The Ghost Cauldron

By Jared Millet

No peace for the living, no rest for the dead.

As the Wight Lords’ armies march across the world, former fugitive and refugee Aust returns home to where the invasion began. He arrives in the devastated city of Majadan to join an underground resistance, but his allies are fractured and their leaders vie for power while his friend Shadmar Dukane wages a reckless, private war.

Shadmar escaped Majadan as a broken man. Now he has become an engineer of vengeance, a ruthless mage and torturer who’ll stop at nothing to destroy the Wights. His victories have made him a hero of the resistance, but Aust fears that the longer Shadmar spirals into darkness, the more of his humanity he’ll lose along the way.

But Shadmar and Aust don’t stand against the Wights alone. Eris was one of those killed in the invasion, but she and the spirits of the dead on both sides are trapped, unable to escape from the city. Forging an alliance with her slain former enemies, Eris leads a ghost rebellion to free the captive dead, for the Wight Lords’ atrocities go deeper than any of the living suspect.

When all three factions of the conflict converge, Aust learns that every slain foe becomes fuel for the Wight Lords’ final weapon, a cauldron that burns the souls of the dead and converts them into raw magic. As the shape of the Wight Lords’ agenda becomes clear, Aust will have to make an impossible choice, lest the world be consumed in an ultimate battle that neither the living nor dead will escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jared Millet
• Release date: Dec 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005455538

Jared Millet

Jared Millet spent over twenty years as a librarian before leaving the public sector to write full time. His work has appeared in multiple magazines and anthologies, with even more stories to come. His travel writing, including tales of ten months circumnavigating South America, can be found online at TheEscapeHatch.net.

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The Ghost Cauldron

The Ghost Cauldron

The Battle for Majadan : 3

Jared Millet

THE GHOST CAULDRON

Copyright © 2022 by Jared Millet

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be copied, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without express written consent except in the case of brief excerpts used for review purposes.

This is a work of fiction. All persons, locales, organizations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

First Printing: February 2022

www.SecondEarths.com

Maps © 2021 by Joel Millet

Cover by Olivia Pro Design

Shout-out to the Decatur Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror Scribes: Roland Royster, Liz Mancini, Miriam Selle Nazario, John Nelson Jr., Sheila O’Shea, Jeff Patterson, Elizabeth Weibush, Sarah Akines, and Carl Polen.

City MapWorld Map

Hear me, Lords of Majadan,

Know that you are unsafe in your seats of power.

Know that there are those who do not fear you.

Know that we are resolved to end your reign,

And that I, Shadmar Dukane,

Will be the instrument of your destruction.

My name is freely given and you cannot use it against me.

– Message found nailed to a vampire’s skull

     on the southern bank of the River Keche

Homecoming

My first sight of the city upon my return was from the foredeck of the Valerie II, ten days out from Shi’El-Tasna. At the stern, Captain Forgil bellowed orders to his crew as they prepared to make landfall. We’d already passed through the blockade of warships patrolling Majadan’s coast, and it seemed as if the captain meant to sail as hard as he could until the danger of beaching outweighed the need for haste.

The city was a jagged outline of stone against an ash-gray sky. The setting sun painted Majadan’s walls in a shade close to that of bleached bone. Many of the familiar landmarks had been destroyed, but a new one had taken their place. Every few moments, from the center of the city, a bolt of green lightning shot into the clouds. I kept glancing upward for signs of the enemy. Even at sea, we weren’t safe from attack.

Good evening, young Aust, said Prior Bernart, looking pale on the lower deck. Can you see our destination? Please tell me we’ll be there soon.

You should come up and look, I said. It might be your only chance.

You’re a cruel man, my son.

The ship bucked just as Bernart started climbing. I met him halfway and took his arm. The elderly Adelphian priest had weathered the voyage well enough, but the choppy waters near the coast disagreed with him. I guided him to the siderail and pointed at a hill of melted stone.

That was the Palisade. It was destroyed the night of the invasion. I remembered the blast well, though I hadn’t known what it was at the time. The shock from the explosion had brought a building down on top of me.

The broken arch to the left was the bridge over the Keche. That had been destroyed by a flood the following dawn, though not by any act of the Wight Lords. The flood had been caused by a Morgrae priestess, Jenin, who’d called down the power of the goddess of the waters. If not for Jenin’s stunning act of faith, I would not now be returning, and the Wight Lords’ forces wouldn’t be confined to the southern half of the city.

For a moment, I wished my wife Mahri was with me. Then, just as quickly, I was thankful she wasn’t. As dreadful as my last memories of Majadan were, hers had been so much worse. I’d managed to escape on the night of the invasion, while she’d spent weeks in hellish captivity.

This must be hard for you, said Bernart.

I thought it would be, but it’s not. So much has changed that it doesn’t feel like home any more. The city may as well be Sarkavad or Delphi.

I can’t speak for Sarkavad, but I assure you that Delphi is an unfair comparison. The prow dipped, and we both grabbed the rail. For one thing, the sea there is gentler.

Master Aust, called the bosun. You and the Prior should come down and join the others. We’ll be making landfall shortly and be off as quick as a sneeze.

He pointed at a wrecked pier on the coast north of the river. The crew had lowered most of the sails, but it seemed as if we hadn’t slowed at all.

When do you plan to stop the boat? I asked.

The bosun grinned. What, didn’t you hear? We’re going to throw you lot overboard and let you swim to shore.

What I wouldn’t give for a straight answer once in a while. I took Prior Bernart’s arm and helped him down the steps. In addition to myself and the priest, the others disembarking were a Barronan cryptologist, a Kharsi engineer, and a Shi’El noble named Lucius Desclaire. The latter was dressed in formal black, as if he was going to a fancy dinner party. The muscles of his face didn’t move, but somehow it looked like he was scowling.

Lord Lucius, I said.

He nodded. Eóster.

Lucius was to act as the Empress Tatiana’s ambassador to the factions united in the fight against the Mravans, while I was to be her eyes and ears. During the voyage, Lucius had treated me with a level of detachment that bordered on contempt. I’d let it slide before, but this time I unbuttoned the top of my coat to show the blue and silver scarf around my neck.

Listen, I said, the people we’re about to meet don’t have time for any pomp, so don’t waste your breath trying to show them who’s boss. If someone tells you to move, you move. Someone says duck, you duck. If someone says ‘shut the fuck up,’ you do it and argue later. Understood?

His eyes flickered down to the colors that marked me as a personal servant of the Empress. As you say, Lord Destatiana.

I nodded, satisfied. For all I knew, Lucius might have been a decent person under all that starch. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been born with a silver stick up his ass.

The Valerie dipped again, then swayed from starboard to port. I sat on one of the crates to be unloaded and gripped its edges so as not to roll off. In addition to ourselves, we’d brought medicine, weapons, machine parts, and food. In my own bag, nestled between spare shirts and trousers, was a magic contraption that would let me send messages to the Empress herself.

Does our lunatic captain plan to ram into the dock? asked Mendera, the cryptologist. He was right to be concerned; the shore was fast approaching.

Wait and see, said the engineer, a brown-skinned man named Suffasch. These new Shi’El ships have some interesting gimmicks below the waterline. You should all hold on to something.

Mendera grabbed a hawser. Bernart put his hand on my shoulder. Lucius looked unconcerned.

All hands hold fast, said Captain Forgil. Deploy the braking wand… now!

With no more warning than that, the ship pitched forward. I grabbed Prior Bernart to keep him from toppling. Desclaire flexed his knees, but kept his balance as the Valerie’s prow dug deep into the waves. Thanks to my magical training, I could sense the power surging through the ship’s keel. The mast groaned slightly as we righted again, and once the ship settled, we were sailing no faster than a rowboat.

Suffasch whooped. I couldn’t help but smile. Lucius brushed the wrinkles from his jacket, while Mendera ran to spew over the rail. Bernart straightened his sash.

Well, after that bit of excitement, I can safely tell God I’ve lived a full, rewarding life. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t meet Him already.

All right, lads, bellowed the captain, stand ready to lash us quick to the dock and push off again in a hurry. Everyone else, clear those crates off my deck. Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. That’s all the farewells we’ve got time for.

We’ll hurry, I assured him.

Here’s your chance.

He pointed to the pier, where a dozen scraggly mercenaries rushed to greet us. Somehow, I’d expected our welcome party to look more official. Anywhere else, I’d have taken these men for bandits. While Forgil’s crew hoisted our crates, I hopped over the rail onto the pier.

The leader of the ruffians wore a breastplate pocked with dents. A saber hung on one hip, and a hand-cannon on the other. He opened his arms and said, Welcome to Majadan, where you’ll find all the best entertainment and dining a traveling man could ask for.

I suspected he’d waited all day to say that line. Nevertheless, I gave him a smile. We’ll be ready in a moment. Are these enough men to carry our gear?

We’ve got more up by the city wall. It’s not good to expose all our troops at once, you know, not even here in the nice part of town.

I’ll take your word for that. The pier was close to the part of the city that our allies supposedly controlled. Still, I watched the skies. On the night of my escape, I’d met some of the Wight Lords’ flying servants in person.

Are these the best that Lord Florien could send us? asked Lucius. All our cargo was now on the dock, and Suffasch and Mendera helped Prior Bernart disembark. The mercenary leader drew his saber.

Watch your mouth, your lordship, he said. In this city, we’re the only thing between you and—

Blood splashed Lucius in the face. The delayed crack echoed of a long-gun in the distance, and the mercenary leader toppled like a tree. The others drew their swords, but only two carried firearms.

Get down, I shouted. We were all too exposed. Behind us, the Valerie had already pulled away. Even behind the cover of the crates, we were trapped on the end of the pier. The air cracked again, and a bullet punched a hole through another mercenary’s throat. I pulled Lucius down to his knees. The best we could hope was to make a smaller target.

Without their leader, the men seemed confused. Some inched towards us while others watched for the shooter. I turned their leader over and fumbled to unlatch his breastplate. Used as a shield, it might deflect a glancing bullet.

The man’s face was a mess. The bullet had entered the back of his head and emerged from right between his eyes. In fact, his face almost looked like it had melted.

I cursed myself for a fool.

A sensation of vertigo twisted in my gut, a feeling I’d now learned to recognize. These weren’t our own troops come to greet us on the pier. The air cracked a third time, and their enchantment fell away. Their skin was mottled green, patched with fur and scabs. The nearest four of them charged at Lucius and me, while the others formed a defensive line.

They were trogs, Mravans, servants of the Wight Lords. Black sabers drawn, they’d come to kill us all.

Part One

The Dead City

I

On the night that Majadan fell, I killed a man. With the world burning around me, when my last shreds of decency were all I had to cling to, a man named Lord Istus had said something callous, and I hacked him to death with his own sword. What shocked me the most was how easy it had been. I could have lied and said he’d been asking for it, but that would have only compounded my crime. Instead, I took a blood oath never to raise a weapon against another living soul. At the time, I didn’t think I’d live long enough for it to matter. Now, I almost wished someone had talked me out of it.

The Mravan soldiers charged, and I shoved Lucius off the pier before swinging my leg at the nearest trog’s ankles. He tripped over backwards and fell into his companions. The trog beside him dodged and swung his saber at my neck.

Thunder clapped beside me, and a metal ball dinged off the trog’s breastplate, spoiling his swing. Suffasch whooped and waved his cannon. Reload, I shouted as I ducked behind the crates.

A bullet whizzed by from the other direction, felling a trog and knocking a hole in the crate beside me. I hadn’t heard the shot this time, but if the shooter was atop the city wall, he was at least fifty yards away. I’d never heard of anyone being so accurate with a long-gun. A hand-cannon’s effective range was no more than twenty feet.

A trog jumped atop the boxes and went after Suffasch. The engineer blocked the trog’s sword with his gun, but the blow sent the hand-cannon spinning into the water. Bernart cowered below the trog’s feet, looking like he thought we were already dead.

I’d be damned if I’d settle for that. I jumped on the crates and tackled the trog before he could take another swing at Suffasch. We hung in the air, missed the pier completely, and splashed head-first into the water. I bent my legs, kicked off against the trog, and broke the surface with a gasp.

Above me, Suffasch, Bernart, and Mendera crouched behind our cargo at the edge of the pier. Mendera’s shirt was soaked in blood, and Bernart pressed his hand against the Barronan’s neck. Suffasch pulled out a dagger and waited for the next attack. Beneath the pier, Lucius wrapped his arms around a post, looking for purchase to climb.

Stay below, I shouted, but the trog that I’d tackled burst upward from the water beside me. He sputtered and choked, and before he came to his senses, I ripped his saber out of his fist and tossed it away. The next thing I knew, he grabbed my neck with both hands and pushed me under.

Darkness swirled and flushed down my throat. I thrashed, but only my fingers found the air as the trog pushed me even farther down. I spasmed, kicked, and clawed, but his grip wouldn’t give. Saltwater burned in my lungs.

From below, a wave pushed me up.

My head broke the surface and I slammed into the pier. That wave had startled the trog as much as me. He let go, but another weight struck me from above. Prior Bernart had fallen, and I pulled him upright. His eyes were unfocused; he coughed and spat water.

Aust! cried Suffasch, then something stabbed my back. I screamed, but held on to Bernart. The trog in the water yanked his knife out of my wound. The blade hadn’t gone deep, but the seawater scalded like acid.

Suffasch leaped from the pier as trogs swarmed over the crates. He landed on my attacker, the heels of his boots striking his head. I heard the trog’s neck snap, and Suffasch splashed forward.

Eóster! said Lucius, still clinging to the dock. Bernart, Suffasch, and I were drifting away. Mendera lay on the pier, dead, the wound in his neck having stained half the boxes.

Let go, I told Lucius, just as one of the trogs above him took aim. The shot missed, and Lucius swam deeper under cover.

Can we join him? asked Suffasch. I shook my head. To reach Lucius, we’d have to swim through the Mravans’ line of fire. The world began to spin, and I wondered how much blood I was losing. Then I realized what I felt was another deep swell. Something was moving beneath us in the water.

The middle of the pier exploded as a large metal cylinder burst from the waves. One of the trogs flew through the air, followed by a hail of wood. The others were distracted, so Suffasch and I swam with Bernart to what was left of the dock. The metal hull looked like a boat turned upside down, and it came to rest between our cargo and the shore.

Above our heads, four shots fired in succession, followed by thuds and a loud, metallic crash. A new voice growled a bestial challenge: Rat-bastard fuckers. Come and get a bite of steel!

Jago! I could have jumped for the sound of his voice. I helped Suffasch hook Bernart’s arms over a crossbeam, then climbed up the pier despite Lucius’ objections. Overhead, a trog fell backward, trailing blood from a gash in his side. I pulled my head over the ledge, and there stood Jago on top of the hull, fighting three more trogs with his two-handed sword.

Most people’s jaws drop the first time they see Jago, but the Mravans seemed to know who they were facing. Jago was a wolf in stitched-together armor, standing on his hind legs and swinging his sword like a madman. His ears were flattened and he bared his fangs.

The trogs made feints within the arc of Jago’s blade, but none would dare step too close within his reach. Jago parried and thrusted, bringing one opponent down, while the other two charged. The manwolf stepped aside, dented one in the breastplate, then blocked the other’s swing as his partner staggered backward.

Jago saw me staring. Hurry up, mate. This isn’t as easy as it looks.

I reached down and told Suffasch to pass Bernart up. The priest was conscious enough to grab my sleeve. Suffasch and Lucius pushed him to the top, then helped each other climb over the side. On the pier, Jago only had one opponent left. The Mravan looked like he was going to run, but a gunshot from afar knocked him off balance, letting Jago part his head from his neck.

About bloody time! Jago shouted to the unseen gunman. "All right, you lot. Get those boxes in the Squid."

What the hell is that? I asked. The overturned hull had a trapdoor on top. Our boxes would barely fit through.

"It’s the Squid, said Jago. Now move."

Suffasch and I grabbed the nearest crate. Jago helped drag it, turned it on end, and shoved it down the hatch. Someone below yelled in protest.

What the fuck is this? said the man inside.

More incoming, said Jago, and passengers.

Like hell, said the voice. There’s no room.

Here’s another. Jago tipped the second box down into the hole while his unseen comrade continued to curse him. Suffasch stared at the Squid with awe. The vessel—I assumed it was a vessel—had split the pier in two, leaving us and our luggage on an island of wood. The remainder of the pier stretched to the shore, where more trogs already were running our direction.

Gentlemen, said Lucius, but we didn’t need the warning. The second wave of trogs were twice as many as before, and didn’t even bother to disguise themselves. Suffasch and I shoved the remaining crates down the hatch, while Jago clambered over the Squid and assumed a defensive stance.

That’s it, said the man inside. We’re full. No more room.

I stuck my head through the hatch. Squeezed next to the crates was a smallish, gray-skinned man. He had the pointed ears of an elf, but the blocky build of a Drorvan. Beside him was a strange array of levers that I presumed directed whatever magic steered the vessel. Because of the crates, there was barely room for one more person. The trogs were mere seconds away.

Dammit, I said, we can’t fit.

That’s what I told you, said the steersman.

Can you take one more?

Come on down.

I grabbed Prior Bernart and hoisted him inside. The trogs had stopped at the end of the pier. Our unseen gunman wasn’t shooting anymore. I wondered if the enemy had found him, or if he was just out of bullets.

All right, said Jago. No worries, mates. Everything’s under control.

The gray-skinned man reached up and closed the hatch. Bolts slid shut, and I wished we were all on the other side of that door. Waves of magic radiated from the Squid as it slowly backed out of the wreckage of the pier. Suffasch leaped across its hull to join Jago. The severed portion of the pier swayed badly, and I jumped the gap as well.

Lucius, come on.

He appeared reluctant, and I could almost see the oncoming trogs reflected in his eyes. One of the struts underneath him snapped. I lunged forward and caught him as he tried to make the jump, then hoisted him onto the still-standing dock. The Squid had pulled completely free and proceeded to sink below the surface.

Jago took a step toward the shore and bellowed, Right. You know who I am, and you know if I’m here, then Shadmar the Dread can’t be far behind.

Shadmar the Dread? I held back a snort. The last time I’d seen Shadmar, he was too weak to stand, still recovering from the loss of his arm.

Most of the trogs carried sabers and spears, but one fired a shot from a crossbow. Jago dodged, and the bolt flew between me and Suffasch.

Oy! said Jago. I’m talkin’ here. You got one chance. Clear out right now before my friends arrive, and I won’t tell the Wight Lords you ran.

Some trogs laughed, but others looked around nervously. One spoke up.

How’s about this, dog face? Give us those weaklings you’re protecting, and we’ll let you swim home to your sea-elf masters.

The air began to hum, and the pier sent a vibration from my boots to my spine. The ocean blurred with a thousand tiny ripples. On the shore, the trogs checked their footing as the ground itself began to slip from beneath them.

Tried to warn you. Jago shrugged and rested his sword across his shoulders. He grinned at me and said, Watch this.

Four of the trogs bolted for the cover of a boathouse. One made it ten feet before a gunshot brought him down. Apparently, our unseen friend was still at work.

Hold together, said the leader. Hold together, men.

The trogs pulled into a circle, more of them watching the city wall than were keeping an eye on us. The hum deepened, and gravel danced along the ground. I looked at the warehouses, the dry docks, the alleys, searching for where the attack might come from. Suffasch tapped my arm and pointed at the sky.

A star traced an arc from high on the city wall, then fell and blew apart in the middle of the trogs. They collapsed and clutched their throats as tendrils of fire wrapped their necks. Their eyes bulged, their skin boiled, and they all tried to scream. With a series of pops, the trogs started to explode.

Lucius threw up his breakfast. I’d seen worse, but my stomach turned over anyway. The rest of me felt numb, save for the warmth spreading down my back where I’d been stabbed. I reached behind me to feel for the wound, and found that my shirt had crusted over.

On the shore, the fire died away. A handful of unexploded trogs writhed on the ground. The rest were a collage of armor, entrails, and bone.

Right, said Jago. Let’s run for it.

We jogged down the pier past the grisly tableau. A prone, delirious trog tried to lift his sword. Jago stabbed him in the neck, then broke into a sprint. My feet splashed in pools of blood. The others trailed behind me. I heard someone slip, and turned to see Suffasch pick Lucius off the ground.

Hurry, I said. There were probably more trogs in the area. Jago made for an alley between two abandoned fish markets, and I stopped to let the others go first. Suffasch didn’t slow, but Lucius was winded.

As we came out into the space behind the buildings, a platoon of trogs charged us, several dozen yards away. We dashed across the gap to a large drainage culvert through the city wall. Jago ducked inside, and the rest of us followed.

When I came out the other end, a wave of dizziness tripped me on my heels. A force like an invisible membrane sucked me through, and I landed face-first just inside the city wall. A hooded man grabbed my arm and pulled me up.

Hey, Aust, said Shadmar. Flat on your ass as usual?

Holy gods, I said. What the hell did I just come through?

You felt it? he asked. Not bad for a Lyceum drop-out.

His hood fell back to show his wrecked face. His skin was brown and his hair was black, but the left side of his head was a mass of scars, with the shape of the Wight Queen’s hand burned on his cheek. The mark of her index finger vanished in the socket where his left eye had been, while a patch covered the hole of his missing left ear.

All this I’d seen before. What I hadn’t seen was his new right arm. It was steel and polished brass from his shoulder to his fingers. Its components had no casing; every gear, rod, and pulley was exposed. I’d never seen a prosthesis so complex. With no visible controls, it couldn’t be a Sword. It had to be a Wand, a device that only a trained mage could use.

Shadmar flexed his mechanical fingers, and a bundle of rods—wood, stone, ivory—rotated inside his forearm. My jaw dropped; they were battle-wands. The trogs were fast approaching down the tunnel, but neither Shadmar nor Jago seemed concerned. Shadmar even smiled.

What’ll it be? he said. Acid? Fire? Lightning?

I shook my head. I couldn’t choose someone’s death.

Surprise us, said Jago.

A wand extended through Shadmar’s palm, and he fired at the culvert as the first trog came through. A silent green ray lanced through the man, who stumbled, retched, and convulsed on the ground. The green ray lingered and turned into mist. From deeper in the tunnel came the sounds of human sickness.

Death by plague induction, said Shadmar. Lucky for us, it’s not contagious.

Shadmar the Dread, indeed. Without even a word of welcome for my companions, he turned and walked away from the trogs’ final gasps. Jago cocked his head and waved for us to follow.

I wasn’t that familiar with Majadan’s north quarter; all my old haunts had been south of the river. The damage here was fairly extensive. Many roofs and upper stories were missing, and there were signs of both fire and flooding. Anything supported by wood seemed to have fallen, and the streets felt like they’d been abandoned for decades, though not even two years had passed since the invasion.

Jago brought us to an empty storefront that, from the sign, had been a winery. Before I went in, a flash of yellow caught my eye. I looked to my left, and saw a little girl dart around the corner of the building.

What the hell? I said. Wait, I’ll be back.

Aust, don’t, said Jago, but I didn’t listen. I looked around the corner where the girl had disappeared. There were empty shops and tenement houses, but no way to tell where she’d gone.

Hey, ghoul-bait, said Jago, coming up behind me. You can’t run off like that. The sun’s going down. All sorts of nasties come out.

I saw… What was it? There couldn’t be children loose in the street. More likely she’d been an illusion, or the product of too many memories.

What was it? asked Jago.

A girl, about this high. Yellow hair. A cold wind whispered down the street. Sorry, I must be going crazy.

There weren’t no girl, but you’re not crazy either. You aren’t the only one whose seen ‘em.

Seen who?

Ghosts, mate. The city’s full of ‘em.

I looked at the buildings around me. Their empty doors and windows were dark like the portals of skulls, and the air was unseasonably cold. I felt the sudden urge to swim back to the Valerie.

Jago laughed and slapped my back right where that trog had stabbed me. Easy, mate. It’s not like they can hurt you. Come on and let me show you around.

At his urging, I followed into the winery, through the cellar, to hidden stairs that led further down. The whole time, I felt the eyes of the dead watching my every move.

II

From a roof across the street, a ghost watched Jago shut the door behind me. She’d been watching ever since we came through the culvert, and she’d followed Shadmar even longer than that. My arrival surprised her, though. She’d thought that I might have escaped from the city, but for me to come back as a servant of the Empress was something she found hard to believe.

Eris knelt and stirred the grit on the roof while wondering what my return could mean. She’s already dealt with a lot of strange things since the day she woke up dead on the bank of the Keche. Just for the hell of it, she flicked a pebble into the air and watched it fall to the street. Most of the dead couldn’t even do that.

A blond phantom of a girl-child appeared beside her. Miss Eris, did you see? He saw me. Mister Aust saw me.

I noticed, said Eris. Why the hell are you here? It’s sundown, you twit. You should be at the temple.

The temple’s boring, said Reena.

The temple’s safe.

Another ghost pulled himself over the edge of the roof. He could have just as easily drifted through the bricks, but many of the dead preferred to act through the motions of the living.

You know what we used to do in Mrava? he said. If some whiny brat wanted to play outside at night, we let ‘em. Any kid that stupid deserved to be ghoul food.

Lovely, said Eris. What did your kids do in the day, kill kittens?

Not enough meat, said the phantom trog.

Don’t mind Golos, Miss Eris, said Reena. He’s only mad cause he’s dead, but he’s still ugly.

Come here, you. Golos grabbed at her, but she vanished and reappeared on the other side of Eris.

That really was Mister Aust, wasn’t it? said Reena.

That was him. Eris ran her honey-colored fingers through Reena’s tangled hair. Like all the dead, she was less substantial than a breeze. Ghosts only felt real to each other, and even then, their sense of touch was muted. Eris always felt numb, like when she used to get drunk.

Unlike Reena and Golos, Eris wasn’t wearing the clothes that she’d died in. Instead, she wore an image of her old leather breastplate. On the night of her death, if she’d still had it on, it might have stopped the fatal blow to her heart. Now, the leather cuirass didn’t do any good, but at least it made her feel more like herself.

Golos scratched an imaginary itch. Who’s this Aust fellow, anyway?

You met him the night we both died, Eris said. He tried to convince you that my friends and I wanted to sign up for the Wight Lords’ army.

Him? Gods damn it, that’s the son of a bitch got me killed.

"You got yourself killed, asshole. To be fair, my girl Jenin was the one who cut your throat."

True enough. He didn’t press the point. He knew better than to talk about the love of Eris’ life.

Maybe that was the feeling that Eris couldn’t shake. Like Aust, Jenin hadn’t been among the city’s dead. Eris had always hoped that she’d escaped, but had never expected to see her again. But if that loser Aust could find his way back, then maybe Jenin would too. Eris hungered to see her, though the best thing to wish was that Jenin would stay away forever.

Aust used to play his lute in the house where I lived, said Reena.

Now that’s a coincidence, said Golos. Three of us here who knew the same man? How did that happen?

Reena, said Eris, why’d you come here tonight? Aside from being bored?

I don’t know. I just wanted to.

Something itched in Eris’ mind. If she’d still had real skin, it would have prickled. You’re right, that is a coincidence.

What else, then? said Golos. Fate?

Fate can fuck itself.

Miss Eris said a bad word, said Reena.

Something howled in the distance, a howl no one living could hear. Eris shot to her feet and eyed the horizon. She didn’t see anything moving, but she pictured a sword in her hand and one appeared.

The dogs are out. Reena, go back to the temple right now.

The little girl vanished in a blink. Those of the dead who’d accepted their new reality could move blindingly fast when they wanted. Reena was the fastest of them all.

Is there anyone to see to? said Eris. Even with the wraith hounds already on the prowl, she and Golos might have time to save what souls they could.

There’s one, said Golos. I could use a little help.

They stepped off the roof and fell to the street, then backtracked the route that Shadmar had taken until they came to the culvert through the wall. Several Mravans were dead in the tunnel, but their spirits were safe and free outside the city. The one who’d made it through before dying was another matter. His body lay face down in a puddle of vomit.

What the hell killed him? said Eris.

Some kind of instant plague, said Golos. Hand it to Shadmar, he’s as vicious as they come.

Yeah, that fucker’s a piece of work.

Eris passed her hands through the ground beneath the soldier, then imagined rolling him over. She’d learned it helped to picture the muscles in her back. Warmth flowed through her spectral body, and the dead man’s flesh took shape in her hands. She pushed him with all her strength, and flipped him over. None of the other dead were able to move solid objects; none of the sane ones, at least.

Thanks, said Golos. It was important to Mravans for the dead to face upward. Still feeling some of her physical strength, Eris crossed the man’s wrists over his chest, pushed his mouth closed, and shut his eyes.

The eyes of the dead man’s ghost snapped open. Before he could scream, Golos slapped a hand over his mouth.

Shh. Be quiet. The dogs are out.

The man didn’t understand. How could he? Eris leaned forward. It’s all right. We’re friends.

I’m Golos, captain of the Trai. What’s your name, soldier? Quietly.

Vodek of the Freen. What’s going on? I thought I was dead.

Eris chuckled. Yeah, I’d go with your instincts on that.

You died in battle, son, said Golos. You died with honor. And no, these aren’t the Halls of Morning. There’s too much to explain, and we have to get to cover. Can you walk?

To Eris it seemed a stupid question, but Golos was good at getting the freshly departed off their asses. Vodek clasped his superior’s forearm and pulled himself up, leaving his body behind. He looked down at his corpse in disbelief.

Don’t, said Eris. We don’t have the time. There’s things in this world that can tear you in half, just as you are now, and then you’ll never reach your Halls of Morning at all.

Vodek looked to Golos.

Death’s honest truth, said the former Mravan captain. You’d best do what the boss lady says. She’s the only reason any of us are free. He turned to Eris. You want to lead the way?

Take my hand. Both Golos and Vodek did, and she closed her eyes. She wasn’t as good at this as Reena; she had a hard time divorcing her sense of self from the image of her body.

She pictured the alley around her, and forced herself to see it without pretending she had eyes. She willed herself to move, not walking, not running, while pulling the others along with her. In her mind’s eye, the walls slid into a blur, suggestions of form and function as imagined by the living souls who’d walked these streets over thousands of years. She moved faster and faster, until the street became a river of thought, the idea of street pulling souls to their destinations.

She pictured the temple of Eshau, god of wisdom, not as the living saw it—a monument of stone—but as they imagined it, a shining pillar of truth behind walls of knowledge. Vodek’s spirit hummed with shock and fear, while Golos was a stone of calm. Eris’ soul flew faster, pulling them all to the only safe haven that Majadan’s dead had left.

III

Jago led me down an inclined tunnel through hard-packed earth into a room like a man-made cavern. A solitary torch cast its light on rows of casks. At the far side of the chamber, a low tunnel had been dug into an adjacent room. I ducked to pass through, and Jago went on all fours.

The next space might have been a foyer or chapel. Its floor had canted down after ages of subsidence. The cracked remains of tiles poked through uneven dirt, while ancient arches still held up the ceiling’s original, vaulted shape. I’d heard it said that Majadan was built on the bones of its earlier eras. I never knew the truth of it until that very moment.

Footsteps splashed in another unlit tunnel. Suffasch and Lucius had passed this way, I presumed with a guide of their own. Shadmar pulled a rod from a pocket in his cloak, and its tip glowed enough for us to not trip on each other.

What went wrong with the drop-off? I asked. How did the trogs find us first?

Shadmar put a brass finger to his lips and waved me and Jago to a corner of the room. There’s a spy, but we don’t know who it is. Which of the people you brought is the cryptologist?

It was Mendera. He’s dead.

Fuck, said Shadmar. We found some messages left for the Mravans, but they’re written in some kind of cypher. That’s why I sent for an expert. Did it look like the trogs went after him in particular?

I think they were after all of us. Your shooter started firing before they got too close.

Yeah, that was Blister. You need to thank him for saving your asses. He saw the trogs on the move while he was out hunting street possums. As far as we knew, you weren’t arriving till tomorrow. Somehow our ‘spy’ fed us false information.

How is that possible? I asked. Our schedule should have come straight from Admiral Desrowan.

I know, said Shadmar. We need better cyphers of our own. Did you bring the rest of the gear we sent for?

Every nut and bolt. We put it all in that ‘squid’ thing.

Jago snorted. You should’ve seen the look on their faces when we surfaced. The fight was worth it just for that.

We spoke as we walked, twisting through a maze beneath the city. Shadmar led us through basements, drain tunnels, ancient pits, and underground temples. Magic glow-stones marked some of the passages, while at times we relied on Shadmar’s sense of direction. There were multiple paths through the underside, he explained, and he always made sure to vary his route.

Shadmar and Jago had been in Majadan for nearly twelve months, working with forces from other allied nations united in fighting the Wight Lords. From the way he described it, not all their fights were with the Mravans. Lord Florien Desandrea, our fellow former refugee, had his hands full keeping the Jundish, Barronans, and Adelphians in line while advancing the commands of the Empress. The fact that some Adelphians had been working with the Wights was a secret Tatiana had ordered us to keep. Nevertheless, after the attack on Shi’El-Tasna, the Delphic Inquisition had supposedly purged the collaborators from their country’s ranks.

According to Jago, the fight against the Mravans was mainly a defensive battle. Most of their efforts were spent on holding the northern bank of the Keche, and yet somehow small sorties of trogs were crossing over.

I told the latest news from the outside world. The Empress had moved her court to the older capital at Eräes, the Tasnan shipyards were working hard to bolster the sea-elf navy, and the weapons factories of Jundland were smelting every farm tool into spears. I told them our friend Moth was now the Empress’ right hand, and I talked about the refugee town we’d built on the island of Tolis. When I spoke about Mahri, I couldn’t shut up.

Jago shook his head. Aust the married man. Oh, for the good old days, with the whole world before us and none to hold us back.

We never had any good old days, I said.

Well, could have. There was a fair half an hour in there before it all went to shit.

What, you’re not enjoying this? said Shadmar. We get to spend every moment of the day hunting trogs and plotting the destruction of our enemies.

Rather not have enemies to start with, said Jago. Makes the day go a whole lot smoother.

I had no idea how far we’d come, or where in the city we were, but soon I realized there was more light around us than that from Shadmar’s rod. Faint trails of luminescence shone from a moss that grew along cracks between stones. Shadmar and Jago walked with less stealth, and on the edge of hearing was the rustle of human habitation. Our steps stirred no dust, and there were signs of recent repair work to the tunnel’s walls and joists. At the end of the passage was an iron portcullis that blocked a heavy oak door.

Shadmar rapped on the bars with his light-rod; it rang with a musical tone. On the other side, a latch clacked open.

Here we are, mate, said Jago. Welcome to the fight.

The door opened inward, and light poured around me. Beyond was a long, vaulted chamber, more spacious and in better repair than many of the others we’d passed through. The ceiling was painted midnight blue with a panorama of stars. Behind the stars, as if drifting through the night, was the image of a woman in shades of milk and silver. In each of her hands was a chalice, and from one to the other flowed a river of stars, the backbone of night that one could see on cloudless evenings.

Delar, I said.

Goddess of balance, synthesis, and transformation, said Shadmar, she who guides souls from this life to the next. She’s the only one of the Shadow Gods that the ancient Shi’El worshipped.

I thought you didn’t believe in the gods.

If by that you mean, do I believe there are all-powerful beings like ‘Delar’ who sit up in the heavens and interfere in the lives of mortals? No. But we’ve both seen enough to know that there are forces in the world beyond what we can quantify. As to whether those forces are aware of us, I have doubts, but I can guarantee there isn’t some big, invisible woman in the sky pouring stars out of a milk jug.

Beneath the gaze of the goddess, her temple had been divided into a warren of cubbies, mainly by assembling scraps of wood, parts of crates, and disused doors into a series of cloisters that offered the illusion of privacy. The sound of snoring came from