The top two rungs of a heat-blackened ladder thrust up from the pit's edge. Despite the callouses on his hands, the ladder felt incredibly hot. As he descended, Faros peered down. He could see nothing but smoke and the glow of fire.
“Come on!” roared the guard above. “You'll see enough of it once you're down there working!”
Forced to move awkwardly because of the fetters, Faros descended into the choking haze. The heat he had found so unbearable above proved a cool breeze in comparison to the inferno below. Every lungful of air burned.
From the ladder he went to another and another, ten ladders in all, and each a twenty-foot descent.
At the base of the last, a guard cautioned the prisoners to lean against the hot, ashen wall. Faros needed no warning, as the carved ledge upon which they stood was only three feet wide. Flames shot up past him. The smell of burning oil singed his nostrils.
Faros made out level upon level of stone walkways and, stationed at intervals, prisoners with long, iron-hooked staffs. One worker had the end of the staff around a chain from which hung a thick, oval container made of iron. From the way the shackled figure labored, the container carried in it something of immense weight.
A rock slipped out, plummeting into the abyss. Immediately a guard whipped the guilty worker, almost sending him over the edge.
The soldier guiding Faros stepped close. “A good lesson there, fool! Those containers're worth more than your miserable hides. You'll feel the whip for each spill. Now move it!”
“What're they doing?” he blurted.
“Smelting, fool! There's charcoal and ore in those containers.” Faros knew that with the right heat but no fire inside, the copper and iron would separate. “The open containers are fresh loads sent down from above. You'll be catching those and passing them on.”
Depositing the other prisoners as they walked, the guard at last brought Faros to his new station.
One level down, a pair of minotaurs worked at a large iron container. Both laborers looked ready to collapse.
A new overseer took charge. Completely ash gray, eyes lined with red veins, and his arms covered in scabs and burns, he rumbled, “The chain system brings the bins of ore. You catch one off as it comes near, then use the hook to guide it down to that pair. Let 'em empty it, then take the hook and guide the empty one back up. The chains above will send it back for refilling.”
Reaching into a shallow alcove carved out of the burned wall, he thrust a staff into Faros' sweating hands. Faros fumbled for a grip, nearly losing the staff to the pit.
The ghastly looking overseer chuckled. “Clumsiness isn't a good trait down here, lad, though we're always looking for fuel for the fire.”
A grinding sound warned Faros. Out of the haze swung one of the cast-iron containers. Roughly the width and height of a wooden barrel, it proved surprisingly heavy. He struggled as best he could, catching a loop from the dangling chain and dragging his catch toward the waiting pair below.
No sooner had Faros sent the emptied bin back than another filled one came out of the haze. Barely recovered, Faros went back to work, discovering this time that the bin held charcoal.
Over and over the process was repeated. Ore would come, he would deliver it to the workers below, they would empty it into the ovens, then send off the container for more. Next came the charcoal and the same process began all over again.
Faros soon learned to calculate the length of each break, allowing him to sit for a few precious moments. And sit he needed to, whenever possible. The heat was dizzying. The ledge made his work precarious at all times.
Three hours passed. Breathing heavily, Faros was about to reach for yet another container, his hands shaking from effort.
A rumble below startled him, and he missed the loop. The container vanished into the haze, unemptied.
He quickly glanced down, but rather than being upset, the two prisoners there suddenly threw themselves against the wall. From the pit rose roaring, white tendrils of flame.
“Yaah!” Falling back, Faros barely missed being engulfed. He covered his face and curled in a fetal position. As quickly as they had come, the hungry flames withdrew.
“Get up! Get up you sniveling wretches!” roared the ash-gray overseer. To his latest minion, he rumbled, “When they add fuel to the pit, that happens sometimes. Listen for the rumbling, and you'll likely live through it. Understand?”
Faros managed a short nod.
“Hurry!” snarled his instructor. “Next one's coming.”
A filled container materialized. Body aching and eyes still seeing ghosts of the flame, Faros started the cycle anew. Only after the overseer left did Faros finally look around to see if the other prisoners had noted his pitiful reaction. Only then did he realize that one of them was no longer there. He had not even heard the scream.
*****
A chill night wind coursed through Nethosak, a wind that pervaded every building in the capital, no matter how well-sealed. Most who felt it huddled close to fires or threw on cloaks. A few with senses more acute felt their fur stand on end and looked around anxiously, certain that they were being watched.
Dark, green-gray clouds encompassed the capital, too. Within the foul murk, flashes of bloody crimson burst briefly to life, then perished.
The sky became a maelstrom, howling and whirling. Each moment, a storm of gargantuan proportion seemed ready to strike.
Within the temple of the Forerunners, the faithful acolytes hurried along their way, sensing more than most the strangeness of the night. They shivered as they raced along the corridors and glanced over their shoulders as they passed the ominous, towering statues.
For those whose tasks took them near the meditation room where the high priestess had secreted herself an hour earlier, the sensation of fear was strongest. Four anxious Protectors stood guard there, ears taut as they pretended not to notice how the shadows around them encroached. Within, Nephera's voice could be heard, but the few comprehensible words were in no earthly tongue.
As her voice rose, an endless multitude of ethereal, invisible forms flew up through the temple roof into the fiery sky, riding the winds and streaking with the lightning in all directions. For a time, they fluttered around and around over Nethosak, as if gaining their bearings, then in one sudden burst they spread out over the imperial capital, out over the entire island, and swiftly beyond.
Shrieking spectres in tattered garments coursed through buildings without pause, passing unnoticed by and even through those still awake within. Raging ghosts in rusted armor did battle with the elements as they soared over the Blood Sea.
Most had been sent with but a single mission in mind. The high priestess sought more than ever any clue, any word, of those plotting against her and her mate. From her latest lists, Nephera had underscored hundreds of names, countless locations. She could not yet reach the limits of the empire, but she could cover much territory.
On a ship departing Kothas for colonies southeast, the captain no longer dined alone in his quarters.
Now a disheveled minotaur whose throat bore a six-inch gap at the center sat across the table, dead eyes intently staring at the ignorant mariner.
On Sargonath, the captain of the local militia led a patrol to investigate recent reports of nighttime activity by the ogres. Along with him rode twenty strong warriors and, floating alongside them, three apparitions. One was the captain's own brother, his crazily tilted head the result of an ogre club that had snapped his neck and crushed in his skull. Now he watched for possible seditious thoughts on the part of his sibling. The dead served only the high priestess.
On Mito, Governor Haab questioned a shipwright who had been found procuring materials for an unsanctioned vessel—a small ship with which he hoped to join his cousin, the former militia commander, at some unspecified location. The captive minotaur's arms had been bound behind him, and he had been forced to his knees. Despite pressure in the form of a prolonged whipping, the blood-soaked shipwright still cl
aimed not to know his destination.
Haab leaned against his desk as one of the guards struck the prisoner across the muzzle. The governor tapped his fingers on the wood as he spoke. “If you do not know this place where you were to meet Ryn, then how could you possibly set sail? Did you plan to sail around the Courrain until you just happened to pass one another?”
When his guest did not reply, Haab had the guards whip him again and again. The governor was upset and rightly so. The flight of Ryn and much of the original militia was a black mark that would cast a shadow on his authority.
“Well?” demanded Haab. “Why does he not speak?”
One of the guards bowed, his ears flat. “The pain, sir. I think he's in shock.”
“Let me see.” Haab stepped up and seized the prisoner's muzzle, turning the gaze to his own.
The governor saw nothing within. The eyes stared, but his prey had escaped after all. Haab knew that he would not be coming back. With a snort of rage, the minotaur twisted the bound figure's head sharply to the side.
Letting the body drop, Governor Haab, his breathing short and his eyes red with fury, turned.
“Dispose of it! Now!”
As they obeyed, he sat down at his desk, brooding. The throne expected a report, one with a satisfactory conclusion. Discovering the whereabouts of the traitors would have not only erased Haab's black mark, but it would have put him in good standing with his emperor.
He seized a blank parchment. If the trail was lost, it was best if it looked as if it had never existed in the first place. That would ease Haab's troubles.
Quill in hand, he wrote:
In the matter of the traitor Ryn, through careful work, he and his hand were hunted down in the hills of Mito, where they had hidden. They refused to surrender, and when it was clear they could not escape, they committed suicide. Their bodies were burned as a signal to all rebels. A thorough investigation finds no link to any outside contact.
The governor nodded. A few more lines of explanation and his failure would be forgotten. His career would be saved.
However, the ambitious Haab would have been less confident had he been able to see the figure now draped over his shoulder. This figure's chest was ripped open and blood was congealed over the gaping wound. It was the husky shade of the late Governor Garsis, whom Haab had personally executed, and who now had been granted the duty of monitoring his successor's loyalty. Garsis could not lie about what he saw, but the truth was just as damning. Lady Nephera had chosen each of her spies carefully.
The undead streamed throughout the reaches of the high priestess' might, a thousand wailing shades silently haunting those on her lists. Most were set upon tasks identical to that of Garsis. Watch.
Listen. Discover. Report.
But for a select few, there existed a different, darker task. The high priestess had a list of those minotaurs who had already been found wanting or defiant. To deal with such, Nephera had chosen among the apparitions those who were most suited to action. Although they were the last to emerge from the shadows of the temple, their mark would be felt most.
They had died violently, terribly, and their anguish and anger remained as virulent as ever in twisted faces and twisted souls. They hungered to share their pain, their deaths, and so she had granted them their desire.
The first of them came screaming silently into the luxurious villa of the patriarch of Clan Dexos, a sturdy, black-furred elder. He was vocally a supporter of Hotak, but behind the scenes, Brygar used the name of the new emperor as a way to skim profit from the farmers and herders of Kothas whenever they sent their shipments to the markets of the capital. In another time, Brygar would have worshipped the god Hiddukel, the Deal Maker.
He did not notice, of course, that he was no longer alone. Brygar stood in the vault kept hidden deep below, awkwardly carrying with him a sack of ill-gotten gains. One servant, a trusted guard bearing a torch, stood with the patriarch. Despite the bulkiness of his load, the elder always carried the gold himself. It made him feel close to his wealth.
The spectre, still invisible, swirled around Brygar's unprotected throat.
“What was that? Did you feel a chill wind?”
“I felt nothing, my lord.”
Brygar shrugged. The vault was three levels underground. No breeze could reach down here, but it was always cold beneath the earth. He hefted the huge sack and dropped it atop the others. More than fifty large sacks and twelve oak chests filled the inner half of the chamber. No matter who was emperor, Brygar profited.
“Aaah…” the minotaur inhaled the imagined scent of riches. No one appreciated its bounty as he did. “Wealth is power, Malk. Wealth is strength. What you see here is worth a hundred duels, a dozen bloodings in battle.”
“As you say, my lord.”
The patriarch snorted at Malk's flat tone. “Give me the torch. I will stay. You may go.”
The armed guard obeyed, bowing as he left.
Brygar stepped forward, touching one of the sacks reverently. He did not notice the flame flicker oddly. Nor did the older minotaur sense the wispy presence that circled him once, twice, and then drifted through him.
The elder swatted at his ear, as if a fly was harassing him. He inhaled again, admiring what his cunning had wrought over the years.
Something moved within one of the sacks.
Brow furrowed, the robed minotaur strode forward, feeling the bag. Nothing there. He snorted.
In another sack only a few feet away, there was more movement.
“What goes on here?” Brygar grunted.
Suddenly, he noticed several of the sacks shifting as though some creature within each was struggling to free itself. The patriarch leaned forward, his muzzle only inches from one of the bags.
And then that bag and every other one burst open. An eruption of gold, silver, and steel filled the vault.
Stumbling back, Brygar stumbled for the door, but it swung closed, the bolt outside locking. With his free hand, he banged on the door, shouting.
The coins and gems clattered harshly on the stone floor, then whirled about and spilled all over like a lava flow. His back to the door, the black minotaur gaped as his wealth danced about as if with a life of its own. It piled up before him, a huge, loose mound that spilled over his feet, burying them.
From the mound burst skeletal hands formed from the coins. They grasped at him and tore at his hem. The door behind him heaved as if some great beast were shoving against it. Startled, Brygar stumbled forward into the clutching fingers.
They ripped at his clothes, his fur. They pressed his face close to them, almost suffocating the minotaur. He floundered about as if lost at sea, his panic growing.
Mouths opened in the mound. Wide, hungry mouths. They rose high, forming muzzles, empty sockets—minotaur skulls created from glittering metal. All were identical, the very image of the shade that the high priestess had sent to haunt Brygar.
The ghoulish skulls melted together, creating one monstrous head. A neck and shoulders followed, the entire shambling corpse soon resurrected in gleaming detail.
The corpse had been eaten, torn apart by sharks on a voyage which a younger Brygar himself had organized. Great gaps in the torso and limbs attested to the horrific fury he had suffered before death had claimed him. Ribs of silver jutted out, and within them were mangled lungs of steel. Red rubies accented where the blood had flowed most, and the eyes were green jade, envious of the life the sprawled figure before it still retained.
As the patriarch attempted to crawl away, wave upon wave of coin drew him back toward the outstretched arms of the ghoul.
Desperate, Brygar grabbed for the torch, which he had dropped on the mound. With it, he tried to drive the spectre back.
The mouth opened wide. A hideous stench filled the sealed vault, the decaying of the flesh that had tormented the ghost since death. It choked the life of the flames and nearly smothered Brygar himself.
Gasping, Brygar dropped the dead torch. Da
rkness did not entirely claim the stone vault, for a dread illumination radiated from the mound and the ghost. The foul greenish light cast an even more terrible aspect on the fiend.
“Help me!” shouted Brygar. “Someone, help me!”
He was as brave as most minotaurs, but there were limits. One could not fight the dead, and one certainly did not want to share their monstrous fate.
The sea of coins dragged him relentlessly toward the cadaverous form. The ghoul's fetid smell permeated everything.
Brygar threw coins at his tormentor, threw the jewels he so coveted away in defense. They stuck to the spectre, giving it more substance.
As it grew, the ghost opened its maw wider. A horrific wind arose, one that pulled the patriarch forward faster. The undead creature inhaled, empty sacks and loose coins falling into a darkness more terrible to Brygar than the legendary Abyss.
With a fearsome moaning, the ghost's mouth stretched to encompass his billowing form. Brygar could not keep himself from being sucked into it. He rolled over, yet that only meant that his feet were pulled in first. The frantic minotaur clutched at the mound, but for all its weight his wealth gave him no hold.
Shrieking, the patriarch was pulled into the spectre's mouth.
*****
It was more than two hours before Brygar's absence was noted by his household. The guard who had been with him was alerted. Torch in hand, the anxious warrior descended to the vault. He found the heavy door unbolted and open, just as he had left it. Cautiously, he pushed it wide.
His ears straightened. A strange, unsettling sound came from the back of the vault. Drawing his sword, the guard stepped in and held the torch forward.
In the midst of the neatly packed mound of sacks, Brygar Es-Dexos crouched, making an odd, keening sound. His knees were tucked into his chest and encircled by his arms. He rocked back and forth. His eyes stared ahead, never blinking, and a bit of drool escaped his slack jaw. The patriarch's entire form trembled. He would remain so for the rest of his brief life.
In such manner did most of those Nephera had condemned suffer. The bitter phantoms vented their rage through the minds of their victims, leaving in their wake empty shells.
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