Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “What is it?” said Nasser.

  “They think that I’m the Moroaica,” said Caina.

  “The Moroaica?” said Laertes. “That’s a Szaldic myth. A legend.”

  “No, she is real,” said Caina, her aura churning with memory and dark emotion. “Or was real, as it happens.”

  “They think you’re the Moroaica?” said Morgant. “Now why would they think something like that?”

  “Because,” said Caina. “I was possessed by the Moroaica’s spirit for about a year.”

  “Truly?” said Nasser.

  “Truly,” said Caina. “I think it…left a mark, one that they can see.”

  The undead backed away, all of them still staring at Caina.

  “Come on,” she said. “If they’re afraid of me, then we can get out of here all the faster.”

  Caina led the way, holding the pyrikon staff, and the undead retreated before the light in her hand, still whispering the names the Moroaica had accumulated over the millennia. Her emotions churned with dread and loathing, but she kept walking, the staff raised.

  The undead parted, and they entered another hall, its lofty ceiling supported by dozens of thick pillars. It created the illusion of walking through a stone forest, albeit a forest whose trunks had been carved with Maatish hieroglyphics. Niches lined the distant walls of the hall, and in those niches rested treasures. Helmets and swords and armbands of gold, some of them adorned with jewels of multiple colors. All of them radiated arcane auras, some of them necromantic.

  “This must have been Kharnaces’s treasury,” said Nasser. “Or armory, perhaps.”

  “Maybe,” said Morgant, something strange entering his emotional sense. “Not that it matters now. I think…”

  He froze, staring at the wall.

  ###

  “Morgant?” said Caina. “Keep moving.”

  There was a note of absolute command in her voice. It was impressive, really. At some point she had enjoyed lessons from a capable teacher. Certainly she had fooled Nasser into thinking that she was a man, even with the evidence right in front of his eyes.

  Morgant didn’t care.

  Right now, right before his eyes, resting in a niche in the far wall, was the torque that the Knight of Wind and Air had told him about.

  The torque that could save the world.

  Or kill it, if he left the torque behind.

  The torque looked exactly as the Knight had described it. An armband of gold, its sides scribed with Maatish hieroglyphics, a jade scarab adoring its center. It looked valuable, certainly, and if the gold were melted down and sold, it could likely feed a large family for a few years or so.

  But to keep the world from dying? That seemed unlikely.

  “Morgant?” said Caina again.

  For all that, the Knight had never lied to him. The Knight of Wind and Air enjoyed speaking in allusions and riddles and metaphors, as did all the djinn of the Azure Court. Yet the Knight had never told him a lie, and the djinni had said it plainly and simply.

  If Morgant took the torque, the world would live.

  If Morgant left the torque here in the darkness, the world was going to die.

  As it perhaps deserved to die.

  Did the world deserve to die?

  “That torque,” Morgant heard himself say. “What sort of spell do you sense around it?”

  Caina shrugged. “A powerful one. A…warding spell, I think? I’m not sure. I’ve never sensed one quite like it before. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth stopping.”

  “No,” said Morgant. “I suppose not.”

  If he left the torque behind, he was going to kill the world…and that was not an entirely disagreeable thought. For did not the world deserve death? He had seen so many tyrants over the centuries, so many men and women like Callatas who matched the Grand Master in cruelty if not power. So many murderers and thieves and slavers and liars who had succeeded in their crimes, who had died rich and fat and happy in their beds, escaping any punishment for their misdeeds. He supposed Caina would say that the common people were more virtuous, but Morgant knew that was nonsense. A poor man could be just as cruel and greedy as a rich one, and the only thing that kept a beggar from wreaking the havoc of someone like Callatas was simple lack of opportunity.

  Nothing would ever change. Even if Caina fulfilled her little crusade and killed Callatas and stopped his Apotheosis, some new tyrant would arise. It was the nature of man. Those who overthrew tyrants became tyrants in turn themselves, and men killed and enslaved each other simply because they could. The world was a kind of hell, and mortal men and women were the devils who made it so.

  It did deserve to die.

  “No,” said Morgant. “You’re right. It’s not worth the trouble at all.”

  He started to turn and stopped.

  The world deserved to die…but what if it died before he kept his word to Annarah?

  He had not considered that possibility.

  The world was a misery and humanity a cancer upon it. Both deserved to perish, yet that did not matter. Morgant would keep his word. No matter what he had to do, he would keep his word.

  “Oh, to hell with it,” he muttered, raising his crimson scimitar and black dagger. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Morgant!” said Caina. Her voice did get higher when she was angry. Morgant wondered how long it would take for Nasser to figure out the reason for that. “Get back…”

  He stepped out of the light and sprinted towards the niche.

  At once the nearest undead turned towards him, reaching for him with skeletal hands. Undoubtedly the undead creatures were used to attacking unarmed, terrified slaves, not a man carrying two blades bearing spells of surpassing power. Morgant spun, hacking the hands from the nearest undead. The creature fell back with a shriek, and Morgant charged into their midst, slashing and spinning and sprinting.

  He reached the wall, snatched the torque from its niche, and kept running. The gold torque seemed to vibrate beneath his fingers, the metal strangely cold. He took the head from a withered corpse, tore his dagger through the chest of another undead, and stabbed at a third. The undead started to circle around him, and he feinted left, went right, and rolled across the ground.

  The undead surged after him, and then recoiled as Morgant rolled into the dome of light shining from the pyrikon.

  He grunted, got to his feet, and brushed off his coat.

  The others stared at him in astonishment.

  “Why did you do that?” said Caina.

  “Looks pretty,” said Morgant, raising the torque. “Doesn’t it?”

  Nerina scowled. “You complained that I wanted to rescue my husband, and you risked your life to steal a stupid torque? You are a…a…” She shook her head in fury. “An unbalanced equation!”

  “Probably,” said Morgant.

  “Why did you do that?” said Caina.

  “I think I might need it later,” said Morgant.

  “What does it do?” said Caina.

  “Damned if I know,” said Morgant. He shook the torque at Kylon. “You’re the closest thing we have to a sorcerer among us, Kyracian. Figure out what it does.”

  Kylon’s eyes narrowed, but he ran a hand along the torque. “Ciaran was right. It’s a kind of…warding spell, I think. Not harmful. If it had been a necromantic spell, it would have withered you to ash when you touched it.”

  “And wouldn’t that have been unfortunate,” murmured Nasser.

  “A ward?” said Caina. “What does it ward against?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Kylon. “Whenever I try to sense deeper into the torque, it siphons away my power. I think…I think it was designed to defend against arcane attack. A shield against spells.”

  “Could be useful,” said Caina. “Why risk your life to get it, though? It might stop Rolukhan’s spells, but it won’t keep the Immortals from killing us.”

  Morgant shrugged. “A mutual friend suggested I claim it.” He grinned. “A wind
y knight, let’s say.”

  He had the distinct satisfaction of seeing surprise go across her face.

  “Might we discuss the matter when we are not surrounded by one thousand four hundred eighty-two animated corpses that wish to kill us?” said Nerina.

  “Sound counsel,” said Laertes.

  Caina stared at Morgant, and he could guess her thoughts. She was wondering if he planned to betray her somehow. She was wondering if she ought to ask Nasser and Kylon to kill him. Actually, she wouldn’t need to bother with anything so crude. She would need only to pull back the staff a few inches, and the undead would tear him apart.

  “Fine,” said Caina. “We’ll discuss this more later, if we live through this.”

  “Why, I look forward to it,” said Morgant.

  Chapter 13: A Man Who Should Be Dead

  “There,” said Caina, finding the hidden catch.

  The stone door slid open without a sound.

  A blast of heat struck her face, and dull yellow-orange light washed over her eyes. Caina blinked until she could see again, shaking her head to clear it. She had restored the pyrikon to its bracelet form as soon as they cleared the Halls of the Dead, fearing that the light from the staff might leak through the door. Fortunately, it seemed that fear had been unfounded. The door to the Hall of Forges opened into a row of wooden carts. Black coal dust coated the carts, and most of them were missing wheels or cracks. Likely the enslaved blacksmiths put the broken carts here and repaired them later.

  “The Hall of Forges,” said Morgant, stepping past one of the carts and looking around. Beyond him Caina saw the shimmering yellow-orange glow of a dozen forges and a half-dozen blast furnaces.

  “They burn the forges all night?” said Caina.

  “Not completely,” said Laertes. He pointed. “Likely they banked the fires for the night, and will work them back to full strength tomorrow morning.” He shrugged. “I am sure that Rolukhan would run the forges day and night if he had the men to do so, but skilled smiths are simply not that common.” He shook his head. “And if he is wasteful enough to execute his men for simple mistakes, his difficulties are his own fault.”

  Caina glanced back at Nerina, saw her swallow.

  “The Hall of Torments would be that way,” said Morgant, pointing at the far wall. Past the forges and the brick domes of the blast furnaces, another archway opened in the dim light.

  She nodded. “After we check the slave quarters.” Morgant grimaced, but nodded. “Where would the forge slaves sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” said Morgant.

  “Oh, indeed?” said Caina.

  “I haven’t been here for a hundred and fifty years,” said Morgant. “How the devil should I know where the slaves sleep?” He squinted into the gloom. “But if you are insistent upon this folly…there, I suspect. That barracks in the corner.”

  A wooden barracks had been constructed in the corner of the vast Hall, large enough to house fifty or sixty men. She wondered why Rolukhan would have gone to the trouble of constructing it, and then saw the thick doors and narrow windows. Likely the men needed someplace to sleep where they would not choke on cinders or asphyxiate in the smoke rising from the fires.

  Two Immortals stood guard before the door, silent and as motionless as statues of black steel.

  “Can you take them quietly?” said Caina.

  “Probably,” said Morgant. “The horns might prove a problem, though.” Each Immortal carried a war horn at his belt. No doubt in the event of trouble the Immortals would sound the horn and summon reinforcements.

  “Fine,” said Caina. “Kylon, with me. We’ll draw off one and kill him. Morgant, you kill whichever one remains behind. The rest of you, meet us at the door to the barracks once we’ve dealt with the Immortals.”

  “What about the bodies?” said Morgant. “There is bound to be a search once those two go missing.”

  “We’ll conceal the bodies in the broken carts,” said Caina. “The guard shift will not change until morning. Hopefully we will be long gone by then. If not, if we are discovered, we can retreat to the Halls of the Dead. Not even Rolukhan will be able to follow us there so long as we have the pyrikon.”

  Morgant nodded and started forward, moving with utter silence, and Caina took a broken axle from one of the carts and gestured to Kylon, who followed her. They made for the wall of the barracks, the guttering light from the forges and the furnaces painting everything with a hellish glow. She pressed herself against the barracks wall. Kylon followed suit, and she leaned close and whispered in his ear.

  “Be ready,” she hissed. A part of her mind noted how much she would enjoy standing so close to Kylon in different circumstances. The rest of her mind focused on the grim business of survival. “I’ll draw him around the corner. Strike as soon as he is in sight. As quietly as you can.”

  Kylon nodded and drew a dagger, pale white mist swirling around the blade.

  Caina took the broken axle and threw it. The axle landed just at the corner with a loud clang. Kylon glided forward, the valikon in his right hand, the mist-wreathed dagger in his left. A moment later one of the Immortals came around the corner, and Kylon flung the dagger. The blade shattered against the Immortal’s skull-masked helmet, filling the eye holes with ice, frost sheeting over his head and shoulders and arms. The Immortal staggered, the ice muffling his groan, and Kylon struck with superhuman speed, the valikon darting out. He stabbed once, twice, three times, and the Immortal started to fall. Caina darted to his side and caught the dying Immortal, lowering him to the ground without making a noise.

  She straightened up and hurried around the corner only to find that Morgant had already dealt with the remaining Immortal. The black-armored warrior lay sprawled on the barracks’ stairs, the white-hot edges of the gash Morgant’s black dagger had carved through his cuirass already cooling.

  “Ah,” muttered Morgant as the others hurried over. “Took you long enough.”

  “I suggest we in fact conceal the bodies in the stairwell to the Halls of the Dead,” said Nasser, grabbing one end of the nearest dead Immortal, while Laertes took the other. Kylon and Azaces grabbed the second Immortal. “I doubt the stairs are used at all, and it will take longer to find the Immortals once their absence is noticed.”

  “Do it,” said Caina. “Nerina, Morgant, with me. We’ll check for Malcolm.” Morgant scowled but did not say anything, and Caina pointed at Nerina. “Be quiet about it. Let me do the talking, if necessary.”

  Nerina opened her mouth, closed it, and then nodded.

  “And just what will the black-cloaked shadow say to put their fears to rest?” said Morgant.

  “I’ll think of something,” said Caina. The barracks door was locked. No doubt the Immortals locked the slaves in for the night. Caina considered having Morgant cut through it, decided that would be too conspicuous if the alarm was raised, and instead drew a lockpick from her belt. The lock was massive but simple, and she had it released in short order. The heavy door swung open, and Caina stepped into the barracks.

  She expected to find herself in a large hall lined with bunk beds, slaves sleeping beneath thin blankets. Instead she entered a small wooden anteroom. Another locked door stood in the far wall. Massive slates hung from two of the other walls, covered in intricate chalk drawings of armor and helmets. Before the slate on the left stood a short, broad-shouldered man in a ragged, soot-stained tunic and trousers, thick sandals covering his feet. He had a shock of brown hair and a tangled beard, both of which had premature gray streaks, and deep gray eyes under a heavy forehead. He turned as they approached, his frown deepening.

  “Who are you?” he said to Morgant. He had a harsh voice and a thick Caerish accent, much like Morgant’s own. “You are too old and frail to be of much use here.” He scowled at Caina. “And who the bloody hell are you supposed to be? If this is an attempt at a joke you must know that I do not actually have a sense of humor.”

  Nerina had gone white as sheet, her hands
to her mouth.

  “And you,” said the man, looking at Nerina, “you…you are…”

  “Malcolm,” whispered Nerina.

  The bearded man’s jaw fell open, his bloodshot eyes widening.

  “My wife,” he croaked.

  Nerina sprinted across the anteroom and flung herself into his arms. She was not large, and Malcolm did not even sway a little from the impact.

  “I knew it,” said Nerina, “I knew it was you in the Old Bazaar, I didn’t hallucinate it, I didn’t…”

  “I thought I heard you there,” said Malcolm. “But how are you here?” He scowled. “Has your rogue of a father sold you into slavery as well?”

  “He has been dead, Malcolm, for years,” said Nerina. “We’ve come to rescue you.”

  “Among other things,” said Morgant.

  “Who are these men?” said Malcolm.

  “The Balarigar and Morgant the Razor,” said Nerina.

  “That is highly implausible,” said Malcolm.

  Nerina sniffled and rubbed at her eyes. “They are mathematically implausible sort of people.”

  “We have to go, now,” said Caina. “No questions. If you want to stay with your wife, if you want to get out of the Inferno, stop talking and follow me right now.”

  “But the others,” said Malcolm. “I cannot leave my men here.”

  “Your men?” said Caina.

  “The other forge workers and blacksmiths,” said Malcolm. “The Lieutenant put me in charge of them, for I am the most competent, and I have been able to organize them well enough that we make our quotas without working ourselves to death. I cannot abandon them.”

  “I knew it,” said Morgant. “I knew it.” He pointed at Caina. “I knew you would get sucked into some useless crusade to save slaves or children or something. You forget our purpose. We came here to rescue Annarah, not to save random blacksmiths.”

  Malcolm scowled. “By what right do you get to decide who lives and who dies, old man?”

  Morgant gestured with his weapons. “These help.”

  Malcolm’s scowl deepened, and he took a step towards Morgant, Nerina grabbing uselessly at his thick, muscled arm.