Ghost in the Maze (26 page)

There were flickers of the Anshani savannah and the northern forests, no doubt copied from the minds of Kazravid and Laertes. From time to time Caina saw the gleaming black walls and polished floor of a Magisterium chapterhouse, likely from Anaxander’s thoughts. The white-washed walls and shops and markets of Istarinmul blurred into existence and disappeared, and that could have come from any of them. There were other sights Caina could not identify so readily. A lush orchard, filled with trees bearing brilliant ripe fruit. A library stuffed with books, though no books that Caina recognized. A gladiatorial ring, the sands wet with the blood of slain fighters. A dry fountain of white stone, a crystalline statue of a woman standing upon the central plinth, her expression sorrowful, her hands outstretched. 

“This is nauseating,” rasped Strabane. “The ground shouldn’t change like that, damn it all.”

“The rate of change appears to be accelerating,” said Nerina in her usual detached voice, but Caina knew her well enough by now to hear the tension. “There were thirty-five seconds between the first alteration and the second.” The fountain vanished, replaced by a street in Istarinmul. “Now we are down to about nine and a half seconds between changes.” 

“The changes come faster as the netherworld acclimates to our presence,” said Caina.

The street vanished, replaced by a gleaming temple of marble, and Caina’s breath caught in her throat. Corvalis Aberon lay dead upon the ground, slain by the Moroaica’s sorcery. Pain flooded through her at the sight, as sharp and keen as if it had just happened. Desperately she wrenched her thoughts away from the horrid memory, and the image sputtered and jumped, melting back to the colorless gray plain. 

“What was that?” said Kazravid. “It never flickered like that before.”

“One of mine,” said Caina, taking a deep breath. The running helped turn her thoughts from the past. “I forced it out of my head.” 

“A bad memory?” said Nerina, breathing hard. The locksmith was in better physical condition than Caina would have expected. Well, wraithblood had likely destroyed her appetite, and the constant effort of using her tools likely provided some exercise.

“Very bad,” said Caina. The netherworld blurred into a shimmering palace courtyard, white walls of stone shining in the desert sun. 

“So if we think about naked women,” said Kazravid, “then we’ll see naked women?”

“Maybe,” said Caina. That was certainly better than some of the alternatives.

Strabane snorted. “Then we’re doomed if you attempt it.”

“And why is that?” demanded Kazravid. 

“Because I doubt that you’ve ever seen a naked woman,” said Strabane.

Laertes burst out laughing, and even Azaces made his rasping gargle of a laugh.

“Fool!” said Kazravid. “I shall have you know that I was banished from Anshan because of my love for a woman! Aye, my prowess brought her to the heights of ecstasy! Yet our jealous enemies plotted against us, and I had to flee for my life.” He scoffed. “The damned Istarish love their epic poems so bloody much, they ought to make a poem about me.”

“They would,” said Strabane, “but no one would pay to hear it.”

“I could compose a poem on the topic,” said Anaxander, “though I have no wish to be pelted with rotten vegetables.”

Kazravid spat again. “Shut up, magus. Sorcerers have no sense of humor. Stick to speaking with spirits and moving things about with your mind.” 

“I was expelled from the Magisterium,” said Anaxander, “so I am entitled to make jokes, I’ll have you know.”

Caina let them bicker as they ran. Their banter, she knew, was an obvious attempt to distract themselves from the danger. Yet it seemed to be working. The cycling terrain slowed, morphing back into the featureless gray plain.

“There,” said Nasser. “I can see the light.”

“The thirteen gates,” said Caina. She saw the light, too, and felt the presence of the spells upon the gates. “Just a little further…”

The ground changed yet again, altering to a dead black plain, the ground lifeless and cracked. 

And Caina saw a dozen figures standing between them and the light of the gates.

She skidded to a stop and drew her ghostsilver dagger, the blade shining with a harsh white radiance.

“Those creatures,” said Nasser, stopping and drawing his own weapon as the others followed suit. “You know what they are?”

“All too well,” said Caina, voice grim.

Each one of the robed shapes stood eight or nine tall, clad in filthy, ragged gray robes. A heavy cowl covered their faces in darkness, and their ragged sleeves and robes concealed their hands and feet. Their robes rippled in an immaterial wind, but the figures themselves stood unnaturally still.

“I am reasonably sure,” said Laertes, “they are not something from my memory.”

“They’re not,” said Caina. “They’re phobomorphic spirits. They will take the shape of a fear from your memory, and then they will try to kill us. It will be the form of something you fear irrationally. Spiders, water, dogs, whatever.” The last time she had encountered the creatures, they had taken the form of a dead, half-rotten fish that had frightened her as a child. 

“Can our weapons hurt them?” said Laertes. 

“Not yet,” said Anaxander, and Caina felt the spike of force as he summoned power. “Hold still.” He muttered and gestured, and a flickering blue glow shimmered to life around the weapons of the others. “This won’t last for long. I put a warding spell around your blades. It will allow you to harm the spirits, to force them out of their forms. Ciaran, that dagger of yours will be the most effective.”

“Could we go around them?” said Strabane.

As if in response to his question, the spirits glided forward. 

“No,” said Caina. “They’ll hunt us now. And even if we run, they can fly.”

“They can fly?” said Kazravid. “That is simply not fair.”

“Brace yourselves,” said Caina. “This is not going to be pleasant.” 

The phobomorphic spirits took one more step, and then they changed. 

Their forms rippled and shimmered, and an icy shock went through Caina as they changed into a hideous cross between a man and the dead fish she had seen as a child. It was irrational, she knew. She had almost seen the world destroyed with sorcery, had seen the man she loved die before her eyes. A dead fish should not fill her with such revulsion. But her skin crawled at the sight of the dulled scales, the jutting ribs, the black eyes bulging with corruption. It made her cringe away, made her want to run in terror.

But she held her ground and looked at the others. They recoiled in fear, their eyes wide, and she wondered why the sight of the dead fish bothered them so much. No, that wasn’t it. When Caina looked at the phobomorphic spirits, she saw a long-buried fear from her childhood. The others would each see their own nightmares. 

“Father?” rasped Nerina.

“No,” said Laertes in a low voice. “I saw you die. I saw you die!” 

Some fears were far worse than dead fish. 

The fish-creatures charged, and Caina realized that the spirits would overwhelm them in one fierce rush.

So she ran to meet them, one against a dozen. 

But as she ran, she concentrated on the terrain around her, reaching out with her thoughts.

And as she did, the world changed. 

Caina found herself standing inside a dockside warehouse of Malarae, crates and barrels stacked around her, a brick wall rising before her. The wall had appeared in exactly the right place to cut off one of the spirits from the others. The fish creature turned towards her, reaching for her with slimy hands. Caina’s flesh crawled with revulsion, but it did not slow her arm. She slashed the ghostsilver dagger through the creature’s torso, the hilt growing hot beneath her fingers, and the phobomorphic spirit dissolved into black smoke. She could not kill the thing, not truly, but the ghostsilver dagger would disrupt the creature’s power and keep it from taking form until it recovered. 

The door to the warehouse exploded open, the fish-creatures charging through, and Caina forced her will into the terrain around her. The warehouse blurred and melted away, and Caina stood in one of Malarae’s narrow dockside alleyways. Now the phobomorphic spirits were inside the warehouse.

Save for one, left caught in the alley. Caina lunged and ripped her glowing dagger through the fish-creature’s chest. The spirit hissed in fury and rage, dissolving into smoke. Caina wheeled away from the swirl of smoke, preparing to focus upon the warehouse …

But the warehouse exploded in spray of shattered bricks and splintered tiles. The remaining phobomorphic spirits shot into the air, resuming their original forms. The explosion knocked Caina from her feet, and as she lost her concentration, Malarae blurred and disappeared around her, reforming into the lifeless plain. The surviving spirits dove upon her in a rush, and she scrambled to her feet, raising her dagger to defend herself…

A pulse of blue light slammed into the leading spirit, unraveling it into smoke. An instant later Strabane and Laertes dashed past her, bellowing like madmen. The blue distortion of Anaxander’s ward danced around their weapons, and their blades parted the rotting gray robes of the spirits, dissolving them into smoke. Azaces and Kazravid and Nasser sprinted into the fray an instant later, their swords rising and falling.

A moment later the last of the phobomorphic spirits faded away. 

“Good timing,” said Caina, catching her breath.

“It seems you have saved us yet again,” said Nasser. “Had you not acted, we would have been frozen with fear when the phobomorphic spirits attacked.”

“How did you do that?” said Anaxander. 

“Do what?” said Caina, wiping sweat from her eyes.

“Change the landscape,” said Anaxander. “Are you a sorcerer?”

“Gods, no,” said Caina. “You said it yourself. The land here is psychomorphic.  I just concentrated. Hard to maintain, though.” She jerked her head in the direction of the gates. “Let’s keep going. There are worse things than phobomorphic spirits in the…”

A dark streak shot overhead. Caina whirled, wondering if another phobomorphic spirit had found them. But this creature was something else. It looked like a hooded wraith wrapped in shadows, its heart and eyes ablaze with purple flame.

Caina recognized it with a shock.

A nagataaru.

The spirit swooped toward her, and Caina dodged, slashing with her white-glowing dagger. The nagataaru flowed past her, and Caina spun to follow it. But the creature wasn’t aiming for her.

It shot like an arrow for Nerina.

Azaces snarled and set himself in the spirit’s path, but the nagataaru slammed into him and flung him to the ground. Nerina stumbled back, and the nagataaru flowed into her body. The creature seemed to merge with the shadowy haze around her, and then it forced itself into her mouth and nostrils and eyes, sinking into her flesh. 

Nerina collapsed, thrashing and moaning, and Azaces climbed to his knees next to her.

He looked at Caina, a demand for help in his hard eyes.

“What happened?” said Strabane. “The demon…”

“It entered her,” said Caina. She saw purple fire glimmering behind Nerina’s closed eyelids, shadows curling around her fingers. “It’s possessing her.”

“Why her?” said Nasser. “She is the weakest and smallest of us all.”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “Anaxander. Can you drive out the nagataaru?”

“In time, yes,” said Anaxander, his face haggard. “With the proper materials and the time to prepare the necessary spells. In this place, we do not have that time.” He peered at her. “She is fighting the nagataaru…but it will claim her and attack us long before I can do anything to stop it.”

“We may have to kill her and cut off her head,” said Strabane. 

Azaces glared at him, raising his scimitar.

“Wait,” said Caina. “Wait!” The men looked at her. “I have an idea.” She gestured with the dagger. “This is proof against sorcery. You saw it harm those spirits. I think it can harm the nagataaru.”

“And just,” said Kazravid, “how will you do that without killing her?”

“If I wound her,” said Caina, “it might force the nagataaru out of her flesh.”

“Are you sure of that?” said Nasser.

“No,” said Caina. “But I can think of nothing better.”

Nerina kept thrashing, a low, growling moan coming from her lips. The purple light behind her closed eyes grew brighter.

“It’s your choice, Azaces,” said Caina. “You’re her protector. Tell us what to do.”

Azaces stared at her for a long moment. At last he gave a single, sharp nod.

“Hold her legs,” said Caina. Azaces seized her calves in his massive fists. “Strabane, get her wrists. The nagataaru will try to fight.” The former gladiator gripped Nerina’s wrists. 

Caina took a deep breath, set herself, and pressed the tip of the ghostsilver dagger into Nerina’s left thigh. She heard a sizzling noise, the dagger growing hotter beneath her hand. Nerina loosed a howling scream, far deeper than her usual voice, and tried to thrash. Fortunately, Azaces held her in place, keeping her from ripping the wound wider. Caina pressed the dagger deeper into Nerina’s leg, the sizzling sound growing louder. Caina had chosen the spot carefully, avoiding any major blood vessels, but if Caina pressed the blade too deep, Nerina would bleed out anyway. Or she would twitch too violently and Caina would hit a vein…

Then Nerina went rigid, her eyes popping open, her mouth yawning wide. The hooded wraith of shadow and purple flame erupted from her mouth, the shadows looking rather more tattered than they had. Caina yanked the dagger from Nerina’s leg, drawing a cry of pain from the smaller woman, and slashed the blade. It cut through the nagataaru with a sizzle, shreds of shadow falling from the creature, and the nagataaru fled, leaving a dark streak across the sky.

Nerina let out a long gasp, her eyes their normal eerie blue.

“My leg,” she croaked. “Oh…it hurts.” She looked at Caina. “It…it was in my mind, I couldn’t stop it, I saw…I saw…”

“Bind the wound,” said Caina. “She’ll bleed out otherwise.”

Azaces was already in motion. He ripped a strip from the hem of Nerina’s robe and tied it around her leg, staunching the flow of blood.