Ghost in the Cowl (22 page)

Agabyzus blinked. “There might be wards upon the door.”

“I can sense presence of arcane force,” said Caina. “Agabyzus. The entire Ghost circle died trying to find the truth. Don’t you want to know what is happening? What Callatas has been doing? Why he murdered all those slaves? Why the Brotherhood tried to take Bayram and Bahad and sell them to Callatas?”

It was a low blow, but it got Agabyzus’s attention. “What?” 

“Some of the slavers forged a Writ of Captivity and claimed your nephews as surety for the debt,” said Caina. “They’re safe now, don’t fear. The slaver in question had some ill luck. But the world hasn’t stopped while you were in your cell. Whatever Callatas is doing, he has grown bold enough to take innocent children from their homes. Do you not want to know why?”

Agabyzus said nothing.

“And if you want to die anyway,” said Caina, “wouldn’t it be better to die knowing the truth?”

“You are a madman with a death wish, are you not?” said Agabyzus.

“Well,” said Caina, “you’re half-right.” 

Agabyzus managed a wheezing chuckle. “How can I argue? Very well. Let us wait for the daevagoths to return. Once they resume their circle, we can exit the cell and make our way through the Hellfire laboratory. Assuming the acolytes and the Immortals do not kill us, the only way into the secret laboratory is over a stone bridge to the northern tower.” 

Caina nodded and looked out the window.

“Since we’re about to die anyway,” said Agabyzus, “you may as well tell me who you are.”

“If we live through this, I’ll consider it,” said Caina.

“You must be one of Halfdan’s,” said Agabyzus.

Caina said nothing, a shiver of pain going through her.

“He always liked to recruit madmen as his nightfighters,” said Agabyzus.

She smiled behind her mask.

A short time later the pack of daevagoths skittered past the cell, a grotesque fusion of human flesh and creaking carapaces. Caina remained motionless, trusting in the cowl of the shadow-cloak to keep her unseen. The daevagoths disappeared around the curve of the corridor, and Caina waited. A few moments later the daevagoths returned, still whispering and tittering, and disappeared in the other direction.

She hoped the slave in the kitchen had stayed there.

Caina counted to ninety and opened the cell door. The corridor was deserted, and she felt the hot wind blowing from the stairs, the crimson light pulsing and flickering.

Agabyzus followed her, one hand braced on the wall for support. He looked terrible, little more than a skeleton clothed in skin, grease, and dirt. It would have been easier to leave him behind, to wait until she returned. Or to simply kill him as he had wished. But Caina would not do it, would not leave another Ghost to die. 

She could not leave Damla’s brother to die.

And he deserved to know the truth after all he had lost.

“Let’s go,” said Caina, and she led the way up the stairs. 

Chapter 20 - The Mirror of Worlds

The stairs ended in a vast chamber that must have taken up the entire top third of the Tower.

Caina crouched in the doorway and looked around.

A huge machine of bronze and glass filled the center of the chamber, pulsing waves of sorcery radiating from it. It looked like a mad sculptor’s attempt to build a fortress from glass tubes and bronze gears and vats, and from time to time a snarl of crimson lightning danced up and down the apparatus. The entire thing gave off a dull roar that made the floor tremble beneath her boots. A score of acolytes in gray robes attended to the machine, adjusting its levers and throttles. A blazing fire roared at its core, and Caina focused upon it, sensing the arcane power radiating from it.

A power that felt oddly familiar…

She looked at Agabyzus. For all the horror he had endured, his eyes were hard and focused, and his bare feet made no sound against the floor. Caina beckoned, and Agabyzus nodded and followed her as she crept along the curve of the wall. A row of barrels stood before the wall, spaced evenly so they would not touch. Most likely the substances within would react violently if they came into contact. Caina moved behind the barrels, taking care to remain silent.

She did not want to draw the attention of the acolytes. 

And she did not want to interrupt them, either. She suspected a single mistake in the preparation of Hellfire could prove disastrous. 

Boots clanked against the floor, and a pair of Immortals came into sight, circling around the machine. Caina went motionless, and Agabyzus went rigid with fear, sweat beading upon his lined face. But the Immortals kept walking, dark shadows against the crimson glow of the inferno within the device. They took positions near the door, watching the work of the acolytes in silence. Caina gestured to Agabyzus, and they kept moving around the row of barrels.

And as they did, Caina recognized the aura radiating from the heart of the machine.

An elemental spirit. 

Ranarius had conjured earth elementals to do his bidding. The creature bound at the heart of the machine must be an elemental spirit of fire, similar to the phoenix spirits Caina had seen in the Sacellum of the Living Flame. That was how the College of Alchemists made Hellfire – they conjured a fire elemental, bound it within the machine, and used their sorcerous apparatus and their spells to extract some of its power and bind it within the elixir of Hellfire.

She watched as the acolytes went about their work, casting spell after spell upon the maze of glass pipes. Reagents gurgled and bubbled, the blood-colored fire at its heart dancing. One of the acolytes produced a clay amphora about the height of Caina’s knee, and carefully filled it with a thick, glowing red slime from one of the pipes.

Finished Hellfire.

When the Hellfire filled the amphora, another team of acolytes hastily sealed the jar with clay and wax. A pair of slaves stacked the amphorae against the far wall, making sure that the jars did not touch each other. Caina felt the concentrated sorcerous power in each of those amphorae. Just one of those jars, she suspected, could burn a ship to ashes in a matter of moments. What would happen if they all went up at once? She did not want to find…

“Idiot!” screamed one of the acolytes. Caina tensed, preparing to flee, but the acolytes were not looking at her. “No…get back! Get back! Now!”

One of the glass pipes cracked, a few droplets of crimson slime splattering across the gray robe of an acolyte. 

“Fool!” said the first acolyte. “Take off your robe. Take off…”

The second acolyte erupted into flame, blood-colored, howling flame. He screamed and staggered forward, waving his arms as the bloody fire devoured his robes and chewed into his flesh. The stench of burning meat filled Caina’s nostrils, and the burning acolyte made it one more step before four slaves rushed forward, dumping jars of sand over the flames.

Water, she remembered, could not quench Hellfire. 

At last the horrible fire subsided, leaving only a charred corpse half-buried in sand.

“He squealed,” rumbled one of the Immortals, “like a pig.” The other Immortal laughed, his skull-mask making the sound eerie and inhuman. 

“Clean this up,” said the acolyte who had shouted the warning, a terrified quaver in his voice. “Lord Ricimer will be wroth if we fall behind our quota.”

The slaves and the acolytes went to work, and for a moment all eyes were on the carnage.

Caina beckoned, and she and Agabyzus kept moving. The Immortals watched as the acolytes and the slaves labored to clean up the dead man, the corpse leaving a greasy trail as they dragged it across the stone floor. There was another door on the far end of the laboratory, a massive slab of steel-banded wood. Caina stepped around the last barrel, tested the door, and found it unlocked. She slid it open a crack and urged Agabyzus through, and shot a glance over her shoulder. Still no one noticed her as the slaves finished cleaning up the doomed acolyte.

She slipped through the crack and closed the door behind her. 

There were no lights in this room, save for narrow slits upon the wall that admitted moonlight, and as Caina’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw why. 

Nearly two hundred sealed amphorae rested in stone racks, motionless and grim. Little wonder there was nothing flammable in this room. A few drops of Hellfire had been enough to burn a living man to a charred husk. Each one of those amphorae would hold about seven gallons, and if they all went up at once…

The resultant fire would likely be visible from Malarae. 

“This is the storeroom,” whispered Agabyzus. He pointed at the far wall. “There’s a bridge that connects to the top room of the northern drum tower. The secret laboratory is in there. Only Ricimer has the key.” 

“And us,” said Caina, patting her belt.

She opened the door and stepped onto a narrow stone bridge. She had a splendid view of the courtyard below her, of the fires upon the wall and the mercenaries standing watch. The moon shone overhead and illuminated the deserts, rippling off the waves of the sea. To the northwest Caina saw the lights of Istarinmul, the gleaming shape of the Golden Palace and the College of Alchemists.

Agabyzus stood frozen. Caina wondered how long it had been since he had seen the moon, had felt the wind upon his face. 

She saw him staring, and he shook himself. “Let us see the end of this. One way or another.”

Caina nodded and crossed the bridge. A narrow wooden door waited at far end of the bridge, opening into the northern tower. Caina felt powerful sorcery radiating from behind it, but did sense any wards upon the door. She thrust the key into the lock, turned, and pushed open the door. 

A cold breeze washed over her, a shocking contrast from the heat of the Hellfire laboratory. Strangely, the breeze felt familiar, as did the aura of sorcery radiating from the interior of the tower. 

Caina took one step forward and then stopped. 

“What is it?” hissed Agabyzus into her ear.

“Ward,” muttered Caina. “I can feel it.”

He was close enough that she felt him flinch. “Are…you a sorcerer?”

“No,” murmured Caina. “No arcane ability at all. But I can sense it.” Beyond the door she saw a narrow stair rising into the tower, lit by an eerie gray light. “I think…a ward against detection and divination, yes. And another to deflect arcane attack.” 

“Nothing physical?” said Agabyzus.

Caina shook her head. She heard a murmuring sound, but it did not sound like voices. The cold breeze, perhaps? Or gurgling water? “No. Just wards against spells and arcane observation. I suppose Ricimer thought if anyone came here in person, the fortress would have already fallen. Shall we?”

She climbed the stairs, a throwing knife in hand, listening for any sound of enemies. Agabyzus trembled as he walked, but thankfully his bare feet made no sound against the stone steps. The flight of stairs ended in another large, round chamber, as large as the Hellfire laboratory. 

And within…

Caina stood frozen for a moment, caught between horrified disgust and bafflement. 

“By the Living Flame,” whispered Agabyzus. “What…is all this?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina, stepping into the deserted laboratory.

At least, it was deserted, save for the dead. 

Forty-eight steel tables stood in four successive rings of twelve around the floor. Upon each table lay a naked corpse. The corpses were men and women of all ages, and most bore the brands of slaves. Every last one was pallid and gray, their veins turned black beneath the skin. Each corpse had a dozen spikes driven into their flesh, slender steel chains dangling from the spikes. The chains trailed from the tables and coiled across the floor in intricate patterns, and Caina felt arcane power flowing down those chains, like a blast of lightning traveling down a lightning rod.

The mass of chains met in the center of a room, where a mirror stood.

The gray light radiated from its glass. The mirror stood tent feet by ten feet, a massive square of glass framed in dark oak. In it Caina saw the reflection of the grisly laboratory, the steel tables, the corpses. Yet Caina could see through the mirror, as if it were a doorway that led someplace else. She caught glimpses of vast plain of colorless gray grass, the sky overhead twisted with black storm clouds and flickering arcs of emerald lightning.

Tremendous arcane power radiated from the mirror, and a horrible memory burned through Caina’s mind. The rift of golden fire atop the Pyramid of Storm, Corvalis and Talekhris at her side as they strode into the netherworld. The illusion of ancient Khaset rising from the earth only to burn in the fury of the Moroaica’s sorcery, again and again and again.

Corvalis falling lifeless to the ground.

“Ricimer’s Mirror of Worlds,” said Agabyzus. 

His voice shook Caina from the dark grip of her memories.

“That’s what it is,” said Agabyzus. “A Mirror of Worlds. The Alchemists make them as part of their trial to ascend to the rank of Master Alchemist. They use them to augment and focus their sorcery, though I do not know precisely how.”

“I do,” said Caina, forcing moisture into her throat. 

“You do?” said Agabyzus. “How?” Even in his ragged, terrified state, he still looked keen. Almost hungry for the secret. He must have been an effective circlemaster, at least until he had chosen too dangerous a target in Callatas. 

“They use them,” said Caina, “to make gateways into the netherworld.”

“The realm of the djinni?” said Agabyzus.

“Or elementals, or spirits, whatever you want to call them,” said Caina. “They transmute the glass into a doorway, a passage to allow physical entrance to the netherworld.”

“How do you know this?” said Agabyzus.

Caina walked into the laboratory, taking care not to step upon any of the chains. “I’ve been to the netherworld twice. The first time almost killed me. The second time killed the man I loved best in the world. I’m not eager to go a third time.” 

“I…imagine not,” said Agabyzus. 

“Look,” said Caina, circling closer to the mirror. “The chains go into the gate.”

Before the mirror, the slender chains had been braided together into a single massive cable. It touched the mirror, went through the glass, and into the netherworld itself. In the hazy image of the netherworld, Caina saw a massive steel spike driven into the ground. The chains wrapped around it in a thick coil, almost like a mail shirt.

She felt power flowing down the chains from the Mirror of Worlds, like a tap driven into a cask of wine. 

But to what end?

“Nightfighter,” murmured Agabyzus. “I think you should look at this.” 

He stood over one of the corpses upon the steel tables, and Caina walked to join him. 

Twelve spikes, each one a smaller copy of the spike in the netherworld, had been driven into the dead man. Black corruption spread from the wounds, black veins worming their way through the flesh. The dead man’s wrists had been neatly opened, and a steady drip of black blood fell from his wrists to land in a trough below the table. 

Black blood that radiated arcane power.

Caina had sensed a faint echo of that aura around Nerina Strake, around the beggars she had met. 

And she had felt that same aura, though much stronger, in the vials that Moriz had sold to Yunus.

“Gods,” whispered Caina. “The wraithblood. Callatas has been making it.” 

Agabyzus nodded. “It would appear so.”

“From the blood of slaves,” said Caina, the fury cutting through her fear and echoing grief. “For six damned years. He has been murdering slaves, spiking their blood with sorcerous power from the netherworld, and selling it to the people of Istarinmul to drink.” She raised her hand to slam it against the table, realized that the noise could likely draw unwelcome attention, and forced herself to stop. “For all this time.” She wondered how Yunus would react if he knew he had been drinking blood. How Nerina would react. 

“But why?” said Agabyzus. “It makes no sense.”

“It doesn’t,” said Caina. “It must be a necromantic spell. Perhaps he’s trying to steal their lives and feed upon them. I’ve seen such things before.” She waved her hand over the spikes upon the corpse, careful not to touch them. “The spell…it’s…”

Her frown deepened.

“What?” said Agabyzus.

“It’s…not a necromantic spell,” said Caina, puzzled. She had been sure that was it, that Callatas was just another necromancer like Maglarion or Sicarion, a murderous thief stealing the lives of his victims to make himself stronger. Yet the spells upon the chains and the spikes were not necromantic. 

“What are they, then?” said Agabyzus.

“Summoning spells,” said Caina. “Like the sort of spell a sorcerer might use to conjure an elemental, to summon a spirit from the netherworld.” In fact, it did not feel all that different from the spells Ranarius had used to summon elementals. 

“Is he trying to summon spirits into the corpses?” said Agabyzus. 

“That can’t be it,” said Caina. “They throw the corpses over the walls when they’re done. This isn’t about the bodies. It’s about the blood, about turning it into wraithblood.”