Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1)

by Brian Niemeier

  The abomination that had been Vaun Mordechai turned to Jaren, who was startled to see a pair of dull grey eyes regarding him from behind the jeweled mask.

  “I’ve come to discharge my debt,” the creature said. Instead of hollowness, its voice brimmed with menace. Jaren recognized it as the one he’d heard through the bridge sending.

  “We stand together,” it said, “for victory or death.”

  What’s he done to himself? Jaren wondered. A visceral foreboding about the answer kept him from voicing the question. Instead, Jaren strode toward the airlift. “The sooner we kill Mephistophilis,” he said, “the sooner we crush the Guild.”

  The lift deposited Jaren, Teg, Nakvin, Deim, and Vaun on a hot reeking field of volcanic scree before the gate in the infernal temple's wall. Grotesque statues weathered beyond recognition leered down from the parapet, all the more disturbing for their ambiguity.

  Teg moved to examine the massive iron gate, but Jaren marched past him and gave the corroded metal bars a shove. The gate swung inward with a jarring screech, and when no reprisal came, the others followed him inside.

  Jaren strode into a spacious courtyard longer than it was wide. Sandy soil crunched under his boots. Perhaps the landscape had been lovely once. Now only gnarled, stunted trees and patches of withered scrub clung to the parched dirt.

  The temple’s six tiered stories stood directly ahead, topped by a domed tower. A grand flight of stairs soared from ground level to the tower's base, where a low arch gave on blackness.

  Jaren didn't stop to admire the infernal wonders. He set a determined pace across the flagstone path to the foot of the stairs and immediately started upward. His comrades’ footsteps quickened behind him.

  The arch led into a sanctuary under the vast dome. Jaren wasn’t surprised when he saw the mural dominating the far wall. Thera's image had hounded his crew throughout their voyage. Now, in the flickering lamplight, the winged lady seemed to lord some sinister secret over them. The Souldancer’s gloating visage remained hauntingly familiar, though this time the icon favored neither Nakvin nor Elena, except for one detail.

  “The black dots,” Nakvin said. “The pattern is the same as the sockets in Elena’s back.”

  Deim mumbled at the back of the line—whether a prayer or a curse, Jaren couldn’t tell.

  Jaren drew his rodcaster before crossing the blue flagstone ring carved with alien constellations that encircled the floor. He stopped when he reached the bronze plate at the center. Its surface was embossed with scrollwork resembling marine fossils, and corrosion had eaten a jagged hole in its upper right corner. He peered into the pitch black depths and froze.

  “Do you see something?” Nakvin asked, her voice echoing from the cylindrical walls.

  It took Jaren a while to process what he saw. Finally he said, “An eye. A human eye.”

  “Whatever my lady wills,” Deim said as he fell to one knee.

  “Who are you talking to?” Teg asked.

  Deim’s tear-filled eyes remained fixed on the icon. “You couldn't hear her?”

  “Couldn't hear who?” asked Nakvin.

  “I hear it,” Jaren said. He pointed toward the hole, from which a soft feminine voice echoed. “It’s coming from down there.”

  “What's it saying?” asked Teg.

  “That I'll destroy the Guild,” Jaren said, unable to suppress a smile.

  “How about you?” Teg asked Deim.

  “I'm going to free Elena,” he said in a quivering voice.

  Nakvin grimaced. She remained still as if listening to someone.

  “You too?” asked Teg.

  Nakvin's brow furrowed. “A door will confront me with a terrible choice.”

  Teg’s steel-clad boots rang as he strode past the zodiac ring. “Where's my message?” he called out, his voice echoing beneath the dome. “I want my fortune told!” The words ascended until the darkness above swallowed them.

  Teg clasped his hands to his head and doubled over with an agonized groan that became a piercing scream. Abruptly he fell silent, straightened, and stared at his captain.

  Jaren recoiled. The sapphire eyes borrowed from Sulaiman had turned yellow as sulfur. The priest's face had hardened like dry clay. But another development shocked Jaren even more.

  The voices are gone!

  The face that had belonged to Sulaiman Iason—and more recently, to Teg Cross—smiled, revealing serrated teeth. “You are far from prompt,” a guttural voice mocked through Teg's mouth, “but thorough all the same. We thank you.”

  Leading with his rodcaster, Jaren advanced on the monster that had been his friend. “The delivery’s cancelled,” he said.

  Teg’s grin widened. His yellow eyes briefly glanced toward the bronze plate. Jaren turned, and his heart sank to see Eldrid poised beside the abyss holding a large, coal-black gem.

  “I told you to move the stones!” Jaren said.

  “You did,” Eldrid said in a honey-drenched voice, “but many blocks are cumbersome when one can reshape the Circle’s fabric. I’ve fashioned a far less clumsy vessel. Not to worry. There was room enough for the Gen and the Freeholders besides. I'm sure the oracle will profit from a touch of human brashness.”

  As the last word left her mouth, Eldrid released the black jewel, which plummeted into the depths below.

  Jaren cried out in rage and despair. Below his feet, the temple began to shake. He drew his zephyr on the woman who'd betrayed him and her own people.

  Eldrid's lips formed a pouting frown as she produced a grey stone cube from the golden sleeve of her gown. “I did reserve one,” she said, her words smooth as silk. “It was kept apart from the others.”

  Jaren saw his father's soul dangling over the pit, and his hand wavered. He cast a desperate glance at Nakvin, who was staring at Thera’s icon. Jaren's focus shifted upward to the mural looming over the sanctuary; then back to Eldrid.

  At last he recognized the mural's face.

  Nakvin fixed her silver eyes on Eldrid. “Mother?”

  Eldrid affected a vicious smile, perfecting the icon’s likeness. “Not quite,” she said.

  “Don’t deny it,” Nakvin said. “Only Zebel is vain enough to claim equality with Thera.”

  “Well said, daughter,” Zebel gloated, “but I am not your mother. Do you think me bound to the limits of the flesh?”

  Jaren saw the color drain from Nakvin’s face.

  “I see that you understand,” Zebel said. “Male; female—I take whichever shape pleases me. Your wretched bitch of a mother certainly did when I sired you upon her.”

  Vaun's pealing laughter filled the dome but did not echo. “Not only are you a harpy,” he said, “but a fatherless cambion as well! You are pitiful beyond contempt!”

  Zebel looked askance at Vaun until the grief etched on Nakvin’s face restored the female demon's smile.

  Jaren still had his guns trained on the baals, but he felt his resolve fading.

  “We release you from our service,” Mephistophilis said through Teg. “Our faithless vassal shall remain to face his punishment. The four of you may go whither you will.”

  Jaren’s hands went firm as iron. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he said before he pressed both triggers.

  60

  Malachi heard the knock and nodded to the Inspector on guard, who retrieved a gleaming copper rod from his grey suit coat before opening the door. The precaution proved unnecessary when another customs agent appeared, leading an unkempt young man.

  The lad took a few steps onto the pale ivory carpet and stopped. His eyes bulged as he scanned the room with its glittering appointments, but a frown darkened his unwashed face the instant he met Malachi’s gaze.

  The first Inspector secured the door while the other continued across the room. Reaching the sofa where Malachi waited, he produced a pistol from his dark blue jacket and offered it to his superior.

  “We found the weapon at a pawnbroker’s in town,” the Inspector said. “Mr. Shore
confessed ownership.”

  Malachi felt the gun’s cold weight in his hand. His passing acquaintance with firearms told him only that the revolver was antiquated, and as neglected as its late owner. He tucked the gun into his robe and motioned to his guest.

  “Please,” Malachi said. “Have a seat.”

  Shore stared as if dazed, but after a moment he slinked over to the matching sofa opposite Malachi and sat down stiffly. Up close, his apparent youth seemed less certain. He smelled of evenings in cheap public houses and nights in the gutter.

  “I assume you know who we represent,” Malachi said.

  “I know who you are,” Shore said slowly. “I’m not so sure about where.”

  “Understandable,” said Malachi. “Vigh’s Guild house rivals its hostelries’ opulence.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Temil.”

  “I am Marshal Malachi, a visiting Master Steersman of Ostrith, originally from Cadrys.”

  “Is that so?” Shore started wringing his hands. “What brings you here, if you don't mind my asking?”

  “I'm hunting fugitives from Mithgar,” Malachi said.

  Shore’s face fell. He reflexively cleared his throat. “You don't say.”

  “Apprehending criminals is a task I take quite seriously,” Malachi said. “In fact, I left an office assignment to resume field work.”

  “Can’t say I blame you for quitting, sir.”

  Malachi laughed. “I was demoted, actually, but I welcomed it all the same.”

  “If it’s not too bold of me to say, a man should follow his heart.”

  “That's excellent advice, Mr. Shore, which I understand you've taken. I did the same three nights ago when a local subversive group fled this sphere. They were aided by insurgents flying a Guild courier stolen during a police action some months ago.”

  Shore said nothing, but the sweat beading on his brow betrayed his dread.

  “These fugitives didn't vanish without a trace,” Malachi said. “They left one of their dead behind. He was carrying an antique pistol favored by the Mithgar Navy—one much like yours.”

  “I'm not with that lot,” Shore blurted. “We parted ways when we got here.”

  “You deserted,” Malachi said, his calm more reproachful than shouted curses.

  “Yes, sir,” Shore said. “I was quit of them soon as I heard what they was about.”

  Malachi kept his face impassive. “I want to know about the ship you came on.”

  “It were a Guild ship.”

  “Who was crewing the vessel?”

  “A gang of those Mithgarder outlaws.”

  “Who is their commander?”

  “Captain Cly Randolph of the Gambler's Fallacy.”

  Malachi smirked; the first change in expression he’d allowed himself since the interview began. “How did Randolph acquire the courier?”

  Shore, who'd thus far been quick with his betrayals, now held his tongue.

  Malachi leaned in closer and spoke softly. “If your silence is due to fear of reprisal, be assured that I can provide ample cause to fear me more.”

  “It's not that, sir,” Shore said, licking his lips. “They’re fearful men, don't mistake me, but for the likes of me to speak so to a man of quality, well…I don't think you'd believe me.”

  The Master sighed and fixed his eyes on Shore. “I served with the Enforcers during breaks in my studies. Apprentice Steersmen traditionally shun the secular orders charged with our Brotherhood's dirty work, but my time with them imparted useful skills.”

  Malachi paused to let Shore’s anxious mind fill in the details.

  “A skilled interrogator knows when his subject is hiding something,” Malachi said. “Honesty is vital. However, failing to give answers at all only worsens your situation.”

  Shore extended a trembling hand toward the man at Malachi’s side. “Water, please,” he said. The Inspector departed and returned with the requested beverage, which Shore consumed in a series of hard gulps. He set the empty glass on the low marble table before him and faced Malachi again.

  “I come from Byport, by way of the Fourth Circle,” said Shore. “Don't know exactly how long I was there, but in my day regulators didn't hide their eyes and go about in…drifters.

  “A few weeks ago—though it must’ve been months here—there comes a big black ship like a headless crow with one green eye. 'Twas captained by a Gen calls himself Peregrine. Long red hair like a girl's and green eyes like emeralds. You mark me, there's mischief in them eyes.”

  Malachi felt a familiar burning in his chest, but he kept still as a statue.

  Shore continued. “A few of us took ship with him: Jastis and some of the old folks. 'Twas choppy sailing, but we finally got out.”

  “You mean to say that you took a ship from hell to the Middle Stratum?” asked Malachi.

  Shore nodded. “After that we met Commander Dilar. He’s a right prig. Said his ship was in our ship’s old fleet. He invited the Gen to visit his captain. That's Randolph. Peregrine took me along, but I decided to stay. Until I volunteered to come here. The rest happened like I said.”

  Shore raised his glass to ask for more water, but Malachi pointed the deserter’s own gun at him. “You were right,” the Master said. “I don't believe you.”

  The glass slipped from Shore’s fingers and shattered on the table. He recoiled from the sharp crash, but Malachi held the gun steady.

  “Please, sir,” Shore blubbered. “Dying once sent me to hell. Who knows what the second death brings?”

  “Give me something else,” Malachi said, his voice steady as he thumbed back the hammer, “something useful.”

  “Ostrith!” cried Shore. “Randolph means to attack Ostrith.”

  “How many are with him?”

  “They don't tell me much. I heard talk of a fleet.”

  Malachi's voice hardened. “Will Peregrine be there?”

  Shore squirmed in his luxuriant seat. “He said he would, but no one's heard from him in days. It's the ship. He's gone back to hell on the black ship, and you'll never find him!”

  The ancient pistol’s report proved much louder than a shattering glass.

  Malachi’s ears rang. The odor of spent powder stung his nostrils. He sat and studied his handiwork. He wasn’t practiced with firearms, but from such close range he could hardly have missed. Indeed, Shore lay sprawled against the back of the couch, staring blindly at the ceiling.

  The Inspector who’d stood by pressed two fingers to the victim’s throat and shook his head. The deed was done, though hardly any blood stained the cream-colored sofa.

  There was no need to worry. Malachi had researched the deserter before bringing him in. No one fitting the dead man's name or description was currently wanted by the Guild. The prisoner had died in obscurity, and there he would remain.

  Malachi recalled a curious footnote that had surfaced in his research. There had been a Bertrand Shore living in the Byport district of Ostrith some three centuries ago. It occurred to him that something in his prisoner's wild tale resonated strangely with an item he'd read: Perished when the Silver Sextant was lost with all hands.

  Malachi's rational mind dismissed this wild fantasy in favor of a far saner explanation. The man who’d called himself Trand Shore had chosen a dead man’s name as a criminal alias. Randolph had assigned it to him, more likely. In either case, if he could retrieve such historical trivia, so could someone else. He made a mental note to put his men on alert for pseudonyms culled from the deceased.

  A low groan roused Malachi from thought. He looked to the customs agents, who exchanged puzzled looks with each other.

  Another pained grunt sounded, this time unmistakably from the corpse. Shore’s head rolled until his chin came to rest on his collarbone. His hands crept toward the entry wound in his chest. The dead man inspected the ragged puncture and cast a pleading look at Malachi.

  The Master stood and let the gun slide from his grip. His hands began to move t
hrough patterns which prompted the Inspectors to exit the room.

  Trand managed a pitiful whimper just before razor-thin planes of compressed air reduced his bloodless body and much of the sofa to ribbons.

  Malachi surveyed the results of his second murder with far less apathy than the first. Unleashing a greater Working inside a Guild house would bring difficult questions. Still, the answers he’d received more than made up for the inconvenience.

  61

  Chaos erupted from the barrels of Jaren's guns. A blast from the rodcaster split the dank air, enveloping Teg's corrupted form in a wave of light and heat.

  Zebel’s smirk vanished as the consecrated zephyr slug struck her belly with a small, wet explosion. Her face took on an uncanny resemblance to Nakvin's, albeit filled with surprise and pain, before her body shattered into dark ephemeral shapes that swarmed from the temple and into the ash-laden sky.

  Jaren’s eyes didn’t follow Zebel’s flight. They were fixed on the stone cube that had fallen from her hand. He cursed, knowing that he’d never reach it before it plunged into oblivion, but the block holding his father's soul struck the bronze plate and rolled to the edge of the abyss.

  Teg screamed. Jaren saw Nakvin and Deim casting terrified stares behind him, though Vaun gave no reaction. He didn’t expect the rodcaster to kill whatever Teg had become, but not until he turned did he see the horror that came of trying.

  Teg's body blurred and stretched like a wet clay figure being pulled in half. His lone anguished voice became two wailing slightly out of time with each other. The tortured mass of flesh split with the sound of wet leather tearing, and the body of Sulaiman Iason, lately occupied by Teg Cross, fell at the feet of a creature whose appearance matched Teg’s down to his baggy pants and steel-backed gloves.

  “We offer pardon one last time,” Teg's double said in Mephistophilis’ words. “Begone.”

  Jaren aimed his rodcaster at the baal. “I never leave a job half-done. I don't know how.”