Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) Read online

  “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 C
allatas’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.”

  Morgant shook his head.

  “You have counsel to offer?” said Nasser.

  “Battles are rarely so controllable,” said Morgant.

  Dio shrugged. “Don’t give a damn. We do what we’re paid to do. You want to kidnap the emir, we’ll kidnap him. You want to kill the emir, we’ll put an arrow in his gullet.” He grinned. “So long as you pay us once the job is done. Otherwise we’ll have a disagreement.”

  “Fear not,” said Nasser. “So long as the job is completed, you shall be paid on time and in full. Ask Shopur if you disbelieve me – I have employed his men in my enterprises before, and I have always paid on time.”

  “Then we had best move,” said Shopur. “We can be done with this business by tonight.”

  The mercenaries moved out, Caina and the others riding with them.

  ###

  Kylon squinted at the darkening sky, the wind tugging at his horse’s mane and tail.

  “What is it?” said Caina.

  “He’s missing the water, of course,” said Morgant. “Take a Kyracian out of the sea, and he’ll dry out eventually. Like a sponge.”

  Kylon ignored him, as did Caina.

  “There’s something wrong,” said Kylon.

  Caina glanced around. “What is it? The mercenaries? You think they’ll turn on us?”

  “No,” said Kylon. With his arcane senses, he detected flickers of emotion from the warriors around him. They were not good men, and they would happily murder him in a heartbeat. Yet both the Black Wolves and the Company of Shopur followed their own peculiar code of honor. They would kill Kylon and Caina and Nasser and all the others, but only if Kylon gave them reason or if they had been paid to do so.

  He hoped that Kuldan Cimak did not have deeper pockets than Caina and Nasser.

  “No,” said Kylon with another shake of his head. “It’s this countryside. It’s…”

  “Too flat?” said Morgant. “Inadequate space for proper concealment. Give me a crowded, reeking slum any day. A man can disappear between two heartbeats if he’s clever.” The assassin grinned, his pale face and gaunt frame making him looking almost skeletal. “Or if he’s stupid enough to offend the wrong men.”

  “You would know,” said Caina.

  Actually, Kylon rather liked the flat, open countryside of the Trabazon steppes. It reminded him of the open waters of the western sea, with the same flat, rolling vistas meeting his eye in all directions. On his right, to the west, stretched the brown grasses of the Trabazon steppes. On his left, to the east, the ground grew harder, barren, and emptier.

  And dustier.

  The Desert of Candles.

  The desert itself did not trouble him.

  The dust did, though.

  “A storm’s coming,” said Kylon, squinting into the wind coming from the east.

  Caina shrugged. “It shouldn’t slow us down. It hasn’t rained in Istarinmul for a century and a half, or so the histories say.”

  “Rain might be an improvement,” said Kylon, “compared to what is coming.”

  Caina frowned. “A windstorm?”

  He looked back at her. She hadn’t seen the danger yet, but to judge from his grim expression, Morgant had. Not surprising, given that he had lived in Istarinmul for two centuries.

  “No,” said Morgant. “Think it through. If gale happens to blow across the steppes, the horses get annoyed and the archers cannot fire with any accuracy. That’s bad, since it ruins our plan. But if the same wind blows across the Desert of Candles…”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “A dust storm,” said Nerina. They all looked at her. “Father used to complain about them. If one came up unexpectedly, it slowed the slave caravans coming from Anshan for weeks. Or if he had special cargoes brought in from the port of Rumarah on the edge of the Desert. In fact, he had me prepare an equation to calculate exactly how much profit he lost on each day a caravan was delayed so he could garnish the wages of the teamsters for…”

  “How bad are these storms?” said Kylon before Nerina could embark upon one of her mathematical tangents.

  “Depends on the wind,” said Morgant. “The good ones are over in a few hours. A bad one can last for weeks. The wind drives the dust with enough force to blind a man, to pack his nostrils and mouth and asphyxiate him, or simply to strip the skin from his flesh. Some of the tribes of the Trabazon wait for dust storms, and then tie criminals naked to wooden stakes in the desert. Once the storm settles, the criminals are either choked, buried alive, or stripped to the bone.” He offered a cheery smile. “Depends on the angle of the wind.”

  Azaces grunted and pointed with a thick finger, but Kylon had already seen it.

  To the south, the sky was growing visibly darker. Had they been upon the water, Kylon would have assumed they were sailing into a storm. But the dark clouds were far too low to be thunderheads. Kylon realized he was looking at massive quantities of dust blown up by the wind.

  Ahead one of the horsemen shouted, and both the Black Wolves and the Company of Shopur came to a halt.

  “Looks like Nasser has seen it,” said Caina. “We’d better decide what to do next.”

  She tugged her reins and steered her horse forward. Kylon shrugged and followed her, and Morgant fell in alongside him, Nerina and Azaces following. Nasser had reined up, and was conferring with Shopur, Dio, Laertes, and Kazravid.

  “What in the hell is that?” said Dio.

  “A dust storm, Captain Dio,” said Nasser. “Quite dangerous to the unprepared.”

  Dio grunted. “Never had those troubles in the eastern Empire.”

  “No,” said Caina, and the mercenary captain looked at her. “Though if you had stayed in the eastern Empire, you’d have been drafted into the Umbarian army by now.”

  “I’ll take my chances with the dust storm,” said Dio.

  “It’s a bad one,” said Shopur.

  “Agreed,” said Nasser.

  A burst of frustration went through Caina’s emotional sense. “And Cimak and his caravan are right into the middle of it.”

  “It would seem so,” said Nasser. “Immortals on foot, burdened with heavy wagons and the emir’s palanquin chair…no, they would not have been able to move fast enough to avoid the storm. The khalmir of the Immortals would have been clever enough to take cover, though, and they would have brought provisions to ensure they could shelter against a dust storm.”

  “Then we wait out the dust storm and attack,” said Caina.

  “That could take days,” said Nasser. “I suspect…”

  “Unfortunately,” said Morgant, “it’s not an option.”

  “Why not?” said Caina. “I think you of all people would be eager to reach our goal in haste.”

  “I have spent too long trying to reach that goal to get myself killed i
n a burst of childish impatience,” said Morgant. He stuck one finger into his mouth and then lifted it up, feeling the direction of the wind. “Also, the wind is coming out of the southeast. The storm is moving northwest. If we stay here and wait…”

  “We shall be right in the path of the storm,” said Dio. “Damnation.”

  “Then we circle around the storm,” said Caina. “West or east?”

  Nasser shook his head. “Not west. That would take us deeper into the Trabazon steppes and closer to the Kaltari Highlands.”

  Kazravid snorted. “I thought you had friends among the Kaltari barbarians.”

  “I do,” said Nasser, “but there are more raiding parties than those of the Kaltari upon the steppes. Better instead, I think, to head east into the Desert of Candles.”

  Caina’s expression did not change, but a jolt of emotion went through her at the words, a peculiar mixture of dread and curiosity. Kylon wondered what significance the Desert had for her. Callatas had burned Iramis there. Perhaps she saw the Desert as a warning of what would happen to Istarinmul if Callatas was not defeated.

  Shopur made a displeased noise. “I do not approve. The Desert is both cursed and haunted.”

  “Is it?” said Morgant. “That must make it crowded. Do the curses and the haunts fight each other for supremacy.”

  Shopur pointed at Morgant. “Your smart tongue will earn you a beating someday, old man.”

  “Probably,” said Morgant.

  “The Desert has that reputation,” said Nasser, “but I can assure you that it is not cursed. As for a haunting…it is only haunted by the memory of Grand Master Callatas’s many victims, nothing more. Consequently it has an evil reputation, and we can cross it without encountering any foes.”

  “Callatas has men in the desert,” said Caina. “Searching the ancient Iramisian ruins for treasure.”

  “Those locations are known to me,” said Nasser. “We can avoid them easily enough. I rather doubt the slaves or their guards will wander off from the ruins. We can pass through the hills on the southern edge of the Desert, circle past the storm, and resume the pursuit. In fact, depending upon how long the storm lasts, we might reach the Vale of Fallen Stars before Cimak, and can take him from ambush rather than from a chase.”