Inferno
By Kat Ross
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About this ebook
In the fifth and last volume of the Fourth Talisman series, the worlds of the living and the dead collide in a final confrontation that will leave Nocturne and Solis forever changed....
Three talismans adrift.
Two mad kings.
One poisonous crown.
As dark forces gather at the Rock of Ariamazes in Samarqand, Nazafareen discovers that there are worse places than the afterlife. The twisted creature pulling the Vatras’ strings is holed up in the deepest level of the Dominion—and only she has the power to follow him there, though at the potential cost of her own soul.
Prophecy claims the three daeva clans must unite to face their greatest enemy again, but two of the talismans have vanished and the third is a child more used to skulking in the shadows than leading an army. Meb the Mouse might be their last hope—if anyone bothers to take her seriously.
And within the confines of the Rock, a dying king makes a pact with the devil, setting in motion a chain of events that could spell doom for friends and foes alike.
WARNING: This book contains twists and turns, richly deserved comeuppances, shocking revelations, knock-down, drag-out fights, obsessive stalkers, some very nasty monsters...and, of course, true love.
Kat Ross
Kat Ross worked as a journalist at the United Nations for ten years before happily falling back into what she likes best: making stuff up. She's the author of the new Lingua Magika trilogy, the Fourth Element and Fourth Talisman historical fantasy series, the Gaslamp Gothic paranormal mysteries, and the dystopian thriller Some Fine Day. She loves myths, monsters and doomsday scenarios. Come visit her at www.katrossbooks.com!
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Inferno - Kat Ross
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.
There, Your Highness,
Javid said faintly. I think….
Up the main thoroughfare called the Parthian Way, a group of about thirty figures was making its way toward the Rock. Sunlight glinted on red hair. It was hard to make out from a distance, but they seemed to be armed with crude spears. When they reached the curtain wall enclosing the king’s park, archers sent a volley of arrows raining down. The assault was met with gouts of fire that turned the arrows to ash in midair. Another scorching blast struck the wall and the soldiers nearest the blaze fell back. The second set of gates blew off its hinges.
Holy Father,
Javid whispered.
He turned to Shahak, whose face was an immobile mask.
The Vatras,
the king said hoarsely. They have come.
The Hazara-patis, who had witnessed any number of horrors since Shahak took the throne, slumped to the ground in a dead faint.
Javid was tempted to join him. Instead he found himself saying, in a surprisingly calm voice, We must seal the inner gates to the Rock, Majesty. The doors are bronze. They withstood a siege by the fire daēvas once before. We can wait them out, there are not so many of them.
The King was silent for a long moment. Then he turned to Javid with a quizzical expression. Bar the doors? On the contrary, we must let them in.
Javid opened his mouth, then closed it again. He drew a deep breath.
Of course you know best, Majesty. But….
He swallowed. Well, they almost killed every living soul in Samarqand the last time.
Shahak tapped his yellow talons on the stone. That was a thousand years ago. General Jamadin was unwise to oppose them.
His eyes gleamed with excitement as he watched the band approach. I’ll confess, I have dreamed this moment might come someday. The Vatras have been sent by the Holy Father to be our teachers, it is perfectly clear.
Yes, it is perfectly clear that you are mad as a magus shitting in a rainstorm.
Teachers, Majesty?
My conjurations are child’s play compared to the forging of talismans.
Shahak flicked a finger dismissively. "Mere tricks to pass the time. But a talisman survives its maker for ages! The ones we have today all predate the war. Now that is a legacy. To forge an object of enduring power. You know only the simple remnants like lumen crystals, but I’ve read ancient scrolls that say in the golden age of the adepts, there were talismans that could raise the dead. Talismans to bring rain or divert the path of a thundering river. What wondrous empire can I build with an endless supply of magical devices that could be used by anyone, not only those versed in the arcane art of alchemy?"
He stepped over the prone body of the Hazara-patis and began striding back toward the guards at the door. No, I must let them in.
Javid hurried to catch up. But—
They are my brothers. Yes, yes, my flesh and blood. They shall have their audience.
Javid recognized the decisive tone. There would be no turning the king from this course. Resignation settled over him. It is as you say, Highness.
Then a new awful thought occurred to him. But it might be advisable to keep the source of the dust a secret for now. I do not know how the Vatras would take it.
In fact, he could well imagine how they would take it.
Shahak considered this. You mean they might not understand that I consume the dust with the utmost reverence for the souls who perished?
"Precisely, Majesty. As usual, you have struck to the heart of matter. We know you mean no disrespect, but it is a very delicate matter. They might be … touchy."
Perhaps you’re right.
He graced Javid with a benevolent smile. What would I do without your judicious counsel?
Javid murmured self-deprecating words even as he inwardly prayed the king would not forget or change his mind — assuming they lived past the next quarter of an hour.
The guards at the entrance to the Rock snapped to attention at their approach.
Order the bronze doors to be opened,
Shahak told the captain. I will greet my guests in the throne room.
Silence greeted these words. The captain gave Javid a bleak look. It said, We’re all going to die and there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?
Javid gave the merest shrug of agreement.
With a guttural growl, Shahak turned the captain into a fluttering moth. His gaze fixed on the next guardsman and he repeated the order. This time it was obeyed with alacrity.
Javid hoped he might slip away at this point and try to whisk his family to safety, or at least find a dark hole to hide in, but it was not to be.
As the Hazara-patis is indisposed, you will address the Vatras on my behalf,
the king told him cheerfully. Explain that the incident at the gates was a misunderstanding and escort them to the audience chamber. We shall find common cause.
He started down the stairs, then turned back. And fetch Leila Khorram-Din. My royal alchemist should be on hand for this historic occasion.
3
A ROYAL REPAST
Small fires smoldered in the strip of sedge grass along the curtain wall. Nicodemus stepped over the blackened bones of an archer who’d fallen from the top, though most of the Persian defenders had retreated back to their impregnable fortress.
The Rock of Ariamzes hulked half a league away, casting a deep shadow across the parkland. It looked like an enormous grey boulder, all of a piece without seam or opening. The palace-fortress had defeated Gaius once before and Nico wondered how he intended to conquer it this time. Unlike the Carnelian Gate, the massive doors leading to the Rock were plated in bronze.
They could be melted down in time, but not today. The Vatras swayed on their feet, hollow-eyed and exhausted. Working fire drew on one’s own life force and they weren’t used to tapping it freely. In the Kiln, the wards that sustained the Gale had also dampened elemental power. Like muscles that atrophy from lack of use, using fire had depleted them. Nico experienced the same thing when he’d first emerged from the gate with Domitia two years before.
Even Gaius looked tired. It seemed to be dawning on him that he wasn’t as strong as the last time he came to this city with a legion at his command.
They need to rest,
Nico said. To eat.
Gaius gazed at the Rock, his expression unreadable. The Danai built that,
he said at last. The fools. They were always too trusting of the mortals.
We could make camp here—
No. We march for the Rock.
He turned to Nico. You’ll get us inside or Atticus loses his tongue. I can still use a knife.
Nico looked away before Gaius saw his anger. All right,
he muttered.
His leg ached like a bastard, but he hadn’t joined the fray at the Carnelian Gate or the curtain wall. Fire simmered in his fingertips, shivered along his skin. Enough to melt the doors? Probably not. But he’d find a way. He had to.
The children, all painfully thin, were looking around in wonder at the trees and lush greenery of the park. Atticus crouched over a bed of flowers, touching their petals with reverence. Thankfully, he hadn’t heard the exchange. Nico turned to find Aelia staring at him, her son propped on one hip. The boy looked more like his mother, with the same wide mouth and strong features. Their eyes met for a moment and she looked away. He wondered what she was thinking. If she hated him for the punishment she’d almost endured on his behalf.
That was Gaius’s way. Threaten others to compel obedience.
Nico started down the road to the Rock, leaning on the stout hickory stick he’d found in a farmer’s woodpile. After a moment, the rest of the Vatras followed. The defenders were holed up inside, along with the royal family and its retinue of servants, cooks, messengers, scribes — in other words, hundreds of innocent people, most of them unarmed.
I have no choice. But I will see Gaius burn some day, whatever it costs me.
Once they reached the Rock, Nico sank into the calm of the Nexus, the place where all things were one. Earth power was primarily a talent of the Danai, but he could tap a certain amount of it. Perhaps he could weaken the hinges. He gritted his teeth, feeling the particles of metal resonate. Pain shot through his injured leg. He drew deeper….
His eyes snapped open as gears groaned and the massive bronze doors slowly swung wide. At first, Nico thought he’d miraculously opened them, but then a voice came from inside.
King Shahak bids you enter as his honored guests. He humbly apologizes for the misunderstanding at the city gates. You may enter the Rock of Ariamazes freely and in a spirit of welcome.
Gaius’s eyes narrowed, a sharp, cunning expression that Nicodemus didn’t trust. He’d seen Gaius in murderous rages, or full of manic good cheer, but this was something new.
A beardless youth waited in the antechamber. He wore a black coat trimmed in silver stitching at the sleeves and high stiff collar. Chin-length brown hair framed his face, parted in the middle and neatly oiled. He was too well dressed to be a servant, but Nicodemus had spent enough time in the court of Tjanjin to know he wasn’t a noble either. He lacked the arrogance, the softness. Something about him said he worked for a living.
If this is some kind of a trick, you will have cause to regret it,
Gaius said coldly.
The youth paled. It is no trick, I swear it on my honor. King Shahak will greet you in the throne room. He is most anxious to meet you.
The Praetorians went first, alert for any sign of treachery. The ranks of defenders waiting inside flinched away from the scarred faces, but none raised a weapon. Nico exchanged a look with Atticus and limped into the cavernous entrance.
I am Javid,
the youth told Gaius with an elegant bow, quickly recognizing where the power lay. King Shahak’s personal wind ship pilot. He has given me the honor of escorting you into his illustrious presence, if that is acceptable. Or do you wish to bathe and rest first?
His tone was perfectly courteous, as though he were greeting any foreign delegation. Nico was impressed by the youth’s courage.
No,
Gaius said flatly. Lead us to your king.
Javid bowed again and brought them deeper into the Rock. When they reached a set of tall double doors, he inquired what name should be announced.
I present King Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus of the clan of the Avas Vatras!
he said in ringing tones.
Nico scanned the throne room. A handful of nobles in silks huddled together like penned cattle who had just caught a whiff of the abattoir. More guards stood stiffly along the walls. Several made the sign of the flame as the Vatras entered.
An elevated dais held a throne carved from the same grey stone as the Rock itself, with a pair of roaring lions supporting the arms and a figure with eagle’s wings across the back — a symbol of the Persian prophet, Nico remembered. Leaning forward on the throne sat a man of indeterminate age. His face bore the signs of some wasting illness in its terminal stage, but when he saw them, he rose to his feet and strode down from the dais with a broad smile that managed to be welcoming and ghastly at the same time.
King Gaius! What an honor it is to meet you, cousin!
There was a brittle silence. Gaius stared at him, his face a mask. Nicodemus braced for a wholesale slaughter.
King Shahak,