Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (23 page)

Five beings resembling bipedal reptiles stood outside the bridge cutting at the doors with tools pilfered from the workshop. In keeping with his flair for poetic justice, Deim loosed a Working that showered the creatures with white-hot sparks. The sulfurous stench of their seared flesh nearly made Teg gag.

But the monsters proved they weren't to be taken lightly. The last survivor inflicted a glancing bite on one of the pirates, who fell dead spewing black foam. The biter soon followed with Teg’s knife in its eye.

All efforts to raise the bridge via sendings proved useless. Seeing no other option, Teg rapped on the door with his fist.

The doors remained shut as howls of pursuit drew closer.

Teg knocked again—harder this time. He was reaching for his last splinterknife when the scarred doors slid aside and he found himself staring down the barrel of Jaren's rodcaster.

“There were some loiterers on your doorstep,” said Teg. “Looked up to no good, so we ran them off.”

Jaren lowered his gun. “No vagrants and no solicitors. House rules. But since you did us a kindness, why not stay for tea?”

The doors were closing behind Teg’s group when the rapid clatter of approaching footsteps filled the hallway. Stochman and six Mithgarder officers were rushing for the bridge. The savage cries of their pursuers nearly drowned out their pleas. “Hold the doors!” Stochman screamed as the entrance sealed shut.

“You just gonna leave them?” asked Teg.

“I’m seriously tempted,” said Jaren.

“We need all the help we can get,” Teg reminded him.

Jaren waited a moment; then opened the doors again.

Stochman and his men poured onto the bridge. The last of them nearly lost a foot to the sealing door—and the fanged nightmare hot on his heels.

Teg took a mental head count. The survivors on the bridge numbered thirty-one. There were twice as many sailors as pirates, with Vaun thrown in as a wild card.

Fortunately, Stochman didn’t seem to notice the odds shifting in his favor. “Those things are everywhere,” he said between gasping breaths. “
Everywhere
!”

“I gathered that,” said Jaren. “Losing our heads won’t solve anything.”

“Don’t lecture me,” Stochman said. “I didn’t invade their air space!”

Jaren shook his head. “This isn't just payback for trespassing. Those things are trying to commandeer the ship.”

“Heed the Gen,” said Vaun. “Hell is but dabbling in the craft he’s mastered.”

“I don't get it,” said Deim. “You jack a ship for its cargo. All we're carrying is a few years' worth of supplies.”

As if in answer, a light rapping intruded upon the conversation. Teg reflexively looked to the doors before he realized that the knocking came from the window. There, perched upon the outer frame, stood a man. He leaned against the massive lens, clad in motley archaic garb. His hairless face—powdered white with a vertical red line splitting his chin—leered from the hood of a dagged cowl topped by an absurdly long feather.

Teg aimed his gun at the window, and everyone else followed suit. Unfazed by the crew’s hostility, the gaudy fellow passed through the Worked glass as easily as a moonbeam. He alighted on the deck several feet below and cast his beady eyes around the room.

“Him trespasses on Baal Gibeah's feud,” the newcomer said.

“We apologize for interfering with the battle,” said Stochman. “It was an accident.”

The strange man’s eyes kept darting about like a bird’s as he spoke again. “Not battle-feud.
Fiefdom
.”

“Are you here to negotiate?” Stochman asked. “Do you speak for this Lord Baal?”

The stranger issued a guttural laugh. “
Lord Baal
? Him's living-man speaks twice.”

“Gibeah is the lord—or
baal
—of this Circle,” said Vaun. “We treat with his messenger.”

“Him speaks wisdom plain,” said Gibeah's man, “but him is neither living-man nor dead. Him is both, but more and less. Piece of him's soul is missing.”

Jaren stepped toward the messenger. “Tell those who’ve boarded our ship to leave,” he said, “now.”

Gibeah's man fixed his birdlike eyes on Jaren. “We don't leave till you deliver Him's passengers to us.”

“If you want the crew, why slaughter them?” Jaren asked.

“What need has Baal Gibeah for a rabble of live-men? We want the souls. The thousand souls Him carries.”

Jaren gaped. “A
thousand
?”

“Keeps them well hidden, Him does,” said Gibeah's man. “Easier to find if the living-men gone. Yes, all the living-men Him's brought got wicked souls; go down into the Circle till the Well's dry and the Void runs over.”

“Shut up!” Nakvin yelled from atop the Wheel.

Gibeah's man must have overlooked the Steersman before, because he quailed as if struck. “Baalah Zebel!” he whimpered. “Master, hide me from the silver eyes!”

“Zebel?” Teg wondered aloud.

“A ruler of the lower Circles,” said Vaun. “Perhaps the most evil creature in existence.”

Teg stared at Nakvin, who quickly straightened her confused frown. “Do as you're told,” she said to Gibeah’s man. “Your people will leave the ship at once.”

A servile whine escaped the messenger as he groveled on the deck.

“Tell him to show us the way out of here,” Jaren said.

“You will also grant us safe passage to the Middle Stratum,” said Nakvin.

The messenger's cowering expression gave way to a sly questioning look. He stood and smiled at Nakvin. “Zebel'd never dance to the song of a Gen, though she be Baal Mephisto's whore.”

Nakvin’s silver eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?”

Gibeah's man regained his strutting posture, threw back his head, and crowed with laughter. “'Tis a turn. A dodge! Not just the doxy of Mephistophilis; she's been at the harlots herself!”

“Okay,” Nakvin said. “I have no idea what any of that meant.”

The messenger flashed a saw-toothed grin. “'Twas a vicious play, my darling, but you've our thanks for being a novelty to those old eyes. A good even' to you, get of Zebel!”

A prickling at Teg’s neck made him turn toward the window. A swarm of horrors filled the frame, jaws snapping and talons raking glass that suddenly turned thin as air. Gibeah's man burst into piping laughter as demons flooded the bridge.

Coarse sand warmed Jaren’s back. Dry air stung his nose. He opened his eyes and squinted up at a red sky. His crew’s confused groans reassured him that wherever he was, at least he wasn’t alone.

Jaren rose, brushed off his coat, and surveyed his surroundings. Undulating sands stretched between sheer mountain ranges that faced each other from opposing horizons. Their faces were a dingy grey, like snow beside a busy road.

The rapid crunching of footsteps alerted Jaren that someone was approaching.

“Are you satisfied now?” Stochman asked. He was winded, but his voice had lost none of its hostile shrillness.

“This isn't the time,” Jaren said. “We should figure out what happened and what to do next.”

“I'll tell you what happened. They took the ship! Your thoughtless blunder got most of our people killed, and the rest stranded.”

Jaren shook with rage. “You’re blaming this on
me
?”

“I heard how your order to pursue an unknown hostile got us mixed up in that battle,” Stochman said. “And I was there when that jabbering clown called your stupid bluff.

“It's time we reassessed our relationship,” Jaren said coldly. “I took your backbiting when I needed you to run the ship. But like you said, there's no ship.”

Leaving Stochman to think about his position, Jaren counted the survivors and marveled at the result. Thirty-one souls had made a last stand on the bridge, but the ship’s original complement of thirty pirates and sixty sailors milled about nearby.

Jaren found Nakvin tending a wounded officer. The man's injuries were horrific, yet he rose, buttoned his jacket over a torso that looked like butchers’ scraps, and walked away.

“We need to talk,” Jaren said.

Nakvin sighed. “If that’s your way of thanking me, you’re welcome.”

“Please just explain what happened.”

“It was like opening a gate,” Nakvin said, “but instead of moving between two Circles, I moved us outside the ship.”

“You’re getting better at this.”

Nakvin stood and shook the sand from her robe. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would work.”

“What about the ones who weren’t with us?” Jaren asked.

“I don’t know how they got here,” Nakvin said. “I just know they’re dead.”

“What?”

“As far as I can tell they’ve got no vital signs, but they can walk and talk.”

“Which is amazing,” Jaren said, “considering the state some of them are in.”

“Some of the dead aren’t hurt at all,” said Nakvin. In fact, their corpses are pristine. Not only are their wounds gone, but so are old scars, tattoos, and birth marks.”

“Something healed them?”

Nakvin shook her head. “The closed casket set got spotless replicas. The mostly intact casualties kept their bodies, wounds and all.

“Just like Crofter,” Jaren said with a bitter laugh. “They're the crew of the damned.”

“Now that we've defined the problem, what should we do about it?”

“The first order of business is getting the ship back. Now that we've regrouped, can you get us back on board?”

“I don't think so,” Nakvin said. “I've been trying to reshape the Circle, but it won’t budge.” She whispered her next words, as if in fear of some invisible eavesdropper. “I think something's blocking me.”

Jaren breathed a frustrated sigh. He scanned the wastes that stretched for miles in all directions and the dirty mountains hanging in the sky. “The ship is somewhere close.”

“Why do you think it's still here? The damned thing could be at Mithgar by now.”

“You heard Gibeah’s messenger,” said Jaren. “I only caught every other word, but he didn’t seem interested in the ship itself.”

Nakvin folded her arms. “He also said we were carrying a thousand passengers.”

“He was talking in riddles; not gibberish,” Jaren said, “and all riddles have clues. I think Gibeah is after something hidden on the
Exodus
.”

“It sounds like he knows our mission better than we do.”

Jaren deflected her observation with one of his own. “I think we're in another Circle. This place feels different than the last one.”

Nakvin nodded her agreement. “The ship must have been crossing the gate when I bailed us out.”

“I think we flew into a war between the lord of the Third and Gibeah,” Jaren said. “He brought the ship out of enemy territory and back to his own domain.”

“That would explain why the demons who boarded us were fighting each other,” Nakvin said. “It also explains why I can't re-weave space here. If Gibeah is the lord of this Circle, he probably has much better control of it than I do.”

“That's why he'll keep the
Exodus
here,” Jaren said. “The baal wants to feel nice and safe while he roots out his swag. We can exploit his false sense of security.”

“I don’t see what’s so false about it,” Nakvin said.

“Gibeah has the home field advantage, but the fact that we’re not dead means he’s overconfident. And for the time being, he’s distracted.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what’s your plan?”

Jaren explained his plan to Nakvin and the rest of his crew. Teg and Vaun would ascend the nearer mountains to survey the region. Vaun was chosen for his wealth of occult knowledge, and Teg for having the fewest qualms about going with him. The two scouts left at once, the sooner to finish their job and return.

Jaren hoped that Teg and Vaun wouldn’t be long. Stochman had been quiet since his latest warning, but the small refugee band was starting to divide along familiar lines.

The pirates and the sailors set up camp on opposite sides of a large standing rock. With nothing more to do, Jaren dug in to wait.
No use denying it,
he thought.
I’m in hell.
The admission brought visceral fear and unexpected longing for his own kind—the vanished race he’d only known through a long-dead father.

The hellish desert kept its own cycle of day and night, despite the lack of sun and moon. Nakvin watched the red sky darken till it looked like dried blood; then an old bruise. Twilight brought no stars, and coal-black shadows covered the land.

Nakvin faced the night with nothing but her robe and the meagre contents of its hidden pockets.
I wish I’d brought some food,
she thought, and her stomach grumbled in accord. Still, it wasn’t as if she’d had time to raid the mess hall.

Even the dead men complained of hunger. Attempts at foraging turned up mottled lichen growing on the rocks and a species of small yellow-grey scorpion, but Nakvin wasn’t yet hungry enough to try either delicacy. She feared that time might change her opinion, though.
Teg and Vaun had better find something soon.

Nakvin didn’t realize that she'd fallen asleep until she woke up with cold metal pressed to her throat. Before she could speak, the blade's owner hissed a reproof through clenched teeth. “Quiet.”

Other voices whispered nearby, joined by the soft rustling of footsteps on sand and an occasional stifled grunt. Though Nakvin lay beneath a looming rock in the black of night, her eyes clearly perceived the sounds’ source. A band of thirty or more men were waking the sleepers and rounding them up at knifepoint. Clad in loose garments over cloth wrappings, the invaders seemed well acquainted with the desert.

“Stand up,” Nakvin’s captor breathed. She hesitated but decided to go along for the time being. She took care to avoid sudden movements as she gained her feet.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Aware of the knife at her neck, Nakvin complied. She felt the figure stoop slightly, and a strong braided cord looped tight around her wrists. In a motion so fast she wondered if Teg could have copied it, her captor moved the knife point from her neck to her back.

“Walk,” the man said. His one mistake came when he gave his prisoner a callous shove.

Though free of the blade for only an instant, Nakvin had time to say, “Drop the knife.” Her voice retained its musical quality even while whispering, allowing the glamer to take effect.