Be Dead
“There,” said Caina, finding the hidden catch.
The stone door slid open without a sound.
A blast of heat struck her face, and dull yellow-orange light washed over her eyes. Caina blinked until she could see again, shaking her head to clear it. She had restored the pyrikon to its bracelet form as soon as they cleared the Halls of the Dead, fearing that the light from the staff might leak through the door. Fortunately, it seemed that fear had been unfounded. The door to the Hall of Forges opened into a row of wooden carts. Black coal dust coated the carts, and most of them were missing wheels or cracks. Likely the enslaved blacksmiths put the broken carts here and repaired them later.
“The Hall of Forges,” said Morgant, stepping past one of the carts and looking around. Beyond him Caina saw the shimmering yellow-orange glow of a dozen forges and a half-dozen blast furnaces.
“They burn the forges all night?” said Caina.
“Not completely,” said Laertes. He pointed. “Likely they banked the fires for the night, and will work them back to full strength tomorrow morning.” He shrugged. “I am sure that Rolukhan would run the forges day and night if he had the men to do so, but skilled smiths are simply not that common.” He shook his head. “And if he is wasteful enough to execute his men for simple mistakes, his difficulties are his own fault.”
Caina glanced back at Nerina, saw her swallow.
“The Hall of Torments would be that way,” said Morgant, pointing at the far wall. Past the forges and the brick domes of the blast furnaces, another archway opened in the dim light.
She nodded. “After we check the slave quarters.” Morgant grimaced, but nodded. “Where would the forge slaves sleep?”
“I don’t know,” said Morgant.
“Oh, indeed?” said Caina.
“I haven’t been here for a hundred and fifty years,” said Morgant. “How the devil should I know where the slaves sleep?” He squinted into the gloom. “But if you are insistent upon this folly…there, I suspect. That barracks in the corner.”
A wooden barracks had been constructed in the corner of the vast Hall, large enough to house fifty or sixty men. She wondered why Rolukhan would have gone to the trouble of constructing it, and then saw the thick doors and narrow windows. Likely the men needed someplace to sleep where they would not choke on cinders or asphyxiate in the smoke rising from the fires.
Two Immortals stood guard before the door, silent and as motionless as statues of black steel.
“Can you take them quietly?” said Caina.
“Probably,” said Morgant. “The horns might prove a problem, though.” Each Immortal carried a war horn at his belt. No doubt in the event of trouble the Immortals would sound the horn and summon reinforcements.
“Fine,” said Caina. “Kylon, with me. We’ll draw off one and kill him. Morgant, you kill whichever one remains behind. The rest of you, meet us at the door to the barracks once we’ve dealt with the Immortals.”
“What about the bodies?” said Morgant. “There is bound to be a search once those two go missing.”
“We’ll conceal the bodies in the broken carts,” said Caina. “The guard shift will not change until morning. Hopefully we will be long gone by then. If not, if we are discovered, we can retreat to the Halls of the Dead. Not even Rolukhan will be able to follow us there so long as we have the pyrikon.”
Morgant nodded and started forward, moving with utter silence, and Caina took a broken axle from one of the carts and gestured to Kylon, who followed her. They made for the wall of the barracks, the guttering light from the forges and the furnaces painting everything with a hellish glow. She pressed herself against the barracks wall. Kylon followed suit, and she leaned close and whispered in his ear.
“Be ready,” she hissed. A part of her mind noted how much she would enjoy standing so close to Kylon in different circumstances. The rest of her mind focused on the grim business of survival. “I’ll draw him around the corner. Strike as soon as he is in sight. As quietly as you can.”
Kylon nodded and drew a dagger, pale white mist swirling around the blade.
Caina took the broken axle and threw it. The axle landed just at the corner with a loud clang. Kylon glided forward, the valikon in his right hand, the mist-wreathed dagger in his left. A moment later one of the Immortals came around the corner, and