Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) (33 page)

Two Immortals attacked him, and Kylon swung the whip. The chain lash coiled around them, the metal shattering from the cold, but a sheet of frost covered the Immortals’ armored legs. Both warriors fell as ice bound the joints of their armor together, and Kylon seized the opening and killed them both. 

He turned, seeking new foes, as Morgant and Nasser joined the fray. Both men moved around the edges of the fight, avoiding the slick ice. Morgant parried with his crimson scimitar, flicking aside blows with contemptuous ease, while his strange black dagger sliced through steel and skin and muscle with equal speed. Nasser used his scimitar to parry, his gloved fist punching through armor and crushing helmets like a giant hammer. 

Suddenly Kylon felt a surge of…something through Morgant’s emotional sense. Satisfaction of some kind, as if an idea had just come to Morgant. The assassin slew another Immortal and broke free from the fight, running towards the wall of the Hall of Torments, and started slashing at the wall with his dagger. 

At the wall?

Kylon killed another Immortal. Even as he did, another group of Immortals ran from the Hall of Flames and into the Hall of Torments. He cursed and stepped back, his mind racing.

“When I saw run, run!” shouted Morgant. He had carved a smoldering hole into the stone of the wall, revealing a massive steel chain. The Immortals raced forward, rushing to the aid of their struggling comrades. “Now! Run!”

Morgant slashed his dagger through the thick chain. The chain made a hideous snapping sound, and both ends slithered away and disappeared into the wall. A low groan came from the walls, following by a series of resonant clangs. 

Then the floor shuddered beneath Kylon’s boots.

He had forgotten about the trapdoor.

Kylon raced back to the Hall of Forges as Morgant and Nasser sprinted past him. He jumped, and an instant later the floor simply vanished beneath him as both of the massive stone doors fell open. He landed just within the Hall of Forges, clawing for balance, and Nasser caught his shoulder and pulled him over the edge. Kylon turned as the Immortals fell screaming into the blackness of the pit. 

Unlike Caina and Annarah, they did not have a rope.

An instant later the sound of clanging armor and shattering bone came to his ears, followed swiftly by silence. 

“Ah,” said Morgant. “That worked out rather well, if I say so myself.” He grinned. “Counterweights. Everyone always forgets about the counterweights.” 

“Come,” said Nasser. “Laertes and Malcolm should have retrieved weapons by now.”

Kylon took a deep breath, trying to clear his buzzing mind. His arms and legs ached and throbbed from the effort of the fighting, and using that much arcane power at once always tired him. “Rolukhan will send men through the Hall of Forges next.”

“Aye,” said Morgant with a smug smile, “but he won’t be able to flank us from the Hall of Torments. It will take him months to fix that trapdoor, even if he can manage it at all.” 

They hurried across the Hall, past the broken water tub, and Kylon saw Laertes and Nerina pushing a heavy wooden cart. Steel hammers filled the cart, all of them scarred and scorched from much use. 

“Hammers?” said Nasser. 

“Malcolm’s idea,” grunted Laertes. “He pointed out that swords wouldn’t do much against Immortal armor, and all of the smiths know how to swing a hammer.” 

“Working flesh and bone instead of steel and iron, is that it?” said Morgant.

“Something like that,” said Laertes. “Malcolm went to rouse his men. They seem loyal to him, and eager for a fight.” 

“One suspects that Malik Rolukhan does not make for a popular master,” said Nasser. Nerina ran to the barracks, and Kylon saw Malcolm walk out, followed by slaves in gray tunics and heavy sandals. They all looked like tough, hardened men, and many of them bore burn scars. “Good. We shall be able to make a stand here until Ciaran and Annarah return.” 

“What about the foundry slaves?” said Laertes. “We shall have to take them with us to the Halls of the Dead.”

Nasser grimaced. “We will hope that Annarah’s pyrikon can protect us all. Perhaps with the aid of Ciaran’s new pyrikon, it will be able to…”

“Kylon of House Kardamnos!” 

Rolukhan’s voice boomed from the Hall of Flames, rolling over the forges and the foundries. 

Kylon turned, peering through the hellish gloom to the distant archway and saw Immortals moving along the circular balcony. 

“I think Rolukhan’s done playing games,” said Kylon. “I think he’s going to summon every one of his Immortals and overwhelm us.” 

Nasser grimaced. “I fear you are correct. Well, we shall have to hold until Ciaran and Annarah return.” 

Kylon had his doubts. They would not be able to hold against hundreds of Immortals attacking at once. Even if Caina and Annarah returned soon, they would still have to retreat to the Halls of the Dead, and the Immortals would not allow them to make that retreat easily. 

“Kylon of House Kardamnos!” Rolukhan’s spell-enhanced voice thundered through the Hall of Forges. “I know you are there. Come forth and speak to me. Perhaps we have interesting matters to discuss.” 

“Go,” said Kylon to Nasser. “Get the others ready. If I can distract Rolukhan, keep him from launching his attack immediately, that will give you more time to get Malcolm and the others ready and more time for Annarah and Ciaran to return.” 

“Surely you are not considering surrender,” said Morgant. “Rolukhan will kill you and then come after us anyway. If you want to kill yourself, there are more productive ways to do it.”

“Of course not,” said Kylon. “I’ll only go halfway to the Hall of Flames. Close enough that they can see me, but far enough that I can retreat if necessary.”

“Very well,” said Nasser. “Do as you think best.”

He strode towards the gathering blacksmiths, Laertes following him. Morgant looked at Kylon for a moment, shrugged, and went to follow Nasser. Kylon walked past the rows of furnaces and forges, the heat of the banked fires pulsing against his face and making sweat roll down his neck and back. The archway to the Hall of Flames yawned before him, and he saw dozens of Immortals standing there, blue eyes shining with ghostly light inside their black helmets. 

He drew on the power of air sorcery, the air before his mouth distorting.

“Rolukhan!” Kylon shouted, the spell amplifying his voice. “What would you have of me?”

“Merely to confirm that it is in fact you,” boomed Rolukhan. “How amusing! A lesson for us all, would you not say? Kylon Shipbreaker, once High Seat of House Kardamnos, Archon of the Assembly and thalarchon of the Kyracian fleet, now reducing to skulking through the shadows with vermin like the Balarigar. One moment you were among the mighty of New Kyre, and the next you were a penniless beggar.” Amusement filled the deep voice. “How cruel is the wheel of fate to the weak.” 

“Perhaps you ought to heed the lesson yourself,” said Kylon. 

“Oh, but I have,” said Rolukhan. “The Grand Master’s Apotheosis shall break the wheel of fate and elevate all mankind to gods. You should have sided with the Umbarians, Shipbreaker. Had you done so, you would not face certain death here. You would instead be one of the most powerful men in the world.” He laughed. “Perhaps your wife would still live, and would even now be pregnant with another child.” 

Rage burned through Kylon. “Bold words for a murderer!” 

Again Rolukhan laughed. “I had only a small part in that. Cassander was the one who summoned the Red Huntress. Really, though, you ought to thank me for it. It turns out you were weak, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Too weak to save your wife and unborn child, too weak to protect the guests who sheltered beneath your roof. Tell me. Did your wife look at you with disgust as she died? Did she realize that she had placed her fate in the hands of a weakling and a fool?” 

For an instant Kylon could think of nothing but wrapping himself in his power and finding Rolukhan. The sight of the valikon would silence those smug words. The ghostsilver blade could penetrate any wards Rolukhan cast, and the ancient spells upon the valikon would slay the nagataaru within him. Let him boast of Thalastre’s death then. 

“Do not give yourself too much credit,” said Kylon. “The Red Huntress slew them. You were merely a traitor.”

“When the Apotheosis comes, all oaths and bonds shall be broken,” said Rolukhan. “What a fool you are. Great matters stir, and you blunder through them like a blind ox. You are a pawn in a greater game, Shipbreaker, and you never knew it.”

“And what game is that?” said Kylon.

Rolukhan’s booming laughter rolled out. “If you are so blind as to miss it, is it my obligation to explain? Very well. The Grand Master wished for Istarinmul to stay out of the war, simply so he would have the freedom to work the Apotheosis. The death of your wife and unborn child lie upon your hands, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Had you the wisdom to stay out of matters beyond your comprehension, perhaps they might yet live. Really, we did them a mercy by killing them. Better that they died than to live under the protection of a fool like yourself…”

Kylon felt something inside him snap. 

He knew what was happening. He knew that Rolukhan was goading him, that the Master Alchemist was presenting a false account of events to spur him to rage. Likely Rolukhan wanted to draw him out and kill him away from the others, to weaken the defense. 

Kylon did not care. 

He was going to find Rolukhan and ram the valikon down his throat, find him and make him suffer the way that Thalastre had suffered, was going to wipe that smug smile from his bearded face.

He took a step forward, and a hard hand closed about his shoulder. 

“Bad idea,” murmured Morgant. 

Kylon glared at him. “Let me go.”

“If you want to kill yourself, by all means do so,” said Morgant. The assassin seemed like a wraith in the fiery gloom, his black clothes drinking the light, his face gaunt and pale. “Though I suspect Caina would prefer you alive.”

Kylon hesitated, some of his fury lessening.

“Ah,” said Morgant. “Yes, your darling Caina. I thought so. There’s a reason to live. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll do you a favor. That loud spell.”

“Loud spell?” said Kylon, not understanding. 

Morgant sighed. “That spell that makes your voice louder. Cast it on me, now. No, don’t argue, just do it.”

Kylon shrugged and cast the spell, the air around Morgant’s mouth rippling. 

“Rolukhan,” said Morgant. 

“Who is this?” said Rolukhan, puzzlement in his voice. 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Morgant. “I’d like to speak to the Lieutenant of the Inferno. Kindly fetch him, if you please.”

“I am the Lieutenant of the Inferno,” said Rolukhan.

“No, you’re not,” said Morgant. 

Rolukhan chuckled. “Do you insult me, Shipbreaker, by having a madman address me?”

“Oh, I am a madman,” said Morgant, “and the Kyracian definitely meant it as an insult, but unlike you I’m not a self-deluded fool. Now, be a good little servant and summon the Lieutenant of the Inferno for me.”

“What are you talking about?” said Rolukhan, menace filling his words. “I am Malik Rolukhan, Master Alchemist and Lieutenant of the Inferno…”

“I know who you are,” said Morgant, “and you’re not the Lieutenant of the Inferno. The nagataaru in your head is the true Lieutenant. You, Malik Rolukhan, are merely its slave. Its puppet. You are its beast of burden.”

“You speak of matters beyond your comprehension,” snapped Rolukhan.

“No, I don’t,” said Morgant with glib cheer. “You’re just the nagataaru’s meat puppet, a witless toy dancing on its strings. You’re its donkey. You ought to rearrange that stupid gaudy turban of yours to make donkey ears. Now, be a good little beast of burden and run along and fetch your true master. Maybe if you’re polite, I’ll let…”

Rolukhan’s roar of fury all but deafened Kylon. 

“Kill them!” thundered the Master Alchemist. “Kill them all!” 

The Immortals shouted in response.

“Right,” said Morgant. “We should run now.”

Kylon nodded and ran after Morgant. “Why did you do that?”

“Made him angry,” grunted Morgant, his coat flapping around his legs as he ran. Even in the heat of the Hall of Forges, the man never seemed to sweat. “Angry men make stupid mistakes. Like you almost did.”

Kylon swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Bah,” said Morgant. “If you get killed, Caina shall do something foolish and suicidal, and I need that clever brain of hers to get Annarah out of the Inferno. Faster!” 

They sprinted to the barracks. The smiths waited, bearing their massive hammers in their hands, and Kylon heard the clatter as the Immortals poured into the Hall of Forges. Nasser, Laertes, and Malcolm stood at their head, weapons in hand. 

“It seems,” said Nasser, eyeing Morgant, “that you irritated our adversary.”

“What can I say? I am an artist,” said Morgant. 

Through the haze of the light from the furnaces, Kylon saw the pale gleam of the Immortals’ eyes.

“Did you see Azaces?” called Nerina.

Kylon shook his head, and he sensed the disappointment and regret in her wraithblood-fractured aura. 

“All right, lads,” said Malcolm. “Time to fight! Let us pay these bastards back for every whipping and every beating!”

The smiths bellowed and raised their hammers, and Kylon set himself and took the valikon in both hands.

Chapter 19: Subjugant

Deeper and deeper Caina went, following the undead into the darkness of the Halls of the Dead.

She moved as fast as Annarah’s injured leg allowed. Urgency thrummed through her mind. She had to hurry. The others were fighting for their lives in the higher levels of the Inferno, and Caina had to help them as soon as possible. 

They might be dead already. Kylon might be dead.

Her mouth pressed into a hard line. 

If Kylon was dead, by all the gods she would avenge him and his wife, would make Rolukhan regret ever having set foot in New Kyre. 

Something else thrummed through her, far stronger than even the urgency or her growing terror.