Beside the spring, where the hill had crumbled into something approaching a sheer cliff, the rock was carved into what must once have been a spectacular bas-relief. That it was ancient was obvious by the weathering. Human figures had eroded to blank-faced mannequins, arms raised in prayer or war or missing entirely. There were dozens of them, stretching for yards on either side of the crack where the spring emerged. Between them the remains of pillars could still be discerned, and in a few spots where a crevice had provided shelter from the wind the original delicate carvings of leaves and foliage were visible.
In the center of the ancient work of art was a pair of doors, twice the height of a man and cut from the same yellow-brown stone as the hillside. They had once been carved as well, but the centuries had weathered them nearly flat. More important, at least to Janus, it was obvious from the wide scrapes in the sandy soil that they had been opened recently. So while the rest of the regiment had been set to hauling water from the pool and searching the town, one company of infantry and one of the Preacher’s guns had been quietly commandeered to effect an entry. The men had spent the better part of an hour straining at the door with lines and makeshift crowbars, to no effect, so Janus had decided on more drastic measures.
• • •
Even with his ears covered, the blast of the cannon filled the world. Close up, it wasn’t the bass roar he was used to, but a monstrous crescendo that rattled his teeth and shifted things uncomfortably in his guts. His next breath reeked of powder. When he opened his eyes tentatively, he saw a ragged cloud of smoke drifting upward from the gun’s muzzle. Beyond, barely twenty paces away, were the doors of the temple. Marcus couldn’t imagine anything resisting the shot at that distance. It seemed as though it would have torn a hole in the mountain itself.
It certainly had done a number on the doors. The Preacher had aimed for the crack between the pair, and his aim had been impeccable, as had Janus’ logic. The stone surface was revealed as a thin facade, no more than an inch thick, supported by a wooden frame. The ball had punched clean through, smashing an irregular hole in the stonework and sending a spiderweb of cracks across the rest of the surface. As Marcus watched, a snapped-off section buckled and fell with a sound like someone dropping a tray full of crockery. Other pieces followed, one by one, until only the lower half of the doors and a few scraps around the hinges remained intact. A cloud of dust billowed up from the pile of stone fragments at the base.
“Well laid, Captain,” Janus said, when the chorus of destruction had come to an end. “I think no further shots will be required.”
“At your service, Colonel,” the Preacher said, and saluted. “Shall I send for my teams?”
“Indeed.” Janus looked thoughtfully at the dark opening. Sunlight cutting through the dust cloud illuminated only a narrow square of cut-stone floor, the air ablaze with dancing motes. Beyond that, the blackness was complete. He turned to the infantry, who were cautiously lowering their hands from their ears. “Corporal! Clear this mess out of the way, if you would?”
“Yessir!” the corporal snapped, throwing a sharp salute. A team of rankers was soon at work tossing the chunks of rubble aside, while others levered the wrecked wooden structure of the door out of the way. As the Preacher’s artillery mounts arrived to drag his gun back to the camp, Janus turned to Marcus.
“You seem like a man with something on his mind, Captain,” he said.
“Just thinking, sir,” Marcus said. “If there’s anyone in there, that just about rang the front bell for them. They’ll be ready for us.”
“True. But without access to the spring, they couldn’t hope to conceal any significant force.”
Marcus lowered his voice. “What about that thing that came for you in Ashe-Katarion?”
“The demon may try to stop us,” Janus acknowledged. “But we demonstrated there that it is not invincible. Formidable as an assassin, certainly, but a full company should see it off.”
“And you think you’ll find your Thousand Names here?”
“I’m certain of it,” Janus said. “We know they moved it this far, and they had no way to take it any farther. We’ve searched the rest of the town—not that it offers much of a hiding place. There’s nowhere else it can be. Ergo, it must be here.”
Marcus nodded. Looking into the dark entryway gave him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he’d had the same feeling in Ashe-Katarion, when the search had led to a dead end. Nerves, he told himself. It’s just nerves.
• • •
Saints and martyrs. This place goes on forever.
Once the corporals of the Seventh had managed to round up enough lanterns to light their way, Marcus and Janus had proceeded into the hillside, a squad of infantry in the lead. The doors had opened onto a low-ceilinged tunnel with a gentle curve, laboriously hacked from the native rock. After a few dozen feet, though, it opened out into a much larger space.
“This must have been a natural cavern,” Janus mused. “I can’t believe anyone would excavate so much stone.”
Marcus nodded in agreement. The vaulting cave put him in mind of a cathedral, high-ceilinged and spreading wide to either side of the entrance. Two great fires burned in the far corners, but they barely served to outline the space and throw leaping shadows. The floor was covered with shapes, humanoid figures twisting grotesquely in the bobbing lantern light and the flares of the bonfires, and Marcus had a bad moment before he realized they were statues. He’d seen dozens like them on Monument Hill in Ashe-Katarion, elaborate depictions of the myriad Khandarai gods, each possessing inexplicable animal features and dressed in odd, ceremonial regalia. The closest pair were what looked like a horse-headed man with wings and a snake that walked upright on a pair of grasshopper legs, and had for some reason been provided with an enormous, drooping penis.
“Goddamned priests,” Marcus muttered. He wasn’t a religious man, but there was something a lot more . . . well, respectful about a simple double circle in gold hanging over an altar. He turned to Janus. “You were right. This is a temple.”
“There must be a shaft,” Janus said to himself. “Otherwise the smoke would be smothering. Unless they only lit the fires as we came in?”
“Either way, they’re ready for us.”
“As you pointed out, Captain, that was inevitable when we used a cannon as a door knocker.” Janus raised his voice. “All right, Corporal. Onward! They’re only statues. And ask your men not to touch any of them, please. They are quite old, and some of them seem fragile.”
The big corporal barked orders, and the rankers advanced, spreading in a loose formation through the enormous room. The statues were set in a rough pattern, not quite a grid, with ten or twenty feet between them. They seemed to fill the cavern to the walls, giving the impression of an army of shadowy, lantern-lit figures all around them. Marcus heard muttering among their escorts, and more than one man brought his hand to his chest to make the double-circle ward against evil. He couldn’t blame them.
Another fire sprang to life, just ahead of them, and men raised their weapons. This one was smaller, just enough to illuminate a small circle of flagstones. On either side of it lay a human figure, spread-eagled, with a wooden box sitting between them. Marcus glanced at Janus, and caught the corner of the colonel’s mouth quirked in amusement.
“Sir?” Marcus said.
“Gifts, Captain. Someone is trying to . . . buy us off.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Janus beckoned him forward, and Marcus reluctantly approached the fire. As he got closer, he realized with a start that he recognized both of the men on the floor. The fat body of General Khtoba, still in his stained dress uniform, wore an expression of blank surprise. The young man in black robes who had been the Hand of the Divine seemed more serene. Each corpse had a slim dagger embedded to the hilt in its left eye socket.
The colonel went to the box and flipped the lid open with a boot before Marcus could protest. He stared down at the cont
ents for a moment, then looked up with another brief smile.
“Take a look, Captain. You’ll appreciate this.”
The firelight glittered across a steel mask, twin to the one they’d found after the ambush. Janus bent and picked it up. Underneath it was another identical copy, and Marcus could see another beneath that.
“What is that?” Marcus said. “The Steel Ghost’s spare wardrobe?”
“More like the source of his mysterious powers,” Janus said.
“I’m not sure I understand. Was there something special about the masks after all?”
“Only the significance ascribed to them.” Janus ran a finger along the smooth metal. “It’s inspired, really. I’m amazed they managed to keep the secret for so long.”
“The way he could be in two places at once,” Marcus said. “The Steel Ghost used doubles.”
“In a way. My guess is that there was never any such person as the Steel Ghost to begin with. He was . . . a sort of myth, but one that only outsiders believed in. They must have laughed long and loud around the campfires.”
“But someone must have worn the masks!”
“Whoever was convenient. Once you’ve built up the legend, think of the advantages. Pull a mask out from under your cloak, and suddenly it’s not just a Desoltai raid but the Steel Ghost himself out for blood. Take it off when no one’s looking, and the Ghost vanishes into the desert like a shadow. Combine that with the intelligence advantage they derived from their lantern codes, and they’d created a shadow puppet that had the whole country running scared.”
Marcus looked down at the mask in the colonel’s hand. “You knew. That’s why you told me not to put it out that we’d killed the Ghost in the ambush—you knew he might turn up here as well.”
“Let’s say that I strongly suspected. When you have a man whose only distinguishing feature is something that hides his identity, why should you assume it’s the same man each time? It’s like saying the Pontifex of the White has lived for a thousand years because different men keep putting on the hat.”
“You might have told me.”
“I would have, if it had ever become a serious issue. As it is, it’s simply a . . . curiosity.” He looked dismissively at the two corpses, then raised his voice to a shout. It echoed off the distant walls. “Very generous! I thank you.”
Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Janus held up one finger for silence. A moment later, another voice filled the cavern, a distant hissing sound that seemed to come from every direction at once.
“You have what you came for, raschem. Consider this our surrender.”
“Steady,” Marcus said, as the rankers looked in all directions. The last thing they needed was a careless shot causing a panic. “Corporal, get the men to close up.”
“I am Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran,” Janus said in Khandarai. “May I have the honor of knowing to whom I speak?”
“You may call me . . . Mother.” The word echoed oddly, repeating over and over through the vaulting hall for longer than it had any right to. “And I know well who you are.”
“Then you know that this is not what I came for.”
“No?” Mother’s voice was a hiss, like windblown sand sliding across stone. The fire lighting the two corpses started to flicker and die. “You have the leaders of the Redemption. Bear them back in triumph to your pet prince. The Desoltai will raise no more rebellions, and the Steel Ghost will vanish into the myths of the Great Desol. What more do you require?”
“I will have the treasure of the Demon King,” Janus said. “Give me the Thousand Names.”
“Then it is as I feared. You are the minions of Orlanko and the Black Priests.”
Marcus glanced at Janus, but the colonel’s face was blank. None of the rankers would understand the Khandarai conversation, and Marcus was starting to doubt his own comprehension. Black Priests? If she means our Priests of the Black, she’s about a hundred years too late . . .
“No,” Janus said. “They are my enemies as well.”
“You lie,” Mother snapped. “Or else you are deceived. It matters not. I offer you this final chance, raschem. Take your prizes and go.”
“I will have the Names.”
The ancient voice trailed off into a fading whisper.
“As you wish . . .”
A new sound filled the cavern. A hiss, rising from the shadows in every direction at once, like the sound of a kettle just before it becomes a shriek. There were a hundred kettles, a thousand, echoing and re-echoing until the whole vast temple seemed to be alive.
Around the edges of the room, where the glare of the bonfires didn’t reach, green lights flickered to life. They were eyes, Marcus realized, a swarm of eyes, all glowing a pale, eerie green that put him in mind of lightning bugs. By their faint light he could see ranks of swaying bodies and rows of faces with slack, distant expressions, all framed by wisps of rising white vapor. More white smoke trickled up through the air just in front of him, mixing with the dark woodsmoke of the extinguished fire. Marcus looked down.
General Khtoba had only one eye left, but that was open, filled with green light from edge to edge. His mouth worked, letting out a stream of liquid smoke whenever his fat lips parted. With an arthritic jerk, his corpse rolled on its side and started to fumble its way to its feet. Beside him, the Divine Hand sat up, his burning green gaze fixed on Marcus, and crawled forward on hands and knees.
“Kill them,” Mother’s voice said, echoing louder and louder until it thundered through the hiss of the smoke. “Kill them all!”
“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Marcus said. At least he thought he was the one who said it, but the oath had escaped from several mouths simultaneously, along with an assortment of choicer obscenities. At least one of the rankers had a more emphatic response, and the bang of his musket going off was loud enough in the echoing cavern to make Marcus duck. It was followed by another, and another, then the whole company, not a single volley but a staccato chorus of shots ripping the air and merging with their own echoes like a never-ending bolt of lightning. The flashes drowned out the bonfires and turned the scene into a flickering montage of light and darkness, men waving and running in jerky stop-motion.
He saw Khtoba rear up, finally managing to lift his fat bulk to his knees. One of the rankers shot him from only a few feet away. In the next flash, Marcus saw the big general jerk, strings of gristle and gore hanging down the back of his uniform where the ball had punched clean through him. No blood ran from the wound, though, only a trickle of white smoke like the trail from a snuffed candle. And Khtoba himself gave no indication of being aware that he’d been hit. He sprinted at the ranker, no more bothered by the hole in his chest than the dagger in his eye. The Colonial screamed, raising his musket in desperate self-defense, but the Khtoba-thing grabbed it with both hands, jerked it out of the way, and bore the man to the ground.
Screams were erupting throughout the cavern. Marcus’ night vision had been ruined by the muzzle flashes. All he could see was the distant glow of the fires and the swarms of green eyes closing in. The wave of panicked shouts washed over him.
“Out! Fucking get out of here!”
“Brass Balls of the fucking Beast—”
“Get it off me!”
“Die, you son of a fucking—”
“They’re in the door—”
“Form on me!” That was the big corporal, he thought. “Seventh Company, form square on me!”
A good idea, Marcus thought half hysterically, but it wouldn’t work. Forming emergency square was hard enough in the open, let alone with demons bearing down on you.
Demons . . .
“Captain!”
The colonel’s voice snapped Marcus out of his stunned reverie. He looked up to find the Divine Hand nearly on top of him, one arm thrown wide to draw him into a vicious embrace. Marcus jammed his hand into the thing’s face and gasped when it bit down hard on the heel of his palm.
The blast of a pi
stol going off at close range muffled Marcus’ scream. The creature’s head came apart as the expertly placed ball caught it just above one ear, scattering bits of skull and brain. A torrent of the strange white smoke issued forth, mixing with the pink-gray of powder smoke. It staggered, which was enough for Marcus to yank his hand out of its unhinged jaw and pull himself away. A moment later, the colonel stepped in front of him, his drawn sword a shining line of steel between himself and the still-standing monster.
“Are you all right, Captain?”
“Sir—I think so, sir.” He lifted his left hand and winced at the neat half circle of teeth marks. His other hand dropped to the hilt of his own sword.
Before he could draw it, the thing lurched forward again, apparently unimpaired by the lack of the top half of its head. It was clumsy, though, and Janus sidestepped as it came at him. His cut sliced neatly through the back of its leg, which abruptly failed to support the thing’s weight, sending it crashing down in a heap. Even so, it scrabbled forward, forcing the colonel to back away.
Marcus had finally gotten his sword free, and he fell in beside Janus. Something brushed his shoulder, and he looked around in panic, but it was only the outstretched hand of one of the ancient statues. Most of the demons had followed the fleeing rankers toward the exit, but there were still two dozen immediately in front of them, closing in a rough semicircle. More clustered around the soldiers wherever they had fallen, tearing at them with fingers and teeth until the screaming finally stopped.
All the creatures Marcus could see were dressed in the brown-and-tan uniforms of the Auxiliaries. Many of them were officers, their uniforms heavy with gold braid and colorful patches, though they’d apparently forgotten the use of their swords. They retained enough sentience to know a touch of caution, however, and even a hint of tactics. Facing a pair of drawn weapons, they halted just out of reach and started to spread to encircle the two officers.
“Sir?” Marcus said, putting his back to the statue and trying to look in all directions at once. “Any ideas?”
The Thousand Names Page 56
