain thousands. If the Lieutenants of the Inferno have been dumping corpses down there for centuries…”

  “Would it be possible to sneak past them?” said Kylon.

  Nasser shook his head. “From what I understand, undead creatures of the sort the Maatish created do not perceive the physical world in the same way that we do. Ciaran has a Ghost shadow-cloak, and that would allow him to get past. But the rest of us? The undead would perceive the heat of our living flesh, the beat of our hearts, the energy of our lives. It would be like throwing a bleeding man into a pack of sharks.”

  “I know it can be done,” said Morgant.

  “How?” said Nasser.

  Morgant pointed at Caina’s wrist. “With Annarah’s pyrikon.”

  Caina pulled back the ornamented sleeve of her robe. The bronze bracelet rested against her wrist, intricate and delicate. It gave off a constant low-level aura of sorcerous power, and she had almost forgotten it was there. Yet the thing had more power than it displayed, and it seemed to have a will of its own. It had protected Caina from the sword of the nagataaru that Kalgri wielded, the blade of shadow and purple flame that could cut through anything, and it had kept the Sifter from possessing Caina.

  Could it also shield her from the undead?

  “It might just protect me,” said Caina. “What about the rest of you?”

  “It didn’t just protect Annarah,” said Morgant. “It protected both of us.” He scowled and rubbed his temple, his annoyance and frustration plain. “She shifted it to the form of a staff, and it gave off white light. The undead surrounded us, but they would not step into the light.”

  Caina looked at Nasser. “What do you think?”

  “It makes sense,” said Nasser. “The loremasters of Iramis had powerful wards to protect against necromancy and the malevolent spirits of the netherworld.”

  “How will we even reach the Halls of the Dead?” said Kylon. “It will look suspicious if we simply walk into them.”

  “Ah,” said Morgant. “That’s the entire point. Most of the Halls have stairwells that directly link to the Halls of the Dead.” He pointed. “Including to this little apartment. That door in the anteroom?” Caina nodded. “The stairs within descend to the Halls of the Dead.”

  “Then we can cut through them and climb to the Hall of Torments?” said Kylon.

  “Not quite,” said Morgant. “The Hall of Torments does not connect to the Halls of the Dead. I don’t know why. I think Hall of Torments was originally the...throne room, I expect, of Kharnaces. Probably didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind him.” He shook his head. “But the Hall of Forges connects to the Hall of Torments. We can cross through the Halls of the Dead to the Hall of Forges, and then enter the Hall of Torments.”

  “If we enter the Hall of Forges,” said Nerina, Azaces standing grim and motionless behind her, “I can look for Malcolm. The balance of probability is that the forge slaves keep their quarters in the Hall of Forges.”

  “No,” said Morgant. “Absolutely not. We must pass through the Hall of Forges as quickly as possible. There are hundreds of slaves there. We wake them up, we’ll have a riot on our hands. Then the Immortals will get involved, and we will be killed.”

  “I have to look,” said Nerina. “I have to know if Malcolm is here.”

  Morgant scoffed. “And you’ll get us killed for nothing. Maybe you and Malcolm can die in each other’s arms? Wouldn’t that be romantic? Maybe that idiot Cimak can make a poem of it.” He leveled a finger at Nerina. “I will not risk breaking my word in order to find your husband.”

  Nerina trembled, her mouth pressing into a tight line, and Azaces took a menacing step closer to Morgant.

  “Perhaps after we retrieve Annarah from the netherworld,” said Nasser, “we can return to the Hall of Forges and…”

  “No,” said Caina. “We’ll look for Malcolm as we pass through the Hall of Forges.”

  “That is folly,” said Morgant.

  “As much as it pains me to agree with Morgant,” said Nasser, “he has a point. We…”

  “No,” said Caina. “Morgant might keep his word, but I also keep mine. We will look for Malcolm in the Hall of Forges, and we’ll do it quietly.” Both Morgant and Nasser started to protest, but Caina pointed at them. “You need my help to do this. You’re not getting through the Halls of the Dead without Annarah’s pyrikon, and the pyrikon listens to me.”

  “Perhaps you should heed Ciaran’s counsel,” said Kylon. “How long have both of you spent fighting Callatas? A century and a half? You would not have gotten this far without Ciaran’s help.”

  Caina wanted to give him a grateful look, but she kept her eyes on Morgant and Nasser.

  “Folly and madness,” said Morgant.

  “As compared to walking into the Inferno?” said Caina.

  “Fine,” said Morgant. “We shall do it your way, Balarigar. But if we fail and get ourselves killed, I hope that the satisfaction of your righteousness is consolation enough.”

  “Let’s not find out,” said Caina. “Once we get to the Hall of Torments, how do we open the gate to Annarah’s sanctuary?”

  “The pyrikon will do it once you’re close enough,” said Morgant. “The gate is on the dais against the back wall of the Hall of Torments. Draw close enough, and the pyrikon will open the gate. Then we can pass through and rescue Annarah.”

  “And hopefully get the hell out of here with all speed,” said Laertes.

  “How long will it take to pass through the Halls of the Dead?” said Caina.

  “An hour, likely,” said Morgant. “Unless we stop to look at something unusual.” He grinned at Nerina. “Like, say, if your husband was thrown into the Halls of the Dead and now walks them for eternity.”

  “No,” said Nerina. “No, he is too skilled. They would not kill him for…”

  “Did you not just meet Rolukhan?” said Morgant. “Did you not hear the things he threatened to do to you? Can you imagine that he would not hesitate to kill Malcolm for the slightest…”

  “Morgant, shut up,” said Caina. “You wanted my help, and you’ll get it, but if you didn’t want to do this my way, then you should have come here alone. Let’s go.” She looked at Nerina. “Get changed into trousers. You can’t run in that dress, and we might need to run before this is done.” Kylon removed his pack and
handed it to Caina. “Thank you. The rest of you, get ready.”

  Caina did not wait for an answer, but walked to the bedroom and closed the door. She stripped out of the robe and donned clothes from the pack, the clothes she wore as a Ghost nightfighter. Black trousers, black boots, black gloves, a black jacket lined with thin steel plates to deflect knives. A black mask covered her head, concealing everything but her eyes. A belt with knives and other useful tools went around her waist, and she hid more throwing knives up her sleeves and tucked daggers into her boots. Her ghostsilver dagger went in a sheath at her belt.

  She pulled out a long, black-wrapped bundle from the pack and opened it. The bundle contained two things. The first was a leather pouch lined with lead foil. It held three of crystalline vials of Elixir Restorata that she had stolen from Grand Master Callatas’s library, Elixirs that could heal any wounds.

  Caina hoped she would not need them. Not that she could use them herself. The same old wounds that let her sense sorcery also caused the Elixir to become dangerously, explosively unstable when it touched her. If she ingested it, the resultant explosion would be impressive.

  The second thing was the valikon. The sword was wrought of ghostsilver, and wound with spells that made it lethal to the nagataaru. If necessary, they could use it to kill Rolukhan and his nagataaru with one stroke, though Caina hoped to escape the Inferno without fighting anyone. She had promised Kylon to help kill Rolukhan and avenge his wife, though the interior of the Inferno, the heart of Rolukhan’s power, was certainly not the place to do that.

  Both the valikon and the pouch of Elixir had been wrapped in her shadow-cloak, and Caina slung it around her shoulders. She didn’t know if Rolukhan or his nagataaru would have been able to sense the weapon or the Elixir, but best not to take chances.

  Caina took the valikon, crossed the dining room, and returned to the anteroom. Nerina had changed to trousers and leather armor, her crossbow and a quiver of quarrels slung over her back. Azaces waited next to her, his expression grimmer than usual, his face drawn and tight beneath its scars.

  “Here,” said Caina, handing Kylon the sheathed valikon. “Maybe you’ll have the chance to use this.”

  Kylon nodded and hooked the valikon to his baldric, the hilt rising over his shoulder.

  “Try not to get yourself mortally wounded this time,” said Morgant.

  “It’s not an experience I’m keen to repeat,” said Kylon.

  “No,” said Morgant, opening the door in the wall. Beyond yawned a dark archway, spiral stairs descending into the earth. A cold breeze blew out of the stairs, the air musty and carrying a faint scent of crumbling bone and mummified flesh.

  Rhames had smelled much the same way.

  “Well,” said Laertes. “Here we go again.”

  “It can’t be any worse than the time we went to the netherworld,” said Nasser.

  Kylon looked at him. “You went to the netherworld?”

  “While escaping from Grand Master Callatas’s palace,” said Caina. “I wouldn’t recommend it.” She took a deep breath, the musty smell flooding her nostrils. “Let’s have some light.”

  She held out her left hand and focused upon the pyrikon, asking it to take the form of a staff. The bracelet unwound and expanded, lengthening until it became a staff, white light shining from the end.

  “Yes,” said Morgant. “That’s how the pyrikon looked the first time.”

  “Let’s hope it knows what we need,” said Caina.

  “I’ll go first,” said Kylon.

  “No,” said Caina. “If the light repels the undead, I should go first.”

  “If it doesn’t,” said Kylon, “you’ll need help.”

  Caina hesitated, nodded. “Aye.”

  She took another deep breath, regretted it again, and started down the stairs.

  ###

  Silence reigned in the Halls of the Dead.

  Kylon walked alongside Caina, the valikon in his right hand. The sigils upon the sword’s blade remained dark. As far as he knew, the sword’s symbols only burned with white fire in the presence of spirits. He hoped the weapon would prove effective against the undead.

  Because he was certain that they would encounter the undead sooner or later.

  The air around him crawled and throbbed with the cold, corrupting presence of necromantic power. He sensed the power radiating from the stone beneath his boots. It tainted the air like poisoned smoke.

  That reminded him of Caer Magia.

  “A bloodcrystal, do you think?” said Kylon in a quiet voice.

  “Probably,” said Caina, the pyrikon staff in her left hand, the white glow throwing back the darkness. The staff’s light revealed the high, wide corridor rising around them, the walls carved with row after row of hieroglyphics. Kylon idly wondered what they said, and decided he was better off not knowing.

  “An Ascendant Bloodcrystal?” said Kylon.

  “No,” said Caina. “If there was an Ascendant Bloodcrystal down here, it would have killed us already.” She shook her head. With the mask and the shadow-cloak, he could not see her expression or detect her emotions, but he knew her well enough to hear the strain in her cold voice. “And it doesn’t feel like an Ascendant Bloodcrystal. Something else, I think. I don’t know. Let’s not find out.”

  “Agreed,” said Kylon.

  “How much farther?” said Caina.

  “Not far,” said Morgant. “Three more galleries like this, I think. Then the stairs to the Hall of Forges.”

  “We have not seen any undead yet,” said Laertes. He had his broadsword in hand and his Legion shield upon his arm, his eyes roving over the shadows.

  “Oh, we will,” said Morgant. “Sooner than we might like. You’ve seen battlefields before?”

  “More than I can recall,” said Laertes. “I was a centurion of the Legion.”

  “Ever seen a battlefield where the corpses rise again?” said Morgant.

  “I have missed that privilege,” said Laertes.

  “We’re about to rectify that,” said Morgant.

  Something rattled in the gloom ahead.

  “What was that?” said Nasser.

  “It sounded like bones tapping together,” said Nerina.

  “Exactly,” said Morgant.

  The gallery ended in archway and then opened into a large hall, much like the massive halls Kylon had seen branching off the Hall of Flames above. Dust coated the floor, and cobwebs hung from the carved walls and ceiling.

  Hundreds of corpses walked with slow, limping treads within the hall.

  Many of them were withered and mummified, leathery flesh clinging to ancient bone. Some of had crumbled to skeletons, their bones held together by glowing wisps of necromantic force. The empty eye sockets of the corpses glowed with the same eerie green light, and as Kylon looked at them he saw ghostly images superimposed over the undead flesh, images of living men and women and children.

  Images, he realized, of the living men and women and children that the undead had been in life.

  As one, every single one of the hundreds of undead filling the hall turned to look at them, a chorus of moans and hisses and maddened words in a dozen different languages filling the air.

  “There are hundreds of them,” said Laertes.

  “One thousand four hundred ninety-seven, to be precise,” said Nerina, her voice quavering.

  The undead surged forward in a wave of leathery flesh and crumbling bone, skeletal toes tapping against the floor, the green light flaring and pulsing.

  “Stay where you are, all of you,” said Caina. “Stay where you are!” She leveled the pyrikon staff, the pale white light shining around them in a dome. “We’ll see if Morgant was right or not.”

  No one said anything to that. Kylon took the valikon in both hands, bracing himself. Every instinct screamed for him to attack, or to move to a more defensible position, but he dared not. The undead charged forward, raising hands hooked into claws…

  And then they came to
a sudden stop, slamming into the pale white glow as if it had been a solid wall of iron.

  A hiss of fury went up from the undead, a cold wind blowing around Kylon. The undead spread around them in a ring, but the white glow from the pyrikon stopped them.

  “Well, assassin,” said Laertes. “Seems your memory held after all.”

  “Good thing,” said Morgant.

  “Ciaran,” said Nasser. “See if you can move forward. The rest of you, stay within the light.”

  Caina took a step forward, and then another. The undead retreated before the staff’s glow, flinching away from the light. Two more steps, and the undead backed away, the cold wind snapping at her shadow-cloak.

  “It’s working,” said Nasser.

  “All right,” said Caina. “Everyone stay with me. We’ll do this slowly. One step at a time.”

  She took another step forward, and the wind gusted, throwing back the cowl of her shadow-cloak. Suddenly Kylon felt her emotional sense again, a mixture of cold determination and stark terror.

  And as it did, a ripple of shock rose from the undead. They quailed back, every single one of the creatures staring at her.

  “It is her,” hissed one of the creatures, speaking Istarish with a peculiar accent. The creature had neither lips nor tongue, but Kylon heard its words nonetheless. “It is her. She has come at last!”

  “Her?” said Nasser, giving Caina a puzzled look. “They have mistaken you for a woman?”

  Caina shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I can see you!” growled another corpse. “I can see your aura, I can see your shadow. I see the marks upon you. You are her. You are her!”

  A dark realization bubbled up in Caina’s aura. “I think…”

  “You are the Destroyer,” said a withered corpse.

  “The abomination,” said another.

  “The liberator,” said a third.

  “The breaker of chains.”

  “The Bloodmaiden.”

  “The Bringer of Dust.”

  "The Herald of Ruin!"

  The titles rose around them, whispered and shrieked and snarled.

  “Oh,” said Caina.