“What is that smell?” said Kylon.
“Mummified flesh,” said Sicarion.
“The necromancer-priests of ancient Maat embalmed their dead,” said Andromache. “And with their necromancy, the mummified dead could live forever...after a fashion.” She lifted the silver light in her hand. “The necromancers of the Red Circle must have continued the practice.”
That was a disturbing thought. Did that mean Scorikhon still lived in an undead form in the heart of his tomb? Andromache was bad enough. Caina had no wish to face a centuries-dead necromancer.
The corridor ended, and they found the source of the musty odor.
A large hall stretched before them, lined with pillars, hundreds of niches carved in the walls. In each of the niches stood a gaunt, misshapen form wrapped in stained linen. Most were no larger than cats, while some were almost the size of small horses...
Caina blinked.
The things in the niches were cats.
Hundreds of long-dead, mummified cats. Most were common house cats, but Caina saw panthers, lynxes, and even some lions in their mix. The mummification process had withered their flesh, leaving only skeletons draped in brittle linen and ragged fur. The cats seemed to watch them with empty eye sockets, yellow teeth rising from their muzzles and yellowed claws jutting from their paws.
It was...unsettling.
And Caina felt the crawling tingle of necromancy in the air.
“Cats?” said Kylon, baffled. “Why cats?”
Even Andromache seemed at a loss.
“Because,” said Caina, watching to see if Sicarion would attack her for speaking. “The ancient Maatish believed cats were the avatars of one of their goddesses. So they worshiped cats, and mummified their bodies after death. The Red Circle must have mimicked them.”
Sicarion only gave her a small smirk. As if he knew a secret that the rest of them did not.
“Yes, that's right,” said Andromache. “I had forgotten. How did you know that?”
Caina shrugged. “I read a lot.”
“There are necromantic spells here, sister,” said Kylon, looking over the rows of mummified cats. “Powerful ones.”
“I sense them, as well,” said Andromache. “Let us see if I can discern their purpose.”
She began to cast a spell, gesturing with her free hand. Caina felt the tingle of Andromache's power strain against the ancient strength of the necromantic spells. For a moment it reminded her of an icy mountain wind blowing away the stench of a corpse.
A stench that suddenly grew much sharper.
Caina's stomach twisted as she felt the necromantic spells flare with power.
“Stop!” she shouted. “You're going to...”
Hundreds of tiny green flames appeared in the empty eyes of the dead cats, flooding the chamber with ghostly light. A rustling sound echoed off the stone walls, and Caina realized that the dead things were moving, that their limbs were twitching, their tails coiling and uncoiling.
And then in one motion the dead cats jumped from their niches and attacked.
One of the living mercenaries went down, buried beneath a score of undead cats and one mummified panther. The man screamed in horror, blood blossoming across his face as claws dug into his flesh. Yet the cats themselves remained silent, the only noise the rustle of their linen wrappings. The panther's yellowing jaws closed around the man's throat, and his screams ended with a hideous crunch.
And the wall of mummified flesh surged toward Caina.
She doubted her steel weapons could harm the cats, so she yanked her ghostsilver dagger from its sheath and attacked. The blade sheared through the dead flesh like butter, and she destroyed three of the cats in short order, their corpses collapsing into piles of dusty bone and ragged fur. Yet there were too many of the things, and Caina turned to flee before they ripped her to shreds.
But the cats flowed around her. Even as Caina struck down two more, they ignored her. The Moroaica's wards upon the doors had dissolved at Caina's touch. Had the necromantic spells animating the cats decided that Caina was the Moroaica?
Disturbing thought.
It was almost as disturbing as watching an army of dead cats rip apart Sicarion's mercenaries. The living mercenaries died in heartbeats, while the cats tore the dead ones to shreds. Sicarion himself remained clear, daggers in both hands, moving with speed and agility belied by his scarred appearance.
Then Kylon and Andromache recovered from their surprise and attacked.
Kylon shot forward with superhuman speed, and the sheer force of his passage plowed a path through the advancing cats. His sword struck right and left in a white blur. The undead cats had no blood to freeze, but for all their unnatural strength, they were only brittle bone and dried fur, and every one of Kylon's blows shattered a half-dozen of the creatures.
Andromache gestured, and Caina felt the surge of the stormsinger's arcane might. Miniature whirlwinds formed in the chamber, turning the dead cats to dust. One of the undead lions raced at Andromache, jaws yawning wide, and she pointed at it. White mist swirled around her outstretched finger, and a spear-sized icicle shot through the air to pin the lion against the wall.
But more of the dead cats raced toward them, their claws clicking against the stone floor. Andromache conjured up more whirlwinds, and Kylon spun and slashed like a whirlwind himself, but the assault did not slow. The cats continued to ignore Caina, and she hesitated. If she fled, perhaps they would overwhelm Andromache, keep her from claiming Scorikhon's power...
“Enough!” shouted Andromache, and she thrust out her hands.
Arcs of blue-white lightning erupted from her fingertips and exploded in all directions. The lightning ripped through the undead cats, sheathing them in flames. The burning cats took two or three steps and collapsed into piles of smoking ash. More lightning poured from Andromache's hands until the hall disappeared into smoke and harsh white light. Caina coughed, wishing she had her mask to pull over her face...
Andromache clapped her hands. A gust of wind blew through the hall, whipping away the smoke and the ash. When it cleared, Caina saw that burned bones carpeted the floor, that every last one of the animated cats had been destroyed.
The stench of burned fur filled the air.
It was not a pleasant smell.
Andromache swayed on her feet, blinking, and for an instant Caina considered attacking with her ghostsilver dagger. Then Kylon stepped between them, and the chance was lost.
“Are you well, sister?” said Kylon. He was unhurt, though the disturbed look on his face had grown sharper.
“I am unharmed,” said Andromache. “Though I will never get this stench out of my nostrils.”
“Perhaps,” said Kylon, “perhaps we should turn back.”
Andromache frowned. “Turn back?”
“These...ghastly things,” said Kylon, gesturing at the burned bones. “What other horrors might we encounter? Is the price truly worth it?”
“To claim the Tomb,” said Andromache, “I have raised an army and a fleet, sailed across the sea, attacked an enemy city, started a war, and defeated rival sorcerers in spell battle.” She lifted her head. “Do you really think a collection of dead cats will make me turn back?”
Kylon lowered his head.
“Do you see, mistress?” said Sicarion.
“See what?” said Andromache.
“The undead did not attack the Ghost,” said Sicarion. “Because she...”
“Is the Moroaica,” said Andromache, annoyed. “You weary my ears.” She turned toward the archway on the far side of the hall. “The Ghost is not the Moroaica, though it seems some part of my teacher's power is trapped within her. Once I have the Tomb's power, I will claim that power as well. The Moroaica was my teacher, so it is only just that I am her heir.” She pointed at an archway on the far side of hall. “Now, come! I will have no further delays.”
She strode for the arch. Kylon and Sicarion placed themselves on either side of Caina, and she had no
choice but to walk with them.
“This is madness,” hissed Caina. “You know it, Kylon.”
Kylon opened his mouth, closed it again, and then shook his head. “I do not know.”
“You do,” said Caina. “You can talk her out of this, you can change her mind...”
“I cannot,” said Kylon. “She...has always been right before, Ghost. She is my sister. She saved my family, my House. I will...I will trust her.” There was a desperate, faint hope in his voice. “She will prove me wrong, and all my doubts will be for nothing. She will.”
“Sicarion,” said Caina.
The scarred man's cold, mismatched eyes turned to her.
“You think I am the Moroaica,” said Caina. “If I commanded you to stop Andromache, would you?”
“Of course not,” said Sicarion. “For you commanded that Andromache must claim the power within the Tomb.” There was a malevolent glitter in his eyes, a dark and terrible amusement.
“The Moroaica commanded you to make sure that Andromache entered the Tomb of Scorikhon?” said Caina.
“Yes, mistress,” said Sicarion. “For the Moroaica always keeps her word.”
“I told you, Ghost,” said Andromache, “not to talk. If she talks again, silence her.”
They walked in silence, deeper into the Tomb of Scorikhon.
Chapter 28 - The Promise of the Moroaica
The corridor ended in a set of massive black doors.
Even from a distance, Caina felt the necromantic power radiating from those doors. Or, rather, from behind those doors. Power to make the wards upon the outer doors to seem like a child's petty trick, power to even dwarf Andromache's sorcerous might.
Scorikhon’s resting place.
“At last,” said Andromache.
They had been walking for almost an hour, through corridors carved with Maatish reliefs showing scenes of torture and necromantic science. Time and time again they had encountered wards, only to have the spells disarm themselves at Caina's touch. That horrified her – how much of Jadriga's dark power had she absorbed?
She didn't know.
“The doors,” said Andromache. “Open them, Ghost.”
Caina hesitated. She had no wish to open those black doors, but there was no other choice. Andromache would kill her without compunction if she refused. Kylon might hesitate, but if Andromache ordered him to kill Caina, he would do it.
So Caina walked to the black doors at the end of the corridor. The necromantic power washed over her, like waves of heat radiating from an inferno. Another set of wards rested upon the doors, but they were nothing compared to the power waiting beyond. Caina had to think of something, some way to stop Andromache.
But Caina could think of nothing, so she reached out and opened the black doors. Again she felt the ward drain away at her touch.
Beyond the doors lay a burial chamber.
It was a large chamber of polished black stone, the roof rising in a dome. Beneath the center of the dome lay a black sarcophagus. The lid had been carved in the effigy of a cruel-faced man in robes, a staff resting across his chest.
The power radiated from that sarcophagus.
Symbols written in lines of green fire rested on the floor, pulsing and flickering. They formed a ring around the sarcophagus, like ghostly candles arranged around a bier. Caina recognized some of the symbols as sigils of warding and imprisonment. Had the Red Circle laid those wards to keep intruders away from the sarcophagus?
Or had they created the wards to trap something inside?
“At last,” breathed Andromache, the green light reflecting in her eyes. “At long last. The end of all my labors. Scorikhon's power is mine.”
“Sister,” said Kylon.
But Andromache paid him no heed. She walked past him and moved toward the sarcophagus. Kylon hissed in alarm as she stepped over the glowing green sigils, but nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
That didn’t make any sense.
Caina frowned at the sarcophagus, her mind racing. This didn't make any sense at all. Vast power lay within that sarcophagus. And Jadriga had believed in power, trusted in it as she trusted in nothing else. If she worshiped anything, beyond her own self, she worshiped power.
So why hadn't she taken the power in that sarcophagus?
Andromache ran her hands over the effigy, whispering a spell. Green light flared around her hands.
The Tomb’s wards couldn’t have kept Jadriga from claiming the power. Jadriga herself had laid the wards upon the Tomb, if Sicarion and Andromache were correct. Why seal away the power when it would have been so much easier to claim it?
Andromache shoved. The lid slid off the sarcophagus and shattered against the floor, the crack of breaking stone echoing through the burial chamber.
So what had stopped Jadriga from taking the power?
Sicarion and Kylon edged closer to see what lay within the sarcophagus, and Caina went with them. A mummified human corpse rested within, draped in elaborate crimson and black robes, face hidden beneath a golden funerary mask.
“Scorikhon,” said Andromache, voice reverent.
“He hasn't aged well,” said Caina.
The only reason Jadriga would not have claimed the power was if she didn't want to claim it. Why not? Did she want to give the power to someone else?
Or did it already belong to someone else?
“The power must be in an amulet,” said Andromache, reaching for the corpse. “Or a relic of some kind.”
Sicarion had told her that the Moroaica always kept her word.
In Caina's dream, the image of Jadriga had claimed that true immortality was not in the flesh, but in the spirit, that the flesh could be replaced...
And in a single horrified instant, Caina understood.
Andromache had been tricked.
“Andromache!” shouted Caina. “Stop! Don't...”
Andromache's touched the withered corpse's shoulder.
And green light blazed to life in the golden mask's eyes. The mummified corpse sat up, its skeletal hands closing around Andromache's shoulders. Andromache screamed and tried to pull away, but the dead hands held her fast. A swirling green mist poured from the funerary mask and wrapped itself around Andromache's head. Andromache screamed and screamed, eyes wide with horror.
Sicarion laughed.
“Sister!” shouted Kylon, racing to her side. He jumped over the glowing sigils, his sword a blur. The blade crashed through the golden mask and plunged into the corpse’s chest. Caina glimpsed a grinning skull behind the ruined mask, and then the mummy collapsed into dust. Kylon dragged Andromache away from the sarcophagus and through the circle of glowing sigils, the green mist still swirling around her head. The mist poured into her mouth, her nose, her ears, her eyes, draining into her skull like wine pouring into an amphora.
And then the mist was gone.
“Sister,” said Kylon. “Are you all right?”
Andromache looked up at him. For a moment she seemed confused, disoriented.
Then her expression hardened into a sneer of contempt.
“Take your hands off me, churl,” she said, wrenching away from Kylon. She spoke High Nighmarian, not Kyracian. “Lest I wither your flesh and crumble your bones for such impudence.”
Kylon flinched as if she had slapped him.
“Kylon,” said Caina. “Get away from her.”
“I don't understand,” said Kylon. He touched Andromache's shoulder. “Tell me...”
Andromache's sneer turned into a snarl, and she waved her hand.
Caina felt a surge of arcane power, and invisible force seized Kylon and threw him across the chamber. He slammed hard into the wall and fell to the floor, eyes wide with surprise.
“Master,” said Sicarion, bowing. “You have returned. The mistress will be pleased.”
“Sicarion?” Andromache's eyes shifted to scarred man, and she laughed. “Still alive, after all these centuries? I should not be surprised. One cannot kill
a cockroach.”
“Andromache!” said Kylon, struggling to his feet. “What is this?”
“That's not Andromache,” said Caina.
The others fell silent. There was a cruel, gloating amusement on Andromache's face.
“And just,” said Andromache, “who am I?”
“Scorikhon,” said Caina.
The Ghosts Omnibus: The Kyracian War Page 30
