Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (12 page)

Instead he turned his head.

Annarah stood a few yards away, her white robes a brilliant flare against the shadowed world around him. She was a tall woman, and though she was young her hair was the color of platinum, stark against her dark skin. In her right hand she held a shaft of bronze-colored metal as tall as she was, her pyrikon in staff form. 

Her eyes should have been black.

Instead they burned with smokeless flame. 

“The Knight of Wind and Air,” said Morgant. For some reason the djinni preferred to appear to him in the form of Annarah herself. Why, Morgant had never understood. Some obscure joke, no doubt.

“Morgant the Razor,” said the Knight of Wind and Air with Annarah’s voice, the words heavy with sardonic mockery. Annarah had never spoken like that. She had been gentle almost to the point of ineffective diffidence. “I see you still haven’t managed to answer your question.”

“And what question is that?” said Morgant.

“Does the world deserve to die?” said the Knight. “Two hundred years of life across a dozen different nations, Morgant the Razor, and you still don’t know the answer to that question.” Annarah’s face twisted into a mocking smile, the light of the smokeless flame playing across her face. “If I took a weapon of fell power, a thunderbolt that could burn every city in the world in a single instant, if I took that weapon and placed it in your hand…I do not know if you would use it. I do not think that you know if you would use it or not.”

“So does the world deserve to die?” said Morgant. “Answer me that.” The question fluttered at the edges of his mind. He didn’t know. On some level he didn’t care. He had seen so much death and suffering that it no longer meant anything to him. Yet it still repulsed some part of him. Perhaps the world did deserve to burn.

He had asked that question to Annarah, he knew. She had given him an answer…and he had forgotten it. More precisely, she had taken it when she had modified his memory to keep him from remembering the location of the Staff and the Seal. Perhaps she had done that on purpose, to make sure that he would come back to rescue her. 

“Why do you ask me?” said the Knight. “It is not my world, is it? It’s yours. And hers.” The staff pointed at Caina, still frozen in the moment. “Tell me. Does she wish for the world to die?”

“You could ask her,” said Morgant.

“I have,” said the Knight of Wind and Air. “She may well be the one I have sought ever since Callatas stole the Star. But your answer also interests me.”

“Is immortality truly so boring?” said Morgant. 

“Not in the least,” said the Knight. “I have my purpose, and I have followed my purpose since before you were born, before your world congealed out of the dust of the cosmos. You have your purpose, do you not? Your two rules. You do not kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it, and you keep your word. Tell me, then. What would Caina Amalas say? How would she answer the question? Does the world deserve to die?” 

Morgant snorted. “I did ask her. She told me some nonsense about the innocent and children. As if anyone is innocent. Children are only the seeds of future villains. I suppose if I asked her now she would say the same thing, but she would be looking at the Kyracian as she said it and thinking about luring him into her bed.”

The Knight raised one of Annarah’s eyebrows. “Indeed. Is that jealousy?” 

“No,” said Morgant. “She will lead the Kyracian to his death. Or she’ll die trying to save him. I have my word to keep. The children can play games with each other.” 

“An interesting answer,” said the Knight of Wind and Air. “What if I told you that the power to kill the world shall soon come to your hands?”

“Then I would assume that you are drunk,” said Morgant.

“I am an immaterial spirit,” said the Knight. “I require neither food nor drink for my sustenance.”

Morgant waved a hand. “Or you’re…whatever the equivalent of drunkenness is in a spirit.” 

“No,” said the Knight. “Very soon now, you will have the chance to kill the world. If you wish it.”

“And just how shall I accomplish such a feat?” said Morgant. 

“You will have a choice,” said the Knight.

“I suppose you will not be any more specific,” said Morgant.

“I shall be very specific,” said the Knight, the smokeless fire in Annarah’s eyes flashing brighter. “Soon you shall find a relic of sorcery. A torque wrought of gold, marked with hieroglyphics, a scarab carved of green jade at its center.”

“This relic,” said Morgant. “Let me guess. It is some dire weapon of ancient Maatish sorcery that will destroy the world if used.”

“Not at all,” said the Knight. “It is, in fact, reasonably harmless. But a tremendous fate lies upon it and you.”

Morgant laughed. “Yes, a sorcerous relic of doom. How terribly likely. If I repent of my sins and swear to be good and kind forevermore, will I avert the dreadful fate that awaits us all…” 

“No,” said the Knight, and there was a note of iron in Annarah’s voice that had not been there before. “Hear me well, Morgant the Razor. Time is a tapestry and destiny is a thread, and your thread is about to cross the paths of many others. Soon you shall have a choice about what path you will walk for the remainder of your days.”

“And what path is that?” said Morgant.

“When you find the torque, if you take it with you, your fate is uncertain,” said the Knight. “That is one choice. There is a second. When you find the torque, you can leave it behind. And if you do…you will kill the world.”

“By leaving a torque behind?” said Morgant, letting scorn fill his voice.

Yet the burning stare filled him with doubt. 

“Yes,” said the Knight. “Do you doubt me? You should not. For I am the Knight of Wind and Air of the Court of the Azure Sovereign, and the djinn of the Court do not perceive time as mortals do. The choice is yours, Razor. Take the torque and you may save the world. Leave it behind, and you will kill the world.”

Morgant let out an exasperated sigh and opened his mouth to answer.

The world around him erupted into motion and color once more as Annarah disappeared. The vision or hallucination or whatever the hell it was had ended. Morgant sighed, shook his head, and adjusted the reins. The damned djinn had been playing games with him for years. A century and a half ago, he had saved a djinni bound to an Anshani occultist, and in exchange the djinni had granted him unnaturally long life. At first he thought it had been the simple caprice of the djinn. Later he suspected the djinn of the Court of the Azure Sovereign had wanted him kept alive for some reason of their own. 

Looking at Caina, he knew the reason.

They wanted him to help her.

They wanted him to rescue Annarah. 

Why? It did not make any sense. What did the djinn care about the affairs of mortals? 

And how the devil could one torque kill the world? That didn’t make any sense either. From the description, it sounded like an ancient Maatish relic. The Great Necromancers of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun had indeed created relics with the power to destroy nations. Yet a torque? That seemed unlikely…

Did Morgant want to kill the world?

Why not? Why not kill the world? Surely it deserved death. Morgant had seen so many tyrants, so many murderers, so many villains of every description. If he could end it all, why not burn this miserable world to ashes?

“Something amiss?” 

Morgant shook his head, rebuked himself, and saw Caina staring at him. She had pulled her horse alongside his, her face neutral behind the dust and the makeup of her disguise, though her cold blue eyes were narrowed. 

“We are planning to kidnap a nobleman, replace him with an impostor, and infiltrate the most dangerous prison and fortress in Istarinmul,” said Morgant. “Why would anything be wrong?” 

“The djinni,” said Caina, glancing around. “The Knight of Wind and Air. Was he talking to you?”

Morgant stared at her. She was too damned perceptive. “Yes.” An idea came to him. “Did he appear to you, too?” 

“A few nights ago,” said Caina. 

“What did he say?” said Morgant.

She didn’t hesitate much, just enough to let him realize that she wasn’t telling the entire truth. “He warned me about the old Maatish necromancy within the Inferno.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” said Morgant. He could not remember the Inferno, not clearly. Whatever Annarah had done to take the location of the Staff and Seal from his mind had also damaged his memories of the Inferno. He remembered escaping, and he remembered the Hall of Torments, where Annarah had opened the gate to her Sanctuary in the netherworld. 

He also remembered the undead that stalked the halls. 

“What did the Knight tell you?” said Caina.

“The same thing,” said Morgant. “Evidently he is most eager to have Annarah rescued.” 

Caina nodded, apparently mollified by the lie. 

What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Unless, of course, he chose to leave the torque behind. 

Chapter 7: Something Else Goes Wrong

“This afternoon,” said Nasser. “We shall overtake our target this afternoon, unless something goes amiss.”

Caina nodded, adjusting her turban and squinting into the glare of the sun. 

They had ridden for six days, traveling alongside the Great Southern Road, passing caravan after caravan. The caravan guards gripped their swords and bows as they passed, and did not relax their vigilance until the Black Wolves and the Anshani archers were out of sight. Caina did not blame them. Again and again they had passed corpses lying strewn alongside the Road, the air filled with the reek of putrefaction, dozens of vultures circling overhead. 

They had seen a lot of corpses. 

Twice roving bands of men wearing the coiled whip badges of Collectors had attacked. The first time a volley of arrows from the Anshani horse archers had sent them running. The second group of Collectors was better armed and armored, and they had closed with eagerness. Then Dio ordered his men to attack, and a charge of heavy horsemen scattered the Collectors. Shopur’s men amused themselves shooting down the fleeing Collectors until Nasser had called them back. Kazravid himself had killed five Collectors, sitting with perfect calm in his saddle and loosing arrow after arrow. The man knew how to handle a bow. 

“Yes, your worship,” said the Istarish tribesman they had hired, a ragged little man in dusty brown robes. Nomadic tribes of Istarish horsemen wandered the Trabazon steppes, and the recent chaos had disrupted their flocks and campsites. That meant the tribesmen were amenable to mercenary work, and Nasser had hired one band to work as scouts. “They are perhaps six miles ahead. A hundred men in the black armor of the Immortals.” He scratched at his ragged beard. “Foolish to wear black armor in this sun. Perhaps if we wait long enough they shall roast in their armor like a ham in an oven.”

“A striking image,” murmured Morgant. 

“Alas, I fear the Immortals consider heat and cold alike with indifference,” said Nasser. “Steel shall prove more effective against them.” 

“I hope your worship’s steel is up to the task,” said the tribesman. “Among my kin, it is said that the Immortals are demons clothed in human flesh.” 

“They aren’t entirely wrong,” said Caina. 

“Wagons,” said Nerina. “Did you see any wagons?” 

“Some,” said the tribesman. “Attended by slaves. Perhaps a dozen wagons, I think.” He looked up at Nasser. “We will not help you fight the Immortals. Every time my kin have fought the Immortals, it has not ended well.”

“Very well,” said Nasser. “You have earned your pay. Go now, or else you may find yourself pulled into the battle.” 

The tribesman nodded and rejoined his kin. They mounted their little steppe horses and galloped away to the west, deeper into the grasslands. 

“Well,” said Dio. “Seems that we have a hundred Immortals to kill. Any ideas on how to go about it?”

“We’ve two hundred men,” said Shopur. “Two hundred horsemen against a hundred footmen makes for winning odds.”

Kazravid gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Not if those hundred footmen are Immortals. They fight like devils, and regard pain and injury with contempt. If they have a chance to form into proper ranks, they might overcome us.” 

“Then we do not permit them to form into proper ranks,” said Shopur. “Even with their inhuman strength, they cannot outrun a horse.” He patted the neck of his mount. “We shall harass them with arrows, turn them into pincushions from a distance. The Immortals may be devils, but they are still men of flesh and blood, and not even the finest soldiers can stand motionless under arrows forever. Sooner or later they shall break. Then Dio’s lads can run them down.”

“Don’t kill Cimak,” said Caina. “The entire point of this is to kidnap him.” Actually, she supposed, kidnapping was hardly necessary. They could just kill Cimak and have Caina take his place. Yet Cimak might know useful information about the Inferno and Rolukhan, information that might let Caina avoid making a critical error when it came time to impersonate Cimak before Rolukhan himself. For that matter, she had no wish to kill an innocent man, and Kuldan Cimak might well be ignorant of Callatas’s plans.

Morgant was not the only one who refused to kill people who had done nothing to deserve it. 

“Agreed,” said Dio, scratching at his beard. “Can’t ransom a man who’s dead.” Nasser had given Dio and Shopur the impression that the plan was to kidnap Cimak and hold him for ransom, and Caina saw no reason to correct that misapprehension. 

“I fear that we shall need to kill all the Immortals, though,” said Nasser. 

“Agreed,” said Kazravid. “They will fight to the death regardless of what we do.” 

“We would also prefer to leave no witnesses behind,” said Nasser. That, too, was necessary. Any Immortals who escaped the battle might make their way to the Inferno and tell Rolukhan what had happened. 

“The slaves, too?” said Shopur. “It will be necessary to kill them all?” He did not sound troubled by the prospect.

Nerina made a choked noise, and Caina gave Nasser a hard look. 

“No,” said Nasser. “We have a different plan for the slaves, mind. It is possible all the slaves were sent ahead, and that Cimak is traveling without any. But if it comes to it, make sure that both Cimak and the slaves are kept alive.”