Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) Page 21

  Caina pulled up her mask long enough to grin at him. “I always am.”

  He smiled a little at that. “Liar.”

  Caina nodded and walked with Morgant to the gate. He drew his weapons, the black dagger in his left hand, the valikon in his right.

  Then they stepped into the gate, and gray mist erupted from everywhere to swallow Caina.

  Chapter 14: Sanctuary

  Caina had the sensation of falling, of tumbling endlessly through the void. Gray mist hurtled past her, and it felt as if she were traveling some unimaginable distance. White flashes of light flickered and pulsed in the mists, light the same color as the glow shining from her pyrikon.

  Then the gray mist vanished, and Caina found herself in the netherworld once more.

  She staggered a few steps and looked around, her heart racing.

  The bleak, rolling plain stretched away in all directions, the gray, colorless grasses rippling in a wind that Caina could not feel. Black clouds writhed and danced overhead, moving faster than the wind could drive them, arcs of green lightning jumping from cloud to cloud. Strange objects floated overhead – an upside down tree, its roots waving like tentacles, a stairwell that went nowhere, a statue of green marble, a fountain made of gray stone, three upside-down pillars of Nighmarian design. Caina’s shadow-cloak snapped and billowed behind her in the nonexistent wind, and the pyrikon vibrated against her wrist, shining with white light.

  She drew her ghostsilver dagger. The blade flickered with pale white fire, responding to the sorcerous power surging through the netherworld.

  “Morgant?” she said, and spotted him a few paces away. The black dagger in his left hand out let a steady crimson glow, but the valikon shone in his right hand like a torch, the sigils upon the blade burning with the same light.

  Morgant stared up at the sky, his pale eyes wide.

  “What is it?” said Caina, though she realized there were any number of things around them that could have alarmed Morgant.

  “Iramis,” he said. “It’s Iramis.”

  Caina looked up and saw the golden city beyond the clouds.

  It was a beautiful city, built of golden stone, its towers and arches and domes graceful. It floated past the clouds, the image wavering and flickering like a mirage. The cloud-wreathed city was a vision of stunning beauty.

  “Iramis,” said Morgant, his voice a little hoarse. “It looked exactly like that on the day Callatas burned it.”

  “It’s an echo,” said Caina. “The spell Callatas used was so powerful it left an echo in the netherworld, an imprint.”

  “That gash,” said Morgant. “I don’t suppose you know what that is?”

  “I do,” said Caina.

  Beyond the city blazed a massive gash of golden fire, a crack ripped through the sky itself. Caina had first seen it two years ago in New Kyre, on the day the Moroaica had finished her great work and raised the golden dead. The Moroaica had been slain and her great work undone, but like Callatas’s spell, it had left an echo behind in the netherworld.

  “A rift,” said Caina. “A weakness in the walls between the worlds. The nagataaru can come through them sometimes.” The vibration on her left wrist grew stronger, the pyrikon glowing brighter. “Listen to me. I wanted to tell you this back in the mortal world, but I didn’t know how long the gate would last, and we have more time here.”

  “Because of the time difference,” said Morgant, tearing his gaze from the image of the lost city overhead.

  “Aye,” said Caina. “You’ve never been here before, have you?”

  “I fear I have missed that particular pleasure,” said Morgant.

  “The netherworld is psychomorphic,” said Caina.

  “Psychomorphic?” said Morgant. “You mean it molds itself to my thoughts?”

  “Yes,” said Caina. “Like quicksand. Slowly at first, but faster and faster the longer you stay here. You can control it, if you concentrate.” She focused her will upon the ground, commanding it to heed her, and suddenly part of the ground became part of the dusty Cyrican Bazaar, complete with a merchant’s stall.

  She had the distinct satisfaction of seeing Morgant flinch in surprise.

  “What was that?” Morgant said. Caina released her will and the Cyrican Bazaar dissolved back into the featureless gray grass of the endless plain.

  “Psychomorphic,” Caina said. “Also, keep watch for spirits.”

  “Nagataaru?” said Morgant.

  “Aye,” said Caina, looking around the plain. “Phobomorphic, carchomorphic, and other kinds. The nagataaru. I suppose the Sifter might want some revenge, too.” She lifted her ghostsilver dagger, the blade streaming pale flames. “Ghostsilver can harm spirits. I think the valikon can probably destroy any spirit here, so hopefully they’ll avoid us for easier prey.”

  “Good thing you thought to bring it,” said Morgant.

  The pyrikon’s vibrations grew stronger, the white fire flaring. It didn’t hurt, not precisely, but it was pulling in a lot of power. Suddenly she wondered if taking the pyrikon with her into the netherworld had been a good idea. The ghostsilver weapons and her shadow-cloak reacted oddly to the netherworld, but perhaps the pyrikon would have a more violent response.

  Best to get on with it.

  “Which way to Annarah?” said Caina.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” said Morgant.

  “You don’t know?” said Caina.

  “I didn’t go through the gate with her,” said Morgant. “She said she would cast her sanctuary here, and then she entered the gate.”

  “The pyrikon,” said Caina. “It was linked to her. It must know…”

  Even as she spoke, the pyrikon unwrapped itself from her wrist and floated into the air. The glow grew brighter until it seemed as if the pyrikon had transmuted itself into white light. The pyrikon expanded and swelled, growing larger and larger, and then took a new form.

  A human form.

  It was a warrior covered in in plate armor, a massive shield upon his left arm and an Iramisian falchion in his right hand, a towering helm concealing his face. The warrior looked as if he had been carved from white flame, and Caina felt arcane power swirling around him.

  “Has it ever done that before?” said Morgant.

  Caina shook her head, and the warrior turned back and forth, looking for something. On sudden impulse, Caina drew back her cowl, and the helm turned to face her.

  “Demonslayer,” said the glowing warrior, his voice like thunder.

  “You’re Annarah’s pyrikon,” said Caina.

  “Correct, demonslayer.”

  “So…that’s what the pyrikons are, aren’t they?” said Caina. “Spirits. Bound spirits.”

  “Incorrect. We are not bound,” said the pyrikon. “We are summoned, and we come of our own will. If the summoner is worthy, is the summoner holds true to the oaths of the loremasters, then we permit the use of our power. For as there are spirits of fire and spirits of air, so too are there spirits of death and pain, those you call the nagataaru. Once the Court of the Azure Flame opposed them, but they were hindered. Yet my kindred continue to oppose the nagataaru, for we are spirits of defense, and our purpose is to defend the mortal world.”

  “So you’ve been walking around with a spirit on your wrist for a year and a half?” said Morgant.

  “Evidently,” said Caina.

  “You are the Balarigar,” said the pyrikon. “You are the demonslayer, and perhaps you may be the liberator. I seek to free my mistress from her imprisonment. You must return her to the mortal world.”

  “Then take us to her,” said Caina.

  “Come, mortals,” said the pyrikon spirit, gesturing with the falchion. The glowing sword looked identical to the valikon in Morgant’s hand. “Time is fleeting, and my mistress is but mortal. The nagataaru have come for her, and she has but little time left. Hasten!”

  The pyrikon turned and ran deeper into the rippling plain, and Caina and Morgant followed. She pulled up the hood of her
shadow-cloak back as she ran. It blocked the ability of spirits to detect her, even in the netherworld. Of course, a spirit possessing a mortal host would be able to see her. Kalgri had been able to see Caina, even if the shadow-cloak had blocked the Voice’s ability to detect her. Even so, Caina suspected a spirit of sufficient power would be able to find her even with the cloak.

  Best to be gone from the netherworld by the time that happened.

  They kept running, and started up a small hill. White light flashed ahead, and Caina heard a hissing, serpentine whisper.

  “Spirit,” said Caina. “How much farther? Is it…”

  The netherworld blurred and shifted around her.

  The twisting, writhing sky remained the same, but the landscape morphed. Suddenly Caina stood atop a mountain overlooking a deep valley, a stairway cutting back and forth on the cliff face below her. A broad stone terrace stretched on either side, and before her rose a sprawling edifice of courtyards and halls carved from the living stone of the mountain. The fortress had an outer and inner courtyard, both courtyards encircled by long colonnades of stone. Domed towers rose from the corners of the courtyards, and in the center of the temple stood a high fane of weathered stone, topped with a tall domed tower. Caina gazed at the pillars and towers and saw the reliefs covering their faces, stylized, abstract designs of swirling lines and intricate geometric patterns. Each of towers had been carved with a specific sigil, a pyrikon ring wrapped around a seven-pointed star.

  “The sanctuary of my mistress,” announced the pyrikon.

  “Silent Ash Temple,” said Caina, looking around. Of course, it wasn’t the real Silent Ash Temple, but only a reflection of it in the netherworld. Yet it was close enough to the real thing that she felt a shiver of dark memory.

  “You know this place?” said Morgant, looking at the colonnade as the valikon burned in his hand.

  “Aye,” said Caina. “It’s a monastery in the Kaltari Highlands. Found the valikon there. Fought the Red Huntress there and we beat her, though it was close. Why does Annarah’s sanctuary look like Silent Ash Temple? Nasser said that it used to be academy that trained loremasters. She must have been here as a child, before Iramis fell.”

  “Does it matter?” said Morgant.

  “It might,” said Caina. “Spirit. Take us to Annarah, quickly.”

  The pyrikon did not answer, but instead strode for the outer gate’s colonnade, beneath the wall where Nasser had come within a hair’s breadth of killing Kalgri with the valikon. Through the archway Caina saw a flash of white light, followed by the vibration of a powerful spell.

  Then a curtain of shadow swept before the gate, a shadow lined with flickering purple fire.

  The nagataaru were there.

  Caina broke into a run, Morgant keeping pace next to her.

  ###

  Morgant ran through the gate and into Silent Ash Temple’s broad outer courtyard. Beyond he saw another colonnade, taller than the first, slender towers of Iramisian design rising overhead. It was an eerie counterpoint to the ghostly image of Iramis itself floating in the twisted sky overhead.

  The battle raging through the courtyard held his full attention.

  A ring of shadows and purple flames snarled through the courtyard. Sometimes they seemed to take individual shapes, like hooded specters in robes of shadow and eyes of purple fire. Sometimes they flowed together like a river, looking like a flood of black water trying to drown Silent Ash Temple, but they never quite managed to close the ring.

  Within the ring of nagataaru stood twelve armored shapes of pale white light and ghostly fire, identical to the warrior shape that Annarah’s pyrikon had assumed. They held their massive shields raised, wielding their swords with vigor. Whenever the blades touched the nagataaru, the dark spirits retreated with angry hisses. The nagataaru answered with tendrils of shadow that wrapped around the glowing spirits, sapping away their light and forcing them to retreat, closing the ring tighter.

  The nagataaru were winning, forcing the pyrikon spirits back inch by inch.

  In the center of the ring of spirits stood Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis.

  Morgant had not seen her for a hundred and fifty years, and a peculiar spasm of memory shot through his mind. A century and a half and she had not changed, not even a little. She was a tall woman, at least as tall as Kylon, and somewhere in her early thirties. Her dark skin was smooth, and made for a marked contrast with her long silver hair and the white loremaster’s robe she wore. Strain and exhaustion marked her face, her bright green eyes bloodshot, and flickering white fire surrounded her outstretched hands. Pulses of white light burst out from her, pushing the nagataaru back and strengthening the pyrikon warriors. Morgant was not a sorcerer, but he had been in a lot of fights, and he could see that Annarah was about to lose hers.

  How had she held out for so long? It had been a century and a half…

  Then Morgant realized that she looked exactly the same because there had not been time for her to change. A century and a half had passed for him…but thanks to the peculiar nature of the netherworld, no more than a few moments had passed for her.

  “My mistress requires aid,” said the pyrikon spirit, pointing its glowing sword. “Aid her.”

  “Morgant,” said Caina. “The valikon. It can kill nagataaru.”

  Morgant nodded, sheathed his black dagger, and took the valikon’s hilt in both hands. He walked forward, raising the sword, the weapon thrumming in his grasp. Some of the nagataaru burst free from the ring and flowed towards him like wraiths of smoke and shadow. Annarah’s pyrikon charged forward, striking with the curved sword of white flame. The nagataaru recoiled from the pyrikon’s blows, but the spirit seemed unable to destroy the nagataaru.

  The valikon had no such problems.

  Morgant swung the blade, and it met no resistance as it touched the nagataaru’s dark form. Yet the nagataaru exploded into a spray of dark smoke, smoke that quickly vanished into nothingness. A scream of fury rose up from the surrounding nagataaru, and more of the dark ring broke off to charge at Morgant. He didn’t know what would happen if the spirits touched him, and he had no desire to find out. The valikon swept before him in a blaze of white fire, its touch unraveling the nagataaru, and a dozen of the spirits shattered in a haze of black smoke. Morgant stepped back, trying to get out of the smoke before it obscured his vision, but the nagataaru slid away from the valikon’s blade. He remembered how the Sifter had reacted with panic when Caina had threatened to destroy it with the valikon. Likely the immortal nagataaru reacted to the sudden prospect of destruction in the same way.

  For a moment a gap formed in the swirling ring of nagataaru, and Annarah’s pyrikon shot forward, hewing its way through the dark cloud of spirits. The pyrikon reached the ring of armored warriors and changed form, becoming a sphere of light about a foot across. The sphere touched Annarah’s left arm and she gasped, looking at in in astonishment. As she did, the sphere lengthened and thinned, hardening into the form of a delicate bronze staff. Annarah gaped at the staff in shock, as if unable to believe her eyes.

  The nagataaru swirled faster around her, a dark tide of them coming towards Morgant and Caina. Morgant did not think he could destroy all the spirits before the nagataaru drowned them like a tide of shadows.

  “Annarah!” he shouted. “The staff! Use it!”

  She looked at him in astonishment, and then nodded, thrusting the staff before her as she shouted a phrase in the High Iramisian tongue.

  Blinding white fire exploded from her in a ring, passing through the pyrikon spirits without touching them. It slammed into the circle of the nagataaru, shattering it and throwing hooded specters in all directions like black leaves. The nagataaru let out hissing screams, and Annarah spun, the pyrikon staff shining in her left hand.

  That was enough for the nagataaru. The spirits fled in all directions, sinking into the stone of the courtyard or vanishing into the tormented sky overhead. The pyrikon spirits around Annarah changed shape,
shrinking into those spheres of light. They drifted around her in a loose ring, and her own pyrikon shrank, becoming a bronze bracelet curling around her left wrist. Annarah took a deep breath, caught her balance, and turned.

  She stared at Morgant for a moment.

  “You came back,” she whispered.

  “I told you I would,” said Morgant. “I keep my word.”

  ###

  “Morgant,” said Annarah, staring at the assassin.

  Her voice was deep for a woman, but quite musical. Had Theodosia met her, Caina thought, she would have tried to recruit Annarah into the Grand Imperial Opera. A strange accent colored her Istarish, one that Caina had heard before. Both Callatas and Nasser had versions of the same accent, and Caina now realized it was an Iramisian accent. Iramis had burned a century and a half ago, and Nasser’s and Callatas’s accents had faded over time, but Annarah’s was still fresh.

  “How long has it been?” said Morgant.

  Annarah walked towards him, her white robes stirring in the netherworld’s strange wind.

  “About two hours,” said Annarah. “I left you my pyrikon and my journal, and then I retreated through the gate. I cast spells to summon a sanctuary, and called upon the spirits of defense to ward me while I waited for your return. But before finished, the nagataaru attacked in force.” She gestured at the pale balls of light floating around her. “We were driven into the courtyard, and I thought my death was at hand. Then you returned and drove them off. Where did you get a valikon? I thought they were all lost when Callatas burned Iramis.”

  Morgant jerked his head at Caina.

  Annarah’s green eyes turned towards Caina. “A…Ghost nightfighter? In Istarinmul?”

  “Yes,” said Caina, using her disguised voice. She decided to keep Annarah from learning who she was if possible. If Callatas realized that Annarah lived, he would stop at nothing to kill her. Caina hoped to keep the loremaster safe, but if Callatas took her alive and tormented her for her secrets…