Caina supposed they were about to find out.
She rose from the floor. She wore dark clothes and leather armor, throwing knives concealed in her sleeves and belt, daggers hidden in boot sheaths, the ghostsilver dagger in its scabbard at her belt. The pyrikon waited upon her left wrist in its divination-blocking ring-and-chain form, and she had spent time practicing with it, commanding the relic to transform from a staff to a bracelet and back again. If the plan worked, if the Sifter attacked her in the wraithblood laboratory, she might not have much time to bring the pyrikon to bear.
Kylon waited next to her, clad in similar clothes and armor, Caina’s shadow-cloak hanging around him. The sheathed valikon hung in a baldric over his shoulder. Caina doubted the Sifter would be foolish enough to possess any living men, not after Kylon had tried to use the ancient Iramisian sword against the ifrit, but if it did, they would be ready. Morgant lounged nearby, scribbling in his notebook. He had disdained any disguise, and wore his usual long black coat, white shirt, black trousers, and boots. Yet the crimson scimitar was on his belt, and Caina knew he had that strange black dagger somewhere in his coat.
Kazravid stood talking with Shopur in a low voice, and fifty of Shopur’s mercenaries waited in the warehouse, weapons ready. The Anshani captain had three hundred men in his company, but Nasser had scattered them throughout the city, directing them to make trouble and start fires in abandoned buildings. He wanted the city watch and the Immortals spread too thin to respond when the Craven’s Tower went up.
Nasser was spending a small fortune on this venture. Caina hoped that it was worth the effort, that Morgant would indeed reveal his secret if they lived through this.
“It’s time, Nasser?” said Kazravid.
“Aye,” said Nasser. “Loosen your swords in their scabbards and string your bows. If we live through the night, we shall all be wealthy men.” He looked at Caina and Kylon. “Best to do it now, I think.”
Caina nodded and concentrated on Annarah’s pyrikon, and it shifted back into the form of a bracelet. Kylon pulled off the shadow-cloak, rolled it up, and handed it to Caina, and she tucked it into her belt. They would now be visible to anyone seeking them with a spell. If the Sifter was looking for them, it would find them in short order.
“Let’s proceed,” said Nasser, and they strode into the night.
They made their way silently through the streets. Distant shouts came to Caina’s ears, and she saw the glow of a fire in the distance. Shopur had ordered some of his men to start a riot in the Alqaarin docks, and it seemed that they had been successful. Hopefully the chaos would keep any additional watchmen or Immortals from making their way to the Craven’s Tower until it was too late.
Soon they stopped at an alley within sight of the Craven’s Tower. Caina watched the curtain wall. Torches burned at regular intervals along the rampart, and an Immortal strode past the battlements, the firelight glimmering on the polished surface of his grim black armor.
“How soon?” whispered Kylon.
“Any moment,” hissed Caina. At exactly midnight, Nerina would launch her missile, and then set her warehouse ablaze to destroy any evidence before fleeing with Azaces. There were a dozen more barrels of lamp oil surrounding the catapult, which would make for quite the impressive blaze. Caina only hoped Nerina did not make a mistake and accidentally light one of the barrels aflame too soon.
They waited in silence. Caina had been in enough battles to recognize the quiet tension in the men, the fear as they prepared for action. She felt her own quiet fear as well, a fear held back by training and years of experience. More experience than she would have liked. She was a spy, not a soldier or a warrior, yet she kept finding herself in these damned battles.
A tingle of sorcery washed over her, and she glanced at Kylon. He was calm, but the fingers of his sword hand kept opening and closing, and she felt the power as he prepared the sorcery of water and air for the battle to come.
“There,” murmured Nasser.
A fireball arced across the night sky like a comet. It was the barrel of oil, its sides ablaze. It fell behind the drum tower and disappeared from sight, and a heartbeat later she heard the shattering crash as it struck the outbuilding. Shouts rang out, followed by the sounds of clattering boots and running footsteps.
Caina braced herself and waited.
Nothing happened. Caina’s mind moved to the contingency plans. If the Hellfire had failed to explode, they would have to withdraw and try again. Unfortunately, the Immortals within the Tower would be on their guard against a second attempt. Even worse, the Sifter was likely heading to Caina’s location right now.
“Well,” said Morgant, “that was…”
The ground fell out from beneath Caina’s feet.
An instant later the sky filled with crimson light, and a second after that the thunderous roar filled Caina’s ears, a hot wind blowing down the alley. Caina stumbled and would have fallen, but Kylon caught her wrist. An enormous ball of crimson flame rose past the drum tower. Pebbles started to fall in the alley, bouncing off the ground or clattering off the armor of the men.
“That was more impressive than I expected,” said Morgant, one hand braced against the brick wall of a warehouse.
“Now!” said Nasser. “Forward, with all speed. Shopur, take your men and secure the treasury. Every second counts. Go!”
###
Kylon dashed forward, the sorcery of air lending him speed, the sorcery of water granting him strength. Memories thrummed through him as he did. The great battle at Marsis, the vicious fighting in the docks as the Kyracian fleet stormed into the harbor. The battle that had destroyed the Imperial fleet in the western sea, and the fighting in the Tower of Study at Catekharon. The golden dead rising to terrorize New Kyre, the desperate defense at the foot of the Pyramid of Storm as Caina and Corvalis and the Sage Talekhris went to confront the Moroaica in the netherworld.
It was strange, but Kylon felt more at peace than he had in a long time.
This was the kind of fight he understood. He was not a spy and he had not been a very good politician. He was a stormdancer, a warrior and soldier. This was what he had been trained to do, and he was good at it.
He sprinted for the curtain wall and jumped. The sorcery of water lent his legs strength, and he soared through the air. He struck the wall perhaps two-thirds of the way up, kicked off the stone, grabbed the battlements of the rampart, and pulled himself over.
Two Immortals stood nearby, frozen with shock as they gazed at the fireball to the south, crimson light outlining the damaged drum tower in a hellish glow. Kylon moved before the men reacted to his presence and slammed into the nearest Immortal. The black-armored warrior lost his balance and fell to the rubble-strewn courtyard, the snap of bone coming to Kylon’s ears. The second Immortal drew his scimitar and attacked, and Kylon yanked his broadsword from his belt. He parried once, twice, three times, and then saw his opening. Kylon sidestepped, his back slapping against the ramparts, and his sword raked across the back of the Immortal’s leg. The Immortal bellowed, and Kylon drove his boot into the warrior’s wounded leg. The black-armored warrior overbalanced and fell, joining his dead comrade in the courtyard below.
Kylon yanked a coil of rope from his belt, one end tipped with a collapsible grapnel. He opened the grapnel, secured it against the battlements, and threw the coil of rope over the wall. He repeated the procedure with a second coil, and the rope struck the ground just as the first mercenaries reached the base of the wall. Other mercenaries threw grapnels of their own, and soon five ropes dangled from the ramparts, and the mercenaries began scrambling up.
He turned, watching the courtyard. Once Nasser and the others gained the wall, they would be nearly impossible to dislodge from the fortress. But until then, they were vulnerable. Even a few Immortals would be enough to hold the ramparts and cut the ropes. Yet Kylon saw no other sign of any other Immortals, whether on the walls or in the drum tower. The tower itself had taken damage from the exp
losion. He sensed a welter of emotions from the southern end of the courtyard, fury and rage and terror, but none of it was coming this way…
A door in the base of the tower opened, and five Immortals in black armor ran out, coughing and wheezing. Dust marked their armor, and a few of them looked injured. One of them saw Kylon. The Immortal raised an arm and shouted, and the blue-glowing eyes of the others snapped to him. They drew their scimitars and ran across the courtyard, dodging around the debris left by the explosion.
Kylon leaped from the ramparts, calling upon his power. He fell like a thunderbolt, landing in the midst of the charging Immortals, and struck. His sword plunged through a gap in the nearest Immortal’s armor, and Kylon ripped the weapon free, the blade wet with blood. He whirled and killed another Immortal before the surprise wore off, and then the three survivors attacked, fanning out around him. Kylon retreated, the sorcery of air letting him stay ahead of his opponents. Steel clanged and shivered, and while he avoided their blades, he could not land any blows. The three Immortals had experience fighting as a team, and they exploited that experience to the full. Kylon found himself driven back towards the tower.
But that meant the Immortals had their backs to the curtain wall.
A dark shape moved behind the Immortal on Kylon’s left, red light flashing. Morgant’s strange dagger ripped open the armor covering the Immortal’s throat, the black blade parting flesh and steel both. The Immortal fell, clawing at his ruined throat, and Kylon seized the moment of distraction. His blade crunched home in the armpit of another Immortal, drawing blood. The Immortal staggered towards him, and Kylon slammed the pommel of his sword into the Immortal’s skull-masked helmet. The warrior went down, and Kylon whirled to face the final Immortal.
Morgant stepped forward and jabbed his dagger into the Immortal’s leg. The red gem in the pommel flashed, and the Immortal burst into flames, fire erupting from the joints in his armor. The Immortal loosed a hideous scream, staggered forward a few steps, and collapsed to the ground, smoke billowing from his corpse. The smell was hideous.
“Thanks,” said Kylon, lowering his sword.
Morgant shrugged. “You were doing well enough on your own. I’m just faster, boy. It comes with experience.”
Kylon opened his mouth to insult the old assassin back, decided that he did not care, and looked around. Shopur’s mercenaries swarmed over the wall. A dark shape came towards Kylon. It was Caina, and her blue eyes were fixed on the damaged tower.
“It’s in there,” said Caina.
“The Sifter?” said Kylon.
“No, the wraithblood laboratory,” said Caina. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”
Kylon’s power had been focused upon augmenting his strength, but now he turned his senses towards the drum tower. He felt the raging inferno of pyromantic power unleashed by the Hellfire explosion. It was starting to fade, but it would last for some time yet. He also felt power within the tower. It reminded him of a weaker version of the great rift the Moroaica had torn open in the sky on the day of the golden dead.
A gate to the netherworld.
“I do,” said Kylon.
“If we defeat the Sifter there,” said Caina, “it will be drawn back into the netherworld.”
“We had best move.” Nasser came into sight, Laertes, Shopur, and Kazravid trailing after him. “The treasury vaults are on the first floor. Shopur, Laertes. Make sure the money is taken and divided equitably. Kazravid, keep watch. If the city watch or the Immortals send reinforcements, we shall have to flee at once.”
“I’m going to the wraithblood laboratory to await the Sifter,” said Caina.
“I am coming with you,” said Kylon. He would not leave her to face the ifrit alone.
“As am I,” said Morgant. “I need to see if this little ploy of yours works or not.”
Kylon started to ask what would happened if they failed. Perhaps the Sifter was wise enough to realize its vulnerability and would not enter the trap. Perhaps they had just blown up one of the Padishah’s fortresses and robbed his treasury for no reason.
Yet it didn’t matter. Even if the Sifter did not come here, it would not stop hunting Caina. It would come for her, sooner or later, probably sooner. Perhaps it knew of the danger the wraithblood laboratory presented, but did not care.
“Very well,” said Nasser. “If we are forced to flee, you know where to meet us.” He raised his voice. “Let’s go!”
The mercenaries ran for the drum tower. Caina strode towards the door, and Kylon and Morgant followed her.
###
Silence reigned inside the drum tower.
Caina made her way down a corridor of stone, her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left. Kylon still held his broadsword, and Morgant had drawn his crimson scimitar and the black dagger.
“Anyone?” said Caina.
Kylon shook his head, face tight with concentration. “I can’t sense anyone. We’re alone.”
“Likely all the Immortals went to see your fireworks show,” said Morgant.
“Or died in the collapse,” said Caina, pointing with her ghostsilver dagger. The corridor curved around the base of the tower, but ahead it had been blocked by fresh rubble. Dust hung in the air, looking like bloody mist in the crimson light leaking through the windows.
“It would be amusing,” said Morgant. “All this effort, and we buried the laboratory.”
“No,” said Caina. A stone arch opened in the curved wall, revealing a flight of stairs descending into the earth. She felt the faint tremors of arcane power beneath her boots, the familiar presence of a wraithblood laboratory. Caina beckoned, and they took the stairs. They sank into the tower’s foundations, light coming from vials of alchemical elixirs set into the wall. The stairs ended in a set of double doors, closed and bound in steel.
“Any wards on the doors?” said Caina.
“Nothing,” said Kylon. “But…there is a lot of power behind those doors. A sorcerer might not need a concealment spell to mask his presence. The radiance of that much arcane power would do it for him.”
Caina nodded and put her weapons back in their sheaths. “Help me with the doors.”
Kylon stepped to help her, while Morgant remained on watch. Together they heaved and pushed the doors open. Pale light spilled out of the doors, and Caina stepped back, shading her eyes.
“Gods of storm and brine,” whispered Kylon. “What is this place?”
“A wraithblood laboratory,” said Caina, drawing her ghostsilver dagger.
The vast room was circular, as wide as the drum tower overhead, the ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Dozens of rows of steel tables waited in the room, and upon each table rested a dead male or female slave. The slaves had dozens of steel spikes driven into their flesh, slender chains dangling from them. Black blood dripped from their wounds, charged with arcane power, and collected in metal troughs below the tables. The hanging chains had been knotted together to form an intricate maze of metal cables upon the floor, all of them leading to the far wall. There they joined together to form a metal cable as thick as both of Caina’s legs put together.
And then the cable reached the Mirror of Worlds.
The mirror was a huge square, sixteen feet by sixteen feet, mounted in a wooden frame. The vast sheet of glass reflected the laboratory, and Caina saw her reflection and Kylon’s and Morgant’s in it. Yet there was something beneath the glass, something moving. Beyond the reflection stretched a vast bleak plain, gray grass rippling and undulating in an endless wind. Bands of black clouds choked the sky, roiling and flashing with bolts of silent green lighting.
The netherworld.
The Mirror of Worlds radiated arcane power, and more sorcerous energy flowed down the chains to the tables.
“Gods,” said Kylon, looking around. “There must be two hundred corpses.”
“And many more have died here, I can promise you that,” said Caina. She remembered the wraithblood laboratory she had
found in the Widow’s Tower, her horror at discovering just what Callatas had done with the thousands of slaves he had purchased from the Brotherhood. “That’s why I’ve been terrorizing the Slavers’ Brotherhood. To cut off the flow of slaves…”
“To places like this,” said Kylon, taking a cautious step forward. “To abattoirs like this. Gods. I did not doubt you when you told me of the wraithblood laboratories, but to hear it described and to see it with your own eyes are two different things.”
“Yes,” said Caina, taking slow, quiet steps down the aisles between the rows of metal tables. As far as she could tell, the laboratory was deserted. That was good. Unfortunately, she saw no sign of the Sifter.
“That is why your life is more important than mine,” said Kylon.
Caina stopped and looked at him. “What?”
“No one knew this was happening,” said Kylon. “No one even suspected.” He waved a hand at Morgant. “He might have known, but he didn’t do anything useful about it.” Morgant snorted, but Kylon kept talking. “No one knew. No one tried to stop it. You…”
“This is pointless,” said Caina. She took another look around the laboratory. There were doors in some of the walls, no doubt leading to other chambers beneath the Craven’s Tower, but she did not want to take the time to search them. “We can’t linger here. If the Sifter doesn’t appear soon, we’ll…”
Both Morgant and Kylon whirled, weapons leveled. Caina followed their gaze. An Immortal emerged from one of the side doors, armor clanking. The black-armored warrior carried no weapons, and Caina soon saw why.
The eyeholes of the skull-masked helm blazed with crimson fire.
The Sifter had come for her.
Chapter 17: Dark Sword
The Sifter regarded the demonslayer and her allies with its stolen eyes of flesh, while its immaterial eyes of energy contemplated the maze of destiny spreading through the tapestry of the world.
Its gambit had worked, had brought Caina Amalas into its grasp at last. It had not been able to see her destiny thread, not while she labored so carefully to shield it…but her shielding did not extend to all threads around her. The demonslayer exerted a mighty pull on the paths of those near her, altering the flow of their threads with her choices. The Sifter had not been able to see her, but it saw the effect she had on the fates of those around her.
Ghost in the Razor Page 23
