Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) (23 page)

Instead, she saw a raging column of crimson fire shooting thirty yards into the air. The heat hammered against her face, even though the column was already shrinking. Hellfire was potent, but it burned out quickly.

But the fire had spread.

The destruction of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal had done more than kill the trees and ferns and other plants. It had withered them, drying them out and leaving only dead husks in its wake. 

Dead husks that were incredibly flammable. 

Already a dozen yards of jungle burned. Worse, the dead trees and leaves disintegrated as they caught fire. The wind was coming from the east, blowing the burning leaves and embers to the west, igniting more of the dead jungle as it went. 

Caina was watching the birth of a firestorm. 

“The beach,” said Annarah, her pyrikon folding back to her wrist. “We’ve got to get to the beach before we burn.”

“Run!” said Caina again. 

“Obviously!” said Morgant, and they sprinted down the uneven, ancient road, past the rows of silent sphinxes upon their stone pedestals. The last time Caina and the others had passed through the jungle, it had been silent but alive, looming on either side of the road like walls of green. Now the jungle was withered and dead, and instead of silence, she heard the growing roar of the fire.

She risked a glance over her shoulder, her shadow-cloak streaming behind her. The fire had risen behind them like a tidal wave. It was racing through the jungle, and as the wind drove the fire, it expanded faster and faster, racing through the jungle like horsemen through a host of fleeing enemies. The fire would burn itself out quickly, but for a few moments, Pyramid Isle would become an inferno, killing anyone caught in the jungle. 

Like Caina and Annarah and Morgant. 

Caina ran faster, her breath sawing at her throat and chest. 

“Ahead!” barked Morgant.

Caina looked to the left just as the undead warriors burst from the crumbling trees, the spells upon their bronze helmets blazing to her valikarion sight. She cursed and yanked the valikon from its scabbard at her belt, not slowing, and swept the weapon before her in a two-handed swing as the blade erupted with white fire. One of the undead warriors was lining up a blow on her, khopesh sword drawn back, but Caina’s momentum played to her advantage. The valikon crunched through the undead warrior’s spine in a flash of white fire, and the warrior collapsed in a heap of bones and glittering bronze armor. 

A second warrior whipped its khopesh at her head, and Caina snapped the valikon up in a parry. The force of the impact sent her stumbling back, and Caina tried to catch her balance, the undead warrior stalking after her. 

A shaft of white fire drilled into the undead warrior, knocking it back. Annarah stood a few yards behind Caina, pyrikon shifted into staff form, silver hair dancing around her head in the hot, stinging wind. A second burst of white fire hit the undead warrior, the purple fire and shadow in its eyes sputtering as its nagataaru struggled against the power of the Words of Lore. Caina seized the opening and stabbed, driving her sword into the gap below the warrior’s arm. Again the blade pulsed with white fire, destroying the nagataaru and unraveling the necromantic spells upon it, and Caina wrenched the blade free with a grunt.

Morgant whirled between three of the undead warriors, weapons flashing. The three warriors fought in a coordinated fashion, slashing their khopesh swords, but Morgant stayed ahead of them. His black dagger kept flicking out, slashing into the bronze cuirasses of his foes, and a moment later he had stored up enough heat to use the dagger’s power. A snap of his wrist drove the blade into the skull of an undead warrior, and he released its stored heat. The warrior went up in flames, and Morgant danced back, the remaining two warriors pursuing him.

Caina stepped behind the warrior on her left and stabbed it in the back. The valikon pulsed with white fire, and the warrior disintegrated. A blast of white light caught the final warrior as Annarah unleashed her power, and Morgant finished it off with a chop of his crimson scimitar. 

“Good timing,” said Annarah.

Caina hoped her mouth to answer, and the heat washed over her.

The fire had almost reached them. The hill to the east had vanished beneath the roaring curtain of flame. Cinders and smoke filled the air, and Caina stumbled back, starting to cough. 

“Go!” said Morgant, grabbing Caina’s and Annarah’s shoulders and spinning them around. 

Caina nodded her thanks, still coughing, and together the three of them ran as fast as they could manage. The roar of the fire grew louder and louder, the heat more and more intense. Caina felt her head starting to swim, her vision blurring. If this continued for too much longer, she was going to pass out. Or the smoke would asphyxiate them. Or she would simply be cooked alive. She had seen people burned to death before, several times, and it was not a pleasant way to die. 

It was strange – of all the different ways that she could have died on Pyramid Isle, she hadn’t thought that burning to death would be one of them. 

The heat closed around her.

Then, all of a sudden, the beach spread out before them, the vast blue expanse of the Alqaarin Sea rippling away to the horizon. The air was hot and wet and dank, but compared to the heat within the jungle, it was like a drink of cool wine. 

“Gods!” croaked Caina. “Keep going. The wind’s coming this way.” The ruins of the ancient Maatish dock squatted at the edge of the water, worn from the centuries, and to her immense relief Caina saw their boat still secured against the wall. “Closer to the water. Harder to burn.” 

They ran across the expanse of beach, stumbling to a halt against the wall of the ruined dock, breathing hard. Caina blinked the stinging sweat from her eyes. Annarah looked just as ragged and tired and as sooty as Caina felt, the sweat leaving tracks through the ashes upon her face. Morgant, to her mild annoyance, was not sweating at all, though soot darkened his gaunt features. 

“Gods,” muttered Caina, reaching into her pack and pulling out her water bottle. She was grateful they had possessed the foresight to refill them before venturing into the Tomb, and she finished it off with three quick gulps. “Gods. Let’s never, ever do that again.” 

She looked back at the jungle.

Fire mantled Pyramid Isle from one end to another. A harsh crimson glow covered the island, and huge plumes of black smoke stabbed upward into the afternoon sky. The smoke had to be visible for miles. It looked like some vision of hell, a place where the souls of the wicked were tormented for all eternity. 

“I do not think any of the nagataaru will follow us,” said Annarah. “They could not traverse the jungle without burning.”

“No,” said Caina. 

“I suppose,” said Morgant, “we cannot make jokes about all the buildings you have torched now.”

Caina blinked more sweat from her eyes. “What?”

“Considering that you just burned down an entire island,” said Morgant. 

“I didn’t burn down the island,” said Caina. “I just burned down the forest. Gods. Considering we ought to be dead, you can mock me for it all you wish.”

She walked past the boat and to the ancient stone quay that jutted into the sea, shading her eyes from the sun as she looked west. A new fear rolled through her. They had escaped the Tomb of Kharnaces and the nagataaru, but they might well be stranded here. If the destruction of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal had frightened off Murat and his crew, or if the firestorm sweeping across the island had convinced the corsairs to flee…

No. There, just at the horizon, she spotted the familiar sleek outline of an Alqaarin corsair ship. 

Murat had kept his word. 

“Oh, thank the Divine,” said Annarah from behind her. Caina heard the rasp of wood on sand and stone as Morgant and Annarah dragged the boat towards the water. “Murat is still here.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “Let’s get off this island and onto the
Sandstorm
before he changes his mind. The sooner we get to Istarinmul, the better.” 

They wrestled the boat into the water and climbed aboard. Annarah slumped against the prow, exhausted. Caina wanted to rest, but someone needed to row the boat, and both she and Morgant were stronger than Annarah, and neither one of them had ingested a vial of Elixir Restorata recently. Morgant took the starboard oar, Caina the port, and together they rowed out towards the
Sandstorm
, the boat bucking with the waves. Caina wondered what she would tell Murat, and decided that she did not care. Instead, she focused on the rhythm of the oars, making sure she kept time with Morgant…

A spike of pain exploded through her head. 

Annarah gasped as well, her green eyes going wide, and sat up straighter. 

“What?” said Morgant, looking around. “What is it?”

“I…I don’t know,” said Caina, blinking as the pain faded. It did not vanish entirely, but instead became a steady throbbing pressure inside her head, seeming to come from the west…

No, not the west. From the northwest. 

The direction of Istarinmul.

As Caina looked in that direction, she saw a flickering gray light, a light visible only to her valikarion senses. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the gray glow. 

“Annarah,” said Caina. “Is that…”

“An aura,” said Annarah, her eyes falling half-closed as she gestured and cast a spell. “A spell, a mighty spell.”

“It’s the Apotheosis, isn’t it?” said Caina. “Callatas has started casting the Apotheosis.”

“I fear so,” said Annarah. 

For a moment Caina said nothing, fighting through the growing fear and despair. They were too late. Even at best possible speed, it would take them at least six days to reach Istarinmul. How long did Callatas need to finish the Apotheosis? Caina didn’t know, but as she looked at the distant aura of potent sorcery, she guessed he would need only a few days.

Was Kylon there? Had the rebels managed to defeat Erghulan Amirasku’s army? Or maybe the Grand Wazir had crushed the rebels and driven them south into the Vale of Fallen Stars. Maybe Kylon had fallen in that battle. Maybe he had been dead for days, and Caina would never find out what had happened to him. 

She let out a shuddering breath. 

No, not yet. She would not give in yet. Perhaps their efforts were doomed, but she would not yield. Perhaps she would be defeated, but she would not lie down and die.

“Come on,” said Caina, adjusting her grip on the oar. “Let’s get back to Murat.”

“I do want to see his expression when he realizes that we’re still alive,” said Morgant. 

Caina laughed. “I wanted to see my own expression when I realized we were still alive.” 

“Your jaw was hanging open,” said Morgant. “It is just as well we killed all the insects on the island, else something would have built a hive on your tongue…”

The jokes did little to distract her from the darkness in her mind. The effort of rowing was more effective, and soon Caina could think of nothing but her aching shoulders and her sore arms. Yet stroke by stroke the
Sandstorm
drew closer, and soon Caina saw the individual corsairs moving about the deck. She wondered how Murat had kept his crew occupied during the days of waiting. Maybe the light show from the Conjurant Bloodcrystal and the firestorm had been entertainment enough.

Shouts came from the deck, and the corsairs threw down a pair of heavy ropes. Morgant and Caina steered the boat towards the
Sandstorm
until it bumped against the ship’s hull. They secured the ropes, and the corsairs began drawing the boat up to the deck. A score of corsairs stood ready, watching them. Caina wondered if Murat had decided to kill them, and then realized the corsairs were staring at them with surprise. 

“If it makes you feel better,” said Caina, swinging off the boat and onto the deck, “I’m surprised that we’re still alive, too.”

A rumble of laughter went up from the corsairs. Morgant helped Annarah down to the deck. She wobbled a little before catching her balance. 

“Where’s the captain?” said Caina. “We need to talk.”

“The captain is here,” said a familiar deep voice, speaking Istarish with a jagged Alqaarin accent, “and he has questions.”

The corsairs parted as Sanjar Murat, notorious pirate and corsair captain, strode towards her. He was a towering man, nearly seven feet tall, his flashing white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin. Murat wore black boots, black trousers, and a red coat hanging open to show a muscular torso, a bandoleer of throwing knives slung across his chest. 

“Thank you for waiting,” said Caina. 

Murat shrugged. “You paid us to do nothing. It’s a rare situation, and I prefer to enjoy it. Plus, once we take you back to Istarinmul, Glasshand will pay us again. Though I am curious. What the devil happened on that island?”

“Well,” said Caina, “if you must know, I burned down the island.”

Morgant snorted. 

“Did you, now,” said Murat, his eyes narrowed with bemusement. “Why?”

“Long story,” said Caina. “If we live through the next few days, perhaps I’ll tell you the entire story. Right now, I need to get to Istarinmul as soon as possible.”

“Very well,” said Murat, and he barked a few orders at his first mate, who in turn began shouting orders at the crew.

“How long?” said Caina. 

“To get to Istarinmul from here?” said Murat with a shrug. “Six to eight days. Maybe longer, if we hit the winds wrong, but six days is the fastest we can manage.” 

Caina’s heart sank. Six days. As she looked towards the pulsing gray glow in the northwest, she knew that would be far too long. They didn’t have six days. 

They might not even have a day. 

There was no way she could get to Istarinmul in time, no way she could stop Callatas. 

Caina let out a ragged breath.

She had failed. She couldn’t get to Istarinmul…

A thought occurred to her. 

Caina couldn’t get to Istarinmul, but perhaps someone else could. She remembered the dream in the Tomb of Kharnaces, the dream where Samnirdamnus had told her that she was the one she had sought. Caina still could not guess at the djinni’s motivations, but she was certain he had not expended so much effort to save her life just so she could die aboard the
Sandstorm
when Callatas finished the Apotheosis.