He sensed the nagataaru stirring within the Master Alchemist.
It was a nexus of power, of alien emotion, rage and fury and malicious glee wrapped together in a tangled knot. The touch of its aura was nauseating, and Kylon wondered how Rolukhan could stand to have the vile thing inside of him. Perhaps the power it offered made its presence endurable. The Red Huntress had been possessed by a nagataaru as well, and it had given her superhuman strength and speed and healing. Rolukhan’s nagataaru would give him all that, and it would likely lend him power to pour into his spells.
Unless Kylon struck him down with the first blow, Rolukhan would kill him…and then he would kill Caina and all the others as well.
Patience. Patience was a warrior’s first virtue, his teachers had always said, and Kylon had never seen anything to contradict that. He had to wait for the right moment to strike, to avenge his wife and unborn child. That moment had not yet come. Not when attacking Rolukhan would lose their chance of rescuing Annarah and stopping Callatas and his Apotheosis.
Not when attacking Rolukhan meant Caina would die.
Her potential death, he realized, meant more to him than the faceless millions who would perish in the Apotheosis. Perhaps that was folly, but it made it no less true.
Rolukhan stopped a dozen paces from Caina, the disdain plain upon his face. In his right hand he held the rolled-up letter of commission, tapping it against his left palm every so often. It took all of Kylon’s self-control to keep from staring at the Master Alchemist. Rolukhan knew what Kylon looked like, and he had seen Caina in the tunnels below the Ring of Cyrica. If he recognized them, if he saw past the disguises, they were going to die right now.
Yet there was no suspicion in the Master Alchemist’s sense, only a combination of annoyance and amusement. For a moment Kylon wondered how Rolukhan had missed the obvious. But missing the obvious was how Caina had remained free and hidden in Istarinmul for nearly two years, despite the enormous bounty upon her head. People generally did not look beneath the surface, especially powerful men like Malik Rolukhan. He expected to see a minor emir and his retinue…and so he saw a minor emir and his retinue. Not the Balarigar and Kylon Shipbreaker.
Kylon wondered how many times he had been that arrogant.
“So,” said Rolukhan, his voice resonant and deep. “You are Cimak, I understand?”
Caina offered a deep bow. “I am the emir Kuldan Cimak, and it my honor to meet you at last, my lord Alchemist.”
Rolukhan folded his arms over his chest. “You are nearly two weeks late, my lord emir. You were also supposed to bring a hundred Immortals to reinforce my garrison, and I note a distinct lack of Immortals among you.”
“There were…ah, difficulties, my lord Lieutenant,” said Caina. “First a dust storm out of the Desert of Candles made travel impossible for several days. My party was scattered, and the nomads of the steppes took the opportunity to launch attacks upon us. I lost all my remaining Immortals in the fighting, along with most of my baggage and all of my horses, and had to make my way here on foot.”
Rolukhan snorted, both the contempt and the amusement in his sense growing. “Some of your wagons arrived with supplies and slaves, along with the smiths we need to continue the work.” A jagged spike of hope and fear went through Nerina’s sense. “Just as well you are not here to command troops. It is obvious you would make an ineffectual leader.”
“I…see,” said Caina. “What is to be my role here, then?”
“To be the seneschal,” said Rolukhan. “To manage the Inferno, more or less. The Grand Master expects much of our work here, and that commands my full attention. Such trivialities as the account books or the grain inventory are not worth my time. Erghulan said you had a head for letters and numbers, so you shall take over the day-to-day governance of the Inferno while I continue with more important duties. You shall perform this task admirably and well.” He smiled behind his gray beard. “If you do not, I’ll hand you over to the Immortals for their sport.”
Caina drew herself up. “I am an emir of Istarinmul. You cannot talk to me in such a manner!”
“I just did, and I shall do much worse if I choose,” said Rolukhan. His cold smile widened. “I urge you to be reasonable. Work diligently for me, and you have nothing to fear, and once your term of service is up you can return to Istarinmul with the Grand Wazir’s favor and your political position strengthened. Disappoint me and things will not go so well with you.” His black eyes moved over Nasser and Morgant. Kylon forced himself to remain motionless and expressionless as Rolukhan looked at him. He feared the Master Alchemist would recognize him, but neither Rolukhan’s expression nor his sense changed. A strange flicker of exhilaration went through Kylon. Was this how Caina felt when she walked unnoticed among her enemies in disguise?
Then Rolukhan’s eyes fixed on Nerina Strake.
“A woman?” he said. “You brought a woman to the Inferno?” He let out an ugly laugh. “Tell me, do you hate her so much? This is not a place for women.” He smiled. “Save for the wretches who sate the Immortals’ appetites.”
“She is my…companion,” said Caina. “I did not wish to be without her company, so I brought her along.”
Nerina shivered and looked away, refusing to meet Rolukhan’s gaze.
“A wraithblood addict, too,” said Rolukhan. “All the better.” His eyes turned back to Caina. “Fail me, and I’ll give her to the Immortals. You can watch what they do to her before I hand you over to them.”
The nagataaru within him seemed to hiss in pleasure at the thought, like a snake stirring in its den.
“You have a unique way of motivating your subordinates, my lord Rolukhan,” said Caina.
“Ah,” said Rolukhan. “So you do have a bit of backbone. You see, the Grand Master and I understand. There is only one thing that makes men good. The only thing that makes them excel.”
“What’s that?” said Caina.
“Fear,” said Rolukhan. “Come. Bring your attendants. I shall show you the Inferno and your new duties.”
He turned, and the Immortals fell in around them.
###
Caina walked alongside Rolukhan as they crossed the bridge, her mind racing.
She might have done Cimak a favor by kidnapping him before he could reach the Inferno. Rolukhan was a powerful man with no patience for fools, and Cimak would have irritated him. Given that the nagataaru fed upon pain and death, Rolukhan might well have killed Cimak and saved himself the bother.
Now Caina just had to keep Rolukhan from killing them before they escaped from the Inferno with Annarah.
The opened gates yawned before them, and beyond Caina saw a high, vaulted tunnel, its walls adorned with Maatish reliefs and hieroglyphics. Far in the distance she saw a sullen crimson light, and she felt the prickle of powerful sorcery against her skin. It was the aura of a Hellfire engine, the sorcerous apparatus that manufactured the deadly elixir.
There was another aura, too, one that seemed to come from deep within the mountain. It was ancient and cold, and made her skin crawl at its touch. It was the aura of Maatish necromancy, powerful and deadly. Maglarion had used it, Rhames had used it, and so had the Moroaica.
“What a peculiar odor,” she said aloud.
“The smell of Hellfire, my lord emir,” said Rolukhan. “Among my other tasks, I supervise the production of Hellfire. Should any of the disloyal southern emirs attempt to seize the Inferno for themselves, they shall regret their folly. Briefly.”
They walked into the tunnel, the smell of Hellfire growing sharper, the harsh red glow of the Hellfire engine shining brighter in the gloom. The sorcerous auras around Caina grew stronger and sharper. A faint vibration shivered through the floor beneath her boots, likely from the Hellfire engine itself.
“Behold,” said Rolukhan as the tunnel ended and they stepped through another archway. “The Hall of Flames.”
It was a huge domed chamber, carved from the living rock of the mountain. It reminded Ca
ina a great deal of the domed Chamber of Ascension in Caer Magia, and Caina wondered if the magi of the Fourth Empire had built their chamber in imitation of Maatish architecture. Elaborate reliefs and hieroglyphics covered the walls, and the domed ceiling had been carved in an intricate reproduction of the heavens, the stars represented by crystalline chips.
The hellish light transformed the crystalline chips into stars of burning blood.
A circular hole filled perhaps two-thirds of the chamber’s floor, ringed with a railing of carved stone. Caina realized that she was on a balcony of some kind, that the chamber was actually the top of a massive shaft.
“Impressive architecture,” she said.
“Indeed,” murmured Rolukhan. “The ancient Maatish raised it, and they were both superb engineers and skilled necromancers. Once this was the stronghold the Great Necromancer Kharnaces, but now it belongs to the Padishah. Come, my lord emir.” He gestured to the railing. “Come, and you shall see a sight that few have ever been privileged to witness. You shall see the creation of Hellfire itself.”
Caina had seen the process before, but she nodded and followed Rolukhan and his Immortals to the railing.
The cylindrical stone shaft below the railing was at least four hundred feet straight down. A wave of vertigo went through Caina, but she kept it from her face. Far below, at the bottom of the shaft, she saw the Hellfire engine, a massive construction of glass tubs and metal valves and bronze gears and smoking ceramic vats. The huge thing was at least five times larger than the machine Caina had seen in the Widow’s Tower, and she thought it might be larger than the House of Agabyzus. She felt waves of potent sorcery radiating from it like heat from a blacksmith’s forge. Dozens of gray-robed acolytes moved around the machine, tending to it and filling and sealing clay amphorae with Hellfire. More acolytes carried the amphorae to dark halls opening in the curved walls, and Caina saw row after row of amphorae-laden shelves stretching into the darkness.
She had never seen that much Hellfire in one place before.
“An impressive sight,” said Caina.
“One of the highest achievements of alchemical science,” said Rolukhan. “An elemental spirit of fire is trapped within the apparatus, and its essence is extracted and bound within the Hellfire to create one of the most potent weapons of war known to man. The Grand Wazir has ordered a tremendous amount of Hellfire to defend the city from the rebellious emirs, and so the acolytes have been working night and day for weeks. You may take a closer look, if you wish.” He raised a hand. “But two words of warning, my lord emir.”
“My lord is gracious,” said Caina.
“Do not interfere with the production of Hellfire,” said Rolukhan. “It is delicate and dangerous work, and the Immortals have orders to kill anyone interfering.” His cruel smile widened. “And do not descend deeper into the Inferno than the level of the Hellfire engine.”
“Why not?” said Caina, though she knew the answer.
“The ancient dead still walk the lower halls, the galleries we call the Halls of the Dead,” said Rolukhan. “They are left over from the time of Maat, former servants of the Great Necromancer Kharnaces. Kharnaces himself was defeated long ago, but still his undead slaves guard the Inferno. Additionally, anyone who is slain in the lower levels, or any corpses left there, rise again as undead slaves, bound to defend the Inferno for all eternity.” He smiled. “Consider it an added motivation not to fail me.” His eyes wandered back to Nerina. “For if you do fail me, once the Immortals have finished with your concubine I’ll throw her corpse to the ancient dead. Then she can rise as one of them and remind you of your failure for eternity.”
“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?”
Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) Page 17
