Kylon flung the dagger. The blade shattered against the Immortal’s skull-masked helmet, filling the eye holes with ice, frost sheeting over his head and shoulders and arms. The Immortal staggered, the ice muffling his groan, and Kylon struck with superhuman speed, the valikon darting out. He stabbed once, twice, three times, and the Immortal started to fall. Caina darted to his side and caught the dying Immortal, lowering him to the ground without making a noise.
She straightened up and hurried around the corner only to find that Morgant had already dealt with the remaining Immortal. The black-armored warrior lay sprawled on the barracks’ stairs, the white-hot edges of the gash Morgant’s black dagger had carved through his cuirass already cooling.
“Ah,” muttered Morgant as the others hurried over. “Took you long enough.”
“I suggest we in fact conceal the bodies in the stairwell to the Halls of the Dead,” said Nasser, grabbing one end of the nearest dead Immortal, while Laertes took the other. Kylon and Azaces grabbed the second Immortal. “I doubt the stairs are used at all, and it will take longer to find the Immortals once their absence is noticed.”
“Do it,” said Caina. “Nerina, Morgant, with me. We’ll check for Malcolm.” Morgant scowled but did not say anything, and Caina pointed at Nerina. “Be quiet about it. Let me do the talking, if necessary.”
Nerina opened her mouth, closed it, and then nodded.
“And just what will the black-cloaked shadow say to put their fears to rest?” said Morgant.
“I’ll think of something,” said Caina. The barracks door was locked. No doubt the Immortals locked the slaves in for the night. Caina considered having Morgant cut through it, decided that would be too conspicuous if the alarm was raised, and instead drew a lockpick from her belt. The lock was massive but simple, and she had it released in short order. The heavy door swung open, and Caina stepped into the barracks.
She expected to find herself in a large hall lined with bunk beds, slaves sleeping beneath thin blankets. Instead she entered a small wooden anteroom. Another locked door stood in the far wall. Massive slates hung from two of the other walls, covered in intricate chalk drawings of armor and helmets. Before the slate on the left stood a short, broad-shouldered man in a ragged, soot-stained tunic and trousers, thick sandals covering his feet. He had a shock of brown hair and a tangled beard, both of which had premature gray streaks, and deep gray eyes under a heavy forehead. He turned as they approached, his frown deepening.
“Who are you?” he said to Morgant. He had a harsh voice and a thick Caerish accent, much like Morgant’s own. “You are too old and frail to be of much use here.” He scowled at Caina. “And who the bloody hell are you supposed to be? If this is an attempt at a joke you must know that I do not actually have a sense of humor.”
Nerina had gone white as sheet, her hands to her mouth.
“And you,” said the man, looking at Nerina, “you…you are…”
“Malcolm,” whispered Nerina.
The bearded man’s jaw fell open, his bloodshot eyes widening.
“My wife,” he croaked.
Nerina sprinted across the anteroom and flung herself into his arms. She was not large, and Malcolm did not even sway a little from the impact.
“I knew it,” said Nerina, “I knew it was you in the Old Bazaar, I didn’t hallucinate it, I didn’t…”
“I thought I heard you there,” said Malcolm. “But how are you here?” He scowled. “Has your rogue of a father sold you into slavery as well?”
“He has been dead, Malcolm, for years,” said Nerina. “We’ve come to rescue you.”
“Among other things,” said Morgant.
“Who are these men?” said Malcolm.
“The Balarigar and Morgant the Razor,” said Nerina.
“That is highly implausible,” said Malcolm.
Nerina sniffled and rubbed at her eyes. “They are mathematically implausible sort of people.”
“We have to go, now,” said Caina. “No questions. If you want to stay with your wife, if you want to get out of the Inferno, stop talking and follow me right now.”
“But the others,” said Malcolm. “I cannot leave my men here.”
“Your men?” said Caina.
“The other forge workers and blacksmiths,” said Malcolm. “The Lieutenant put me in charge of them, for I am the most competent, and I have been able to organize them well enough that we make our quotas without working ourselves to death. I cannot abandon them.”
“I knew it,” said Morgant. “I knew it.” He pointed at Caina. “I knew you would get