Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1)

by Brian Niemeier

  The meeting had a single agenda: preparing the ship for departure.

  Nakvin delivered the revised head count in a clipped monotone. “Our crew died in Stochman’s mutiny. We killed or captured all of his. Despenser probably has Teg’s body and Sulaiman’s soul. That leaves the four of us, Elena, and Vaun.”

  Jaren tried to keep his manner detached. The argument over Elena had strained his relationship with Nakvin, but they had a long road ahead; and the captain refused to let personal matters interfere with business. “Is it enough to get underway?” he asked.

  Nakvin folded her red-cloaked arms. “Most of the vital systems can be run from the Wheel. A couple of hands can manage anything short of ship-to-ship combat.”

  “And here I thought we would raid a couple of freighters on the way,” Teg said in Sulaiman’s voice.

  Jaren was glad to know that Teg still had his sense of humor. “Sorry,” the captain joked. “Still, I'd feel better with a few more hands on board.”

  “What about the Freeholders?” Nakvin asked. “We told Sulaiman we’d take them on.”

  Jaren leaned back in his chair. The sweaty musk of Stochman’s desperation still clung to it, but he suppressed his annoyance and considered the angles. His deal with Sulaiman was null and void since the priest's disappearance. Still, he could use a few extra bodies around. If nothing else, the Freeholders would make handy distractions if the ship were boarded again.

  “All right,” Jaren said. “We'll swing by the Freehold and hire some help, preferably with prior experience.”

  “Stocking up on supplies won’t hurt, either,” said Teg. “Gibeah left us barely enough food for a week.”

  Jaren nodded in assent. He rose and issued orders. “Deim, I want you on the Wheel. Nakvin will take over when it's time for the next gate crossing.” He fixed his eyes on the lady Steersman. “Until then, focus on keeping out unwanted visitors.”

  Nakvin’s mouth twisted in a half-frown. “I'll try,” she said.

  The captain addressed Teg last. “Round up the prisoners and bring them to the hold. We'll be taking on and dropping off.”

  Monsters swarmed the Freehold’s walls. Men scurried to and fro atop the parapet, shooting arrows and hurling stones into the hideous melee below. With most of their fighting men buried on the Ogre Fang, the Freeholders were hopelessly overwhelmed.

  Jaren couldn’t make out every detail, but the view through the bridge window showed enough to infer the rest. He looked up at Deim and said, “Clear out those vagrants.”

  Below, the demons pressed their siege, oblivious to the black ship approaching from the west. Their blissful ignorance continued until shafts of blazing light lanced down from the sky. The Exodus' projected energy cannons blasted into the demons' ranks, sending up fountains of dirt and seared meat higher than the walls. The fiends turned as one to stare skyward at the dark omen. Their awe turned to panic when ship’s guns vaporized a dozen more of them.

  Jaren knew that the lack of gunners forced Deim to divide his attention between steadying the ship and firing its weapons. Luckily, precision wasn’t needed. One shot struck the fortress wall, sending chunks of stone exploding in all directions. Though an equal number of human and fiendish corpses lay mangled in the rubble, it didn’t impede the steersman’s work.

  The Exodus’ intervention lasted less than a minute, but the end of that minute saw the remaining invaders fleeing into the desert.

  Jaren tapped the intercom. “Meet me in the main hold, and get ready to open a gate,” he sent to Nakvin. “I'm expecting lots of applicants.”

  Jaren stared skeptically at where the hold’s aft wall had been. The walls and rafter-girded ceiling disappeared into a red sky, and the ceramic floor ended sharply before a wide gravel grade.

  A throng of people stood before the gate, peering over one another’s shoulders and wringing their hands amid a susurrus of low muttering. None of them had yet dared to cross the threshold between town and ship.

  Jaren strode to within a few yards of the gate’s edge. Hot sulphurous air brushed his face. Besides him and Nakvin, the vast room held only a few palettes stacked with the ship’s remaining supplies. Teg had bowed out of the recruiting drive to avoid confusion.

  At last the captain spoke, startling the Freeholders to silence. “We’re taking on hands for all stations.”

  Jaren couldn’t begrudge the townspeople’s wary looks. They were clearly shaken from the demons' raid—not to mention the pirates' inelegant rescue. “Does anyone have experience with ether-runners?” He asked.

  After a long pause the crowd parted, allowing two men to step forward—one old and one young. The elder of the two applicants, whose stringy hair showed as much brown as grey, spoke first. “Jastis Ewo,” he named himself. “Gunner's mate on a House Vannon freighter I was. 'Course, that were afore I connived with the first mate to pinch a load of Keth-bound silk.”

  Jaren frowned. “You mutinied?”

  “Aye,” Jastis said, wringing his hands. “Didn't go as planned, as you can likely tell.”

  The captain turned to the younger man standing beside Jastis. The dingy-haired lad couldn't have been much older at death than Ydahl, who watched silently from the front row. The lad started when he saw Jaren eyeing him; then spoke hastily as if making up for lost time. “Trand Shore, sir,” he said. “I left hearth and home in Byport on a liner bound for Vigh.”

  Jaren nodded. Fleeing the dismal factories of Ostrith for the enticements of Temil's pleasure capital almost justified the boy’s desertion.

  “I was discovered as a stowaway,” Trand continued, “but the captain put me to work. I never went back to Mithgar, but stayed on among the crew.” The youth averted his eyes and licked his lips. “I learned much during my time with them.”

  “I see,” Jaren said. “Did you betray your captain?”

  Trand shook his head vigorously. “No, sir! Call me aught else you like, but I was no mutineer. There was an ether leak two days out from Cadrys—a mechanic must’ve left a seal loose. The whole ship went up like a torch before we could plug it.”

  Jaren looked over the two applicants; then shot a questioning glance at Nakvin, who shrugged. For some reason, she couldn't hear the thoughts of the dead.

  “All right,” Jaren said. “Welcome aboard.”

  The two men marched through the gate as if to their deaths.

  “We're on a tight schedule,” Jaren told the crowd. “If anyone else wants to come with us, this is your last chance.”

  Those who answered the boarding call were surprisingly few: a paltry rabble of men and women who shuffled through the gate as though unsure of where they were, but having decided that the Exodus was as good a place as any. Jaren led them from the hold.

  Nakvin stayed until the Freeholders had either boarded or dispersed. One still lingered on the Fourth Circle side, and she was surprised to see that it was Ydahl. The Steersman approached the girl and knelt, facing her across the invisible boundary.

  “Ydahl,” she said gently, “aren't you coming with us?”

  The girl stared at her own feet. “That's Prefect Sulaiman's cloak, isn't it, mum?”

  Nakvin frowned. She'd spent the night re-tailoring the rough crimson garment into an approximation of her lost robes, but Ydahl had seen through her benign deception.

  The dead girl met Nakvin's worried look with one of her own. “Sulaiman’s not coming back, is he?”

  “No,” Nakvin said, “he's not. All the more reason you should leave.”

  “I think I'll stay, if it's all the same to you.”

  Nakvin reached through the gate and brushed Ydahl’s mousy hair from her face. “There's no one to protect you here. Nothing bad will happen if you come with us. I promise.”

  “Begging your pardon, but I'm the sort of person that bad things should happen to. Perhaps I've been dodging them too long.”

  Nakvin’s voice betrayed her indignation. “Ydahl, you need to stop punishing yourself. You've paid for
what you did.”

  The girl pulled away from Nakvin's touch. Her eyes grew fierce, and she trembled as she spoke. “But I can never pay for it, don't you see? I can't give back a single one of the lives I took! You can't undo what I’ve done. No one can.”

  A soft voice carried across the hold. “Don’t be so sure.”

  Ydahl peered over Nakvin’s shoulder into the cavernous space beyond, cringed, and pulled away.

  Nakvin looked back, expecting a demon. Her brow knitted when she saw Elena. “What's wrong, honey?” Nakvin asked Ydahl. “Don't be afraid.”

  The dead girl staggered backward. “Sulaiman said even the worst was guiltless babes once,” she muttered to herself, “but the Void begat that one!”

  Nakvin reached out to steady her, but Ydahl drew back and screamed, “Let the ground swallow me!” as she ran.

  With a heavy heart, Nakvin closed the gate. She turned again and saw Elena watching her with impassive rose-colored eyes. The vast space felt suddenly small.

  “Is everything all right?” Nakvin asked.

  “There were new people. I came to see.”

  Nakvin grasped the young woman's upper arms, holding her firmly but gently. “You're coming with us when this is done,” she said.

  Elena bowed her head. “This is my place.”

  “Listen to me,” Nakvin said. “You will not end up like that poor lost girl! Things can change, as long as you're alive.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The words burst from Nakvin’s mouth before she could think. “Because I love you.”

  It was Elena who initiated the embrace. The two women stood long in the empty hold, hugging each other close. Nakvin heard only her own steady breathing.

  “You never got much affection, did you?” Nakvin asked.

  “I had Deim, but it wasn’t like this.”

  “No matter how they’ve trapped you,” Nakvin said, “promise me you’ll find a way out.”

  “I promise,” Elena said.

  44

  Even hell had its temples. The Eight Circle held one such infernal fane, as befit a microcosm of the whole netherworld. The temple stood on the next-to-center ring of a series of concentric ridges dividing a fiery lake. Its main gallery rose six stories above the volcanic ring, each floor surrounded by columns carved in the shapes of devils and the desecrated likenesses of martyrs. A great domed tower surmounted the lower floors, doubling the complex's overall height, which only the baal’s palace surpassed. Wide stone steps ascended from the courtyard to the base of the tower, where an arched entrance yawned.

  The building's interior rivaled the Exodus for transience. Arcane forces bound by long-vanished makers ruled the arrangement of rooms and halls. Only one chamber had a fixed location: the temple sanctuary below the lofty rotunda. A vast floor of dark blue stone spread out beneath the dome, its edges carved with the signs of long dead constellations. A wide bronze circle occupied the center of the floor. Random spiral patterns scarred its corroded surface, and an irregular hole delving into darkness marred its face.

  There Mephistophilis crouched, clad in a brown ascetic’s robe. He spoke despite the prevailing solitude, pausing at times to hear replies from the blackness below.

  Someone entered through the tall archway behind the baal. The visitor paused to gaze in awe at the great icon of Thera emblazoned on the curving wall. It resembled the fresco in the forest ruin, except for its far greater size and the five black dots superimposed on the winged woman’s midsection.

  “Well come, Despenser,” Mephistophilis said.

  “Well met, my liege,” the Fifth baal said, only to realize that his lord hadn't addressed him. He still knelt beside the hole in the floor, continuing his whispered conversation.

  “Tell us what was said and what was done,” commanded the same voice, and Despenser knew with a sudden shock that it belonged to him. He found himself speechless, struggling to understand what was happening.

  The delay was too long for Mephistophilis. Like a master puppeteer, he forced Despenser’s tongue to reveal his mind.

  “Ether-runner Exodus underway from Fourth Circle to Eighth Circle,” the Fifth baal croaked mechanically. “All cargo confirmed aboard.”

  “And the ship's complement?” Mephistophilis forced Despenser to ask. He could have simply read his vassal’s thoughts, but he savored the Fifth baal’s humiliation.

  “Crew are half-Gen captain, living-man steersman, human mercenary with displaced soul, and half-human Steersman, daughter of Zebel. All sworn to your service.”

  Mephistophilis continued whispering into the hole while goading his subordinate through their schizophrenic conversation. “You only bound four by oath?” he asked through Despenser's lips. “What of the others?”

  “Passengers include a number of dead and three semi-animate entities. Both transessed humans still aboard. Kost has left ship to repel Tyrmagan.”

  “It is enough,” the Eighth baal said. He released the strings, and Despenser gasped.

  Mephistophilis straightened to his full imposing height but kept his back to his vassal. Even he found the goddess’ image entrancing.

  “Sire,” Despenser said, overeager to use his voice now that he'd regained command of it, “I should like to suggest the use of more…discreet methods of communication between the two of us in future. Being physically absent from my Circle for even a moment could prove disastrous, as you well know.”

  Mephistophilis heard his underling's complaint but said nothing. He knew well that Despenser's absence from his Circle could result in the loss of his lordship, and he couldn't have cared less. Unlike his vassal, The Eighth baal hadn't begun as an artificial stratum grown to hoard its creator's wealth; and he commanded these personal visits to reinforce his superiority.

  Mephistophilis had dwelt in hell from the beginning. He was not the great Nahash—not even close—but he was perhaps the only servant of the Builders still residing in the Nine Circles.

  And soon, the way of the Builders will be open to me.

  “Sire, I beg your pardon, but—”

  The lord of the Eighth turned. The sight of his face, though half-hidden in the shadows of his cowl, was enough to stop Despenser in mid-sentence. There was nothing visibly off-putting in the Eighth baal’s aspect, which resembled a fine-featured human or Gen. It was attracting his lord’s full scrutiny that chilled the Fifth baal's blood.

  Despenser lurked in the shadows beneath the entryway, as he always did if such could be managed. Though he loathed his natural appearance, he knew better than to come before his lord in any other guise. Still, the baal of the Fifth would exploit any available means to conceal himself.

  The Circle did its master's bidding almost effortlessly, dispelling the darkness from beneath the arch and revealing the lord of the Fifth in all his grotesquery. Aware that he'd been unmasked, Despenser made no further effort at concealment. He floated a few inches off the floor, a pulsating bag of flesh that constantly folded in upon and flowed out of itself. Eyes and mouths of varying colors, shapes, and sizes continually bloomed upon and submerged beneath his doughy surface.

  Mephistophilis felt the lesser baal's shame and smiled. “Begone to your mire of forgotten trifles,” he said. Though the words issued from the Eighth baal's mouth, Despenser knew the voice as his own—the seductive inner call that bids one to indulge his worst nature. The baal of the Fifth had surrendered to its power long before he'd served Mephistophilis. Viscous yellow tears welled in the living vault’s thousand shifting eyes.

  Already weary of Despenser's pain, Mephistophilis made the slightest exertion of his will. One moment, the odious amoeba was dripping in his doorway; the next it was gone.

  Blessed solitude returned. The lord of the Eighth Circle threw his head back and raised his arms high. He inhaled deeply, smelling the temple’s damp, rotten stone. This was the seminal moment—the prelude to mighty deeds. Mephistophilis resolved to savor that sweetness till the ship arrived.
>
  Jaren ran his fingers over the vault’s smooth, lined walls and tried to quell his doubts about the thousand stone cubes locked inside. He'd tried to avoid this room, but at last he'd succumbed to the riddle of the strange cargo for which he'd bargained his soul.

  “You busy there, boss?” someone asked from the open doorway. The pitch and timbre were Sulaiman's, but the tone and inflection were Teg's.

  “No,” Jaren said without turning. “Is there something you need?”

  Teg used the question as an excuse to enter. “I owe you an apology for earlier.”

  Jaren shrugged. “You literally went through hell. I can't blame you.”

  “I could have botched the whole job,” said Teg. “It won't happen again. If I break my promise, go ahead and take me down.”

  Jaren’s wave took in Teg’s new body from his steel-shod feet to his yellow hair. “You looking to get out of this?”

  “I can live with it,” said Teg, “but there’s something you should know.”

  Jaren took one of the cubes from its metal drawer and turned it over in his hand, feeling the stone’s fine grain. “Is this about the secret talk you and Despenser had?”

  “He told me some interesting things. Most of it was probably a bluff, but some of it…” Teg’s face darkened as he trailed off.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Jaren asked, his voice brusque.

  “According to the baal, I caught a foul disease from those demons—three, actually. I'll spare you the details, but I’d have been worse off than this within a month. Despenser said he had a cure, but before he'd give it to me I had to swear a second, special oath.”

  “Let me guess,” Jaren said. “You're supposed to kill me if I try to double-cross him.”

  Teg shook his head. “Not exactly. I had to swear fealty to Mephistophilis himself; enter his service.” The mercenary gestured at his loose black pants with their red sash. “This is his livery. They threw it in for free.”