The Thousand Names (64 page)

The big corporal barked orders, and the rankers advanced, spreading in a loose formation through the enormous room. The statues were set in a rough pattern, not quite a grid, with ten or twenty feet between them. They seemed to fill the cavern to the walls, giving the impression of an army of shadowy, lantern-lit figures all around them. Marcus heard muttering among their escorts, and more than one man brought his hand to his chest to make the double-circle ward against evil. He couldn’t blame them.

Another fire sprang to life, just ahead of them, and men raised their weapons. This one was smaller, just enough to illuminate a small circle of flagstones. On either side of it lay a human figure, spread-eagled, with a wooden box sitting between them. Marcus glanced at Janus, and caught the corner of the colonel’s mouth quirked in amusement.

“Sir?” Marcus said.

“Gifts, Captain. Someone is trying to . . . buy us off.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Janus beckoned him forward, and Marcus reluctantly approached the fire. As he got closer, he realized with a start that he recognized both of the men on the floor. The fat body of General Khtoba, still in his stained dress uniform, wore an expression of blank surprise. The young man in black robes who had been the Hand of the Divine seemed more serene. Each corpse had a slim dagger embedded to the hilt in its left eye socket.

The colonel went to the box and flipped the lid open with a boot before Marcus could protest. He stared down at the contents for a moment, then looked up with another brief smile.

“Take a look, Captain. You’ll appreciate this.”

The firelight glittered across a steel mask, twin to the one they’d found after the ambush. Janus bent and picked it up. Underneath it was another identical copy, and Marcus could see another beneath that.

“What is that?” Marcus said. “The Steel Ghost’s spare wardrobe?”

“More like the source of his mysterious powers,” Janus said.

“I’m not sure I understand. Was there something special about the masks after all?”

“Only the significance ascribed to them.” Janus ran a finger along the smooth metal. “It’s inspired, really. I’m amazed they managed to keep the secret for so long.”

“The way he could be in two places at once,” Marcus said. “The Steel Ghost used doubles.”

“In a way. My guess is that there was never any such person as the Steel Ghost to begin with. He was . . . a sort of myth, but one that only outsiders believed in. They must have laughed long and loud around the campfires.”

“But someone must have worn the masks!”

“Whoever was convenient. Once you’ve built up the legend, think of the advantages. Pull a mask out from under your cloak, and suddenly it’s not just a Desoltai raid but the Steel Ghost himself out for blood. Take it off when no one’s looking, and the Ghost vanishes into the desert like a shadow. Combine that with the intelligence advantage they derived from their lantern codes, and they’d created a shadow puppet that had the whole country running scared.”

Marcus looked down at the mask in the colonel’s hand. “You knew. That’s why you told me not to put it out that we’d killed the Ghost in the ambush—you knew he might turn up here as well.”

“Let’s say that I strongly suspected. When you have a man whose only distinguishing feature is something that
hides
his identity, why should you assume it’s the same man each time? It’s like saying the Pontifex of the White has lived for a thousand years because different men keep putting on the hat.”

“You might have told me.”

“I would have, if it had ever become a serious issue. As it is, it’s simply a . . . curiosity.” He looked dismissively at the two corpses, then raised his voice to a shout. It echoed off the distant walls. “Very generous! I thank you.”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Janus held up one finger for silence. A moment later, another voice filled the cavern, a distant hissing sound that seemed to come from every direction at once.

“You have what you came for,
raschem
. Consider this our surrender.”

“Steady,” Marcus said, as the rankers looked in all directions. The last thing they needed was a careless shot causing a panic. “Corporal, get the men to close up.”

“I am Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran,” Janus said in Khandarai. “May I have the honor of knowing to whom I speak?”

“You may call me . . . Mother.” The word echoed oddly, repeating over and over through the vaulting hall for longer than it had any right to. “And I know well who you are.”

“Then you know that this is not what I came for.”

“No?” Mother’s voice was a hiss, like windblown sand sliding across stone. The fire lighting the two corpses started to flicker and die. “You have the leaders of the Redemption. Bear them back in triumph to your pet prince. The Desoltai will raise no more rebellions, and the Steel Ghost will vanish into the myths of the Great Desol. What more do you require?”

“I will have the treasure of the Demon King,” Janus said. “Give me the Thousand Names.”

“Then it is as I feared. You are the minions of Orlanko and the Black Priests.”

Marcus glanced at Janus, but the colonel’s face was blank. None of the rankers would understand the Khandarai conversation, and Marcus was starting to doubt his own comprehension.
Black Priests? If she means our Priests of the Black, she’s about a hundred years too late . . .

“No,” Janus said. “They are my enemies as well.”

“You lie,” Mother snapped. “Or else you are deceived. It matters not. I offer you this final chance,
raschem
. Take your prizes and go.”

“I will have the Names.”

The ancient voice trailed off into a fading whisper.

“As you wish . . .”

A new sound filled the cavern. A hiss, rising from the shadows in every direction at once, like the sound of a kettle just before it becomes a shriek. There were a hundred kettles, a thousand, echoing and re-echoing until the whole vast temple seemed to be alive.

Around the edges of the room, where the glare of the bonfires didn’t reach, green lights flickered to life. They were eyes, Marcus realized, a swarm of eyes, all glowing a pale, eerie green that put him in mind of lightning bugs. By their faint light he could see ranks of swaying bodies and rows of faces with slack, distant expressions, all framed by wisps of rising white vapor. More white smoke trickled up through the air just in front of him, mixing with the dark woodsmoke of the extinguished fire. Marcus looked down.

General Khtoba had only one eye left, but that was open, filled with green light from edge to edge. His mouth worked, letting out a stream of liquid smoke whenever his fat lips parted. With an arthritic jerk, his corpse rolled on its side and started to fumble its way to its feet. Beside him, the Divine Hand sat up, his burning green gaze fixed on Marcus, and crawled forward on hands and knees.

“Kill them,” Mother’s voice said, echoing louder and louder until it thundered through the hiss of the smoke. “Kill them all!”

“Saints and
fucking
martyrs,” Marcus said. At least he thought he was the one who said it, but the oath had escaped from several mouths simultaneously, along with an assortment of choicer obscenities. At least one of the rankers had a more emphatic response, and the
bang
of his musket going off was loud enough in the echoing cavern to make Marcus duck. It was followed by another, and another, then the whole company, not a single volley but a staccato chorus of shots ripping the air and merging with their own echoes like a never-ending bolt of lightning. The flashes drowned out the bonfires and turned the scene into a flickering montage of light and darkness, men waving and running in jerky stop-motion.

He saw Khtoba rear up, finally managing to lift his fat bulk to his knees. One of the rankers shot him from only a few feet away. In the next flash, Marcus saw the big general jerk, strings of gristle and gore hanging down the back of his uniform where the ball had punched clean through him. No blood ran from the wound, though, only a trickle of white smoke like the trail from a snuffed candle. And Khtoba himself gave no indication of being aware that he’d been hit. He sprinted at the ranker, no more bothered by the hole in his chest than the dagger in his eye. The Colonial screamed, raising his musket in desperate self-defense, but the Khtoba-thing grabbed it with both hands, jerked it out of the way, and bore the man to the ground.

Screams were erupting throughout the cavern. Marcus’ night vision had been ruined by the muzzle flashes. All he could see was the distant glow of the fires and the swarms of green eyes closing in. The wave of panicked shouts washed over him.

“Out! Fucking get out of here!”

“Brass Balls of the fucking Beast—”

“Get it off me!”

“Die, you son of a fucking—”

“They’re in the door—”

“Form on me!”
That was the big corporal, he thought. “Seventh Company,
form square on me
!”

A good idea, Marcus thought half hysterically, but it wouldn’t work. Forming emergency square was hard enough in the open, let alone with demons bearing down on you.

Demons . . .

“Captain!”

The colonel’s voice snapped Marcus out of his stunned reverie. He looked up to find the Divine Hand nearly on top of him, one arm thrown wide to draw him into a vicious embrace. Marcus jammed his hand into the thing’s face and gasped when it bit down hard on the heel of his palm.

The blast of a pistol going off at close range muffled Marcus’ scream. The creature’s head came apart as the expertly placed ball caught it just above one ear, scattering bits of skull and brain. A torrent of the strange white smoke issued forth, mixing with the pink-gray of powder smoke. It staggered, which was enough for Marcus to yank his hand out of its unhinged jaw and pull himself away. A moment later, the colonel stepped in front of him, his drawn sword a shining line of steel between himself and the still-standing monster.

“Are you all right, Captain?”

“Sir—I think so, sir.” He lifted his left hand and winced at the neat half circle of teeth marks. His other hand dropped to the hilt of his own sword.

Before he could draw it, the thing lurched forward again, apparently unimpaired by the lack of the top half of its head. It was clumsy, though, and Janus sidestepped as it came at him. His cut sliced neatly through the back of its leg, which abruptly failed to support the thing’s weight, sending it crashing down in a heap. Even so, it scrabbled forward, forcing the colonel to back away.

Marcus had finally gotten his sword free, and he fell in beside Janus. Something brushed his shoulder, and he looked around in panic, but it was only the outstretched hand of one of the ancient statues. Most of the demons had followed the fleeing rankers toward the exit, but there were still two dozen immediately in front of them, closing in a rough semicircle. More clustered around the soldiers wherever they had fallen, tearing at them with fingers and teeth until the screaming finally stopped.

All the creatures Marcus could see were dressed in the brown-and-tan uniforms of the Auxiliaries. Many of them were officers, their uniforms heavy with gold braid and colorful patches, though they’d apparently forgotten the use of their swords. They retained enough sentience to know a touch of caution, however, and even a hint of tactics. Facing a pair of drawn weapons, they halted just out of reach and started to spread to encircle the two officers.

“Sir?” Marcus said, putting his back to the statue and trying to look in all directions at once. “Any ideas?”

“Run,” Janus said.

“Run?”

“On count of three.” Janus nodded to indicate a direction. “They don’t seem so thick that way.”

“That’s away from the exit,” Marcus said.

“One thing at a time,” Janus said calmly. “One. Two. Three!”

They spun away from the statue. One of the demons blocked Marcus’ path, and he hacked at its outstretched arms, sending one hand spinning off. His second cut went low, cracking its knee out from under it, and the thing toppled. Another came at him from behind, and Marcus whirled around with a desperate swing that caught it in the ribs and slammed it against the statue. He sent up a brief prayer of thanks that he’d retained his heavy cavalry saber in place of a slim officer’s blade, and a further offering when the weapon came free without sticking in the bone. Then he was backing away from a pack of green lights, and Janus fell in beside him. Marcus caught the colonel’s eye, and they turned their backs on the pack of demons and fled through the maze of statues.

WINTER

“Sir,” Bobby said, almost jogging to keep up with Winter’s rapid stride, “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I’m fine, Bobby,” Winter lied. She felt better than she’d expected, actually, once she got up and moving. Her nose was still tender, though, and every too-swift movement brought stabs of pain from her side.

“Even if you are,” Bobby said, “the colonel gave strict instructions that no one was to go after him.”

“That obviously doesn’t apply to you and me,” Winter said. “He took the Seventh Company with him, and we’re part of the Seventh Company. We’ve got to be allowed.”

“What about her?” Bobby said, indicating Feor. The Khandarai girl wore a hooded brown robe, but she was still attracting odd looks from the soldiers they passed.