Inferno

1

RED DAWN

Lieutenant Captain Arshad shaded his eyes against the low sun with one hand, resting the other on the pommel of his sword. From his vantage point atop one of the fortified towers flanking the Carnelian Gate, the seventh gate of Samarqand, he could see six leagues of the western road before it wound into a fold of low hills. Farther out lay the Gale, which appeared as a smudge of darkness on the horizon. He couldn’t make it out today; a southerly wind carried smoke from the blacksmith’s quarter, painting the landscape with a grey haze.

Since the Hazara-patis had ordered all the gates leading into the city to be sealed, traffic had dried to a trickle. But now he saw a group of dust-coated travelers trudging along the western road.

At first, Captain Arshad assumed they were refugees from Delphi. The Pythia ruled with a heavy hand and not everyone liked it. After the massacre of the Ecclesia, there’d been an influx of people, afoot and riding on wagons, who’d had enough of her fanaticism. But this bunch didn’t look like Greeks. They all had bright red hair and wore sand-colored cloaks. Arshad frowned. Perhaps they were a troop of players in costume come to entertain the king.

What is it, captain? asked his second in command.

I’m not sure. He sighed. I’d best go down and find out.

The group neared the gates and the captain revised his opinion. Not travelling players. They had no baggage and they all wore the same odd cloaks. They were a weird-looking bunch, most likely some religious cult. There seemed no end to the number of gods worshipped by the heathen Greeks. Arshad discreetly made the sign of the flame.

He trotted down the winding staircase to the bottom of the garrison’s watchtower, moving at an unhurried pace. They’d already refused other refugees fleeing Delphi, and a few country folk who’d hoped to shelter inside Samarqand’s walls until things settled down. Arshad felt bad turning them away, some were families with children and he had two sons of his own, but orders were orders and there was no bribe large enough to induce him to open those gates. Everyone knew what King Shahak did to traitors.

His generals were the latest casualty. Rumor said they’d been plotting to unseat the king and replace him with one of their own. Somehow Shahak had gotten wind of the conspiracy. They were now on display in front of the Rock, their bodies rearranged in monstrous contortions.

That was four days ago and no new generals had been promoted, leaving the middle-ranking officers in charge. Lieutenant Captain Arshad commanded a garrison of a hundred men at the Carnelian Gate. Each of the six other gates was similarly guarded. The rest of the army, about a thousand men, kept order in the city and patrolled the inner curtain wall enclosing the Rock of Ariamazes. The king would be in no danger from this ragtag group.

Archers lined the top of the wall, arrows duly knocked to bows although it seemed unlikely they’d be needed. More soldiers with spears and shields occupied the garrison, sparring in the muddy yard.

When Captain Arshad reached ground level, he peered through the ornamental grillwork of the towering wooden gates. The group had halted thirty paces away, but their leader kept coming and now Captain Arshad got a better look at him. The first thing he noticed was that the man had been burned in a fire. Swathes of scalp were bald and misshapen, with thick seams of scar tissue. The second was his eyes, which were a shade of blue so light as to be almost colorless. He seemed to have no eyebrows.

The gates are sealed, Arshad said curtly. You’ll have to go back to wherever you came from.

The man nodded and grinned, dirty red hair swinging. Arshad wondered if he was simple.

I’m here for an audience with King Shahak, he said.

The solders laughed at this, although Captain Arshad didn’t join them. Something about the group made him uneasy. All the adult males save for two also bore the marks of fire, though only on half their faces. Arshad found that very odd—as if the burns had been inflicted deliberately. Then there were the identical cloaks, made from some tanned hide the captain didn’t recognize.

And who shall we say is here to see him? one of the soldiers taunted from the wall.

Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus. The man spread his arms wide. King of the Avas Vatras.

The soldiers exploded into laughter at that.

Lieutenant Captain Arshad felt himself losing patience. His original assessment must be correct. They were a troupe of performers hoping for a crust of bread and a cup of wine in exchange for some mindless entertainment, and desperate enough to risk the displeasure of Samarqand’s notoriously unstable king.

There’s a village not far from here, he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Just walk north along the river. You’ll find food and shelter there, if you have coin for it. But you won’t be getting into Samarqand. Not today, nor anytime soon.

He looked at the children again. They were ragged and thin, but they didn’t look afraid. Lieutenant Captain Arshad had seen a lot of refugees and they all wore the same expression, a mixture of weariness, suffering and resignation. But these children stared boldly back at the soldiers. It was eerie. The only one who did look afraid was a man leaning on a stick. Arshad seemed to remember him limping as the group approached. The man’s intense gaze met his own and Arshad had the impression he wanted to say something, but then he cast a furtive glance at the scarred leader and Arshad realized his fear was not of the soldiers on the wall. Suddenly, he was very glad for the wall between them.

You heard me, he said sharply. Go on with you.

The leader crooked a finger and a little girl came forward. She couldn’t be older than eight or nine, with fiery hair down to her waist, tangled and wild. She had the same pale eyes. Unbidden, Arshad thought of a story his grandfather used to tell about a monster called a wight. They were cunning things. They pretended to be human, but their eyes were like black almonds and when you realized what they were and tried to run, they were very fast….

The scarred man leaned down and whispered in the little girl’s ear.

She stared at Captain Arshad, her gaze finding his through the carved grillwork in the gate.

We don’t want to leave, she declared in a high, childish voice.

Cold fingers of dread traced a path down Arshad’s spine. The archers sensed it too and he heard the creak of bowstrings. No one laughed this time. A heavy silence fell on the garrison.

Are you sure you won’t open the gates? the leader asked softly.

Captain Arshad started to make the sign of the flame. His finger brushed forehead and lips, but before they touched his heart, a wall of fire raced toward him.

The girl stepped forward, a smile on her face.

It was her, she’d done this somehow….

A wind rose, whipping the flames into a bonfire. They consumed the gates in a matter of seconds. Arshad had never seen a fire burn so hot. It quickly spread to the garrison towers. Captain Arshad grabbed a young messenger boy who stood frozen in the yard.

Get to the inner curtain wall and send word to seal the Rock.

Who are they? the boy gabbled, his eyes huge. "What are they?"

Just run. Faster than you’ve ever run before. Arshad gave him a hard shove. "Go!"

One of the archers screamed and tumbled from the wall, blue flames trailing from his body. The boy took off into the warren of streets, legs pumping. He didn’t look back.

Lieutenant Captain Arshad drew his sword and waded forward into hell.

2

FLESH AND BLOOD

Holy Father help me, he’s going to sneeze.

Javid watched from the corner of his eye as King Shahak’s nose twitched. His breathing sounded clotted and uneven.

Any moment now. But which way will he turn his face?

The king sat in a chair, fingers resting on a lacquered box in his lap. The box never left his custody now, though he rarely partook of its contents. He no longer needed much dust to work magic. It was transforming him — and not for the better.

Shahak’s skin was ashy and peeling, his hair thinning. An embroidered robe in shades of bruised purple hung on his cadaverous frame. From the pointed sleeves emerged thick, yellowed nails, the fingers quivering with a faint tremor. Fever-bright eyes lurked deep within their sockets. His nose and cheekbones were sharp as blades, making his full lips seem vaguely obscene.

Allow me to refresh your spiced wine, Majesty, Javid murmured, taking the opportunity to back out of range.

In the last week or so, Shahak’s bodily fluids had acquired strange magical properties. Just that morning, his chamber pot spontaneously turned into a huge, hideous toadstool. The scraps of silk he used to blot his frequent nosebleeds had to be handled with tongs and burned immediately, before they tried to crawl away.

Javid took his time pouring the wine. A pair of blank-faced servants knelt in the corner, eyes cast down, waiting to do the king’s bidding. But Javid encountered far fewer souls in the torchlit corridors of the Rock these days. He suspected that many of the palace staff had slipped away. Even the royal guard was diminished. Javid envied them.

The king’s nose twitched again. His eyes watered and he drew a sharp breath, then expelled it in a violent sneeze. Javid took a nimble hop back as a spray of dark liquid struck a silk pillow to the king’s left. A moment later, a tentacle erupted, questing delicately across the floor. The servants leapt into action, removing the offending pillow to throw it into the holy fire the magi kept burning day and night.

Unperturbed, Shahak accepted the cup with a wan smile.

You must make a trip to Pompeii soon, he said. To replenish our supplies before we undertake the work of reviving the drylands.

Javid gave a low bow. As you command, Majesty.

One day I should like to accompany you. He coughed into his handkerchief. But there is much to be done here. We must make certain our stockpiles are adequate. He glanced at the cage hanging over the door where Javid’s former employer, Izad Asabana, sat on his perch in the form of a crow, staring disconsolately through the bars.

The spell dust seized from Asabana’s warehouses was dwindling. Even though Shahak used it rarely, he had an intense fear of running out. Leila said it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And how are your sweet sisters?

Bibi is getting on well as Leila’s apprentice. She’s a bright child. It keeps her out of trouble.

She is not performing spells, I hope, Shahak said dryly.

Javid smiled at the jest, though he kept a sharp eye on the handkerchief for signs of movement. No, Highness. She runs errands within the palace and assists with the more mundane experiments.

In fact, Javid was grateful Leila had taken Bibi under her wing. She was too clever for her own good and chafed at confinement. Leila made sure she was kept far from the king, and she seemed to find Bibi useful for the non-magical devices she constructed in her workshop.

Dust is not to be trifled with, Shahak said with a peevish frown. I trust Leila’s judgment, of course, but with the supplies running low….

In their haste to remove the tentacled pillow, the servants had left the door to the corridor open and Javid heard rapid footsteps approaching. A moment later, the Hazara-patis, Master of a Thousand and chief steward of the palace, rushed into the chamber. He collapsed into the prostration, pressing his bald head to the carpet.

There’s a disturbance at the Carnelian Gate, O King of Kings. The garrison has fallen. People are rioting in the streets to get out.

Shahak’s red eyes narrowed. Fallen? To whom?

The initial reports are unclear⁠—

Stand up, man! I can hardly hear you.

The Hazara-patis rose unsteadily to his feet. I beg forgiveness, Your Highness. It’s just that⁠—

Is it the Greeks? Shahak growled. The Pythia? I expected her to come eventually, but how could there be no warning that an army marched on our city?

Not the Pythia. The Hazara-patis knit his hands together, steeling himself. A single messenger boy survived the melee at the wall. He claims the gates were burned to cinder and torn from their hinges. He’s not very coherent, but…. His voice trailed off. Not to fear, Your Majesty, reinforcements have been dispatched. We will restore order.

Burned to cinder? Javid knew the Carnelian Gate well. It was made of cedar planks two hands thick. He took a bracing gulp of wine.

What else? The Hazara-patis hesitated and Shahak slammed his hand down on the armrest. Speak!

The boy claims it was a group of refugees. They sought an audience with the King of Kings and were naturally refused. Sweat rolled down the steward’s milk-pale brow. They claimed to be Avas Vatras, but of course it must be some trick⁠—

Shahak leapt to his feet, full of sudden energy. I wish to see for myself.

The Haraza-patis looked scandalized. Your Highness! It’s far too dangerous⁠—

Not from outside, you fool. From the Sky Garden.

The Rock itself was all of a piece and windowless, but before her transformation into a beast, the Queen had installed a garden on the battlements so her children could play beneath the sun and remain perfectly safe. Perhaps because she had loved it and he hated his mother for opposing his ascension to the throne, Shahak rarely went there. But it commanded a view of Samarqand for many leagues.

Now the three of them hurried through the inner court and up a series of winding staircases. Guards in felt hats and tunics with the sign of a roaring griffin hastily stepped aside at the door to the gardens as the king swept through. Without the Queen’s guiding hand, the place had run a bit wild. Under different circumstances, Javid would have been grateful to be out in the open air after the oppressive atmosphere of the Rock. Date palms mingled with citrus and pomegranate trees, and thick-trunked cycads banked beds of roses and poppies the color of fresh blood.

Javid trailed the king as he strode along a gravel pathway to the waist-high wall at the edge of the roof. Smoke smudged the sky to the west, and in a few other places as well. Below, soldiers rushed out of the garrison adjoining the Rock and surged across the parkland to defend the inner curtain wall.

Beyond that … chaos reigned.

The streets of Samarqand were built in spirals, all leading up to the Rock. Everywhere he looked, Javid saw tiny figures running pell-mell. Knots of soldiers tried to keep order, but they were vastly outnumbered. The flood of humanity surged toward the city’s other gates like water rushing down an open drain.

Shahak gripped the stone balustrade, dark brows drawn together in displeasure.

Why do the people flee? I see no invading force.