Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (22 page)

“Tell me,” said Caina. “Does you service carry any rewards? Or merely threats of failure?”

Rolukhan laughed. “That is better! Serve me well, Kuldan Cimak, and you shall have all the favors that a Master Alchemist can bestow. Elixir Restorata to heal any wound or any illness. Life far beyond than the traditional span of mortal life. Riches and power beyond imagination. All that shall be yours if you serve me well. Come. Let us see the rest of the Inferno, and then I shall show you the Hall of Records, which shall be your area of responsibility.”

Rolukhan led them along the circular balcony, pointing out the various Halls that branched off from it. The Hall of Forges was filled with bins of coal and iron and blacksmiths’ forges, a cunning maze of steel ventilation shafts overhead carrying away the smoke. It was a full-sized foundry, and hundreds of enslaved blacksmiths and armorers worked there, producing the black steel armor of the Immortals. A dozen gray-robed acolytes labored among them, casting the alchemical spells that made the black steel harder and lighter than normal armor. Nerina peered into the smoke and the fiery light of the Hall of Forges, trying to find Malcolm, but there seemed to be no sign of him. 

They kept walking, and Rolukhan showed them the Hall of Torments. The space was huge, the size of a magistrate’s basilica in the Empire, and filled with implements of pain and torture and death. Racks and wheels stood in regular rows, and cages hung from chains overhead. A dozen dying slaves had been strapped to the devices and hung there whimpering or sobbing or in deathly silence, their limbs broken, their flesh gashed and torn. Nerina peered at each of those slaves, but still gave no sign of recognition. 

Caina glanced at Morgant. The gate to Annarah’s sanctuary in the netherworld was in the Hall of Torments. Morgant claimed that Annarah’s pyrikon would open the way. They just had to sneak into the Hall of Torments, retrieve Annarah, and get away before Rolukhan noticed. 

Somehow.

“The Hall of Proving,” said Rolukhan, gesturing through another archway. The hall beyond looked something like a combination of an arena and a gladiatorial school, with rows of seats facing fighting pits, racks holding spears and swords and axes and every other imaginable weapon. “Here those chosen to become Immortals are trained in the art of war, and here they undergo their final test.”

“The final test?” said Caina, though she had a dark suspicion of what that involved.

“Upon surviving their first two years of training,” said Rolukhan, “every Immortal is given a female slave to do with as they wish. At their fifth year of training, to pass the final test, they must kill the slave with their own hands. If they refuse, both are thrown into the Halls of the Dead. If the potential Immortal obeys, he passes the test, and is given the Elixir of Transformation to complete his training, to make him one of the finest warriors to ever walk the world.” 

“I see,” said Caina, trying very hard not to look at the escort of Immortals around them. Little wonder the Immortals called this place the Iron Hell. She had never felt guilty after killing Immortals, but perhaps slaying them had been a mercy. 

She wondered how many other would-be Immortals had perished during the course of their training, how many corpses had been thrown into the Halls of the Dead to rise anew as undead defenders of this horrible place. 

“Here is the Hall of Records,” said Rolukhan, gesturing through another arch. The vast hall beyond looked like a combination of a library and scriptorium. Unlike the flickering, hellish light of the Hall of Flames, the Hall of Records was well-lit by glass lanterns of alchemical light, no doubt to aid the scribes in their work. A dozen slaves sat at the desks, sorting through papers and writing letters. Given that hundreds of men lived or were imprisoned within the Inferno, Caina supposed that they all needed food and water and clothing and other supplies, to say nothing of the vast quantities of coal and iron consumed in the Hall of Forges. Likely keeping track of it all was a monumental task. 

“I see why you wish a seneschal,” said Caina. 

“I am pleased you have at least that much perception,” said Rolukhan. “We shall see if you are as clever as you think you are.” He waved a hand at the back of the Hall. “The seneschal’s quarters are back there. One the slaves will see you to it. There will be bunks for your retainers. I recommend keeping your concubine there.” He glanced at Nerina, and then back at Caina. “Some of the men here have not seen a woman in years. Best to keep her out of sight.”

“I will keep that in mind, my lord Alchemist,” said Caina. “Thank you for the counsel.”

“Indeed,” said Rolukhan with a thin smile. “You may begin your tasks tomorrow. I look forward to seeing your work.”

By the end, Caina promised herself, Rolukhan would regret saying that.

“Yes,” said Caina. “I look forward to it, too.”

Chapter 12: The Iron Hell

The seneschal’s apartments were more opulent than Caina would have expected.

No windows, of course, since they were hundreds of feet beneath the face of the mountain. Yet there was a dining room, a study, a well-furnished bedroom, and a small barracks for slaves and servants. The glass lanterns of the Alchemists lit everything with their harsh glow, and Caina felt the constant low-level power from the spells upon them, mingling with the aura of sorcery around the Hellfire engine and the dark radiance of the ancient necromantic spell far below.

Caina barred the door and walked through the rooms, making sure there were no listening spells, while Morgant and Nasser checked for hidden doors or spyholes.

Then they gathered in the dining room to plan.

“We must act tonight,” said Nasser.

“So soon?” said Laertes. “Perhaps it would be better to wait, to play our roles until Rolukhan’s suspicions have waned.”

“No,” said Caina. “His suspicions won’t wane. A man does not become a Master Alchemist without a generous helping of paranoia. He knows the southern emirs are uniting against Callatas and the Grand Wazir. Sooner or later he will realize that I am not Cimak, and he’ll have us killed.”

“That nagataaru in his head, too,” said Kylon. “I don’t think he realizes how much it alters his behavior, how it urges him to kill and feed. The sooner we accomplish our tasks and depart from here, the better.”

“We need access to the Hall of Torments,” said Nasser. “Annarah created the gate to her sanctuary there, is that not correct?”

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.”