“You know me,” said Morgant, getting to his feet. He only wobbled a little. “It takes more than a cataclysmic explosion and a deranged sorcerer to kill me. Lived through a few of those by now.”
He helped Annarah to stand. They were on the edge of the hill, Pyramid Isle spread out beneath them. Another few feet and Morgant would have rolled right over the edge, bouncing down the steep, rocky slope to his death. His broken corpse would have fit right in with the dead jungle. Likely the wave of necromantic power released by the destruction of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal had killed every living thing on the island.
Kharnaces had been destroyed with his creation. Morgant was still alive, and so was Annarah. Had Callatas and Kalgri survived as well?
“Where’s Caina?” said Morgant.
“I don’t know,” said Annarah. “I just woke up myself. It…”
There was a loud cracking sound, followed by a rushing noise, a man’s voice echoing over the hilltop. Morgant had fought enough sorcerers to recognize the sound of a spell of psychokinetic force. That meant Callatas had survived, and if he was casting spells at someone, that meant Caina had survived.
Pity the explosion hadn’t killed Callatas.
After two hundred years, Morgant knew that life was rarely so convenient.
“Time for some fighting,” said Morgant, reaching for his weapons. He had sheathed them to help Caina carry that damned stone box up the stairs, which was just as well since they hadn’t been thrown free by the explosion. His crimson scimitar gleamed in his right hand, the blade sharp and keen and reinforced by spells.
The black dagger in his right hand, a red pearl glinting in its pommel, was more dangerous by far.
Annarah nodded, and as she did, the bracelet unfolded itself from her wrist, expanding and lengthening. In a heartbeat it had transformed into a slender bronze staff, white light glimmering up and down its length. Morgant had seen both Annarah’s and Caina’s pyrikons transform a hundred times by now, but it was still a strange sight.
They hurried in silence along the edge of the hilltop, moving past the pile of boulders that framed the entrance to the stairwell sinking into the depths of the Tomb. The bone-strewn crest of the hilltop came into sight, and Morgant was pleased to see that the explosion had destroyed all the undead creatures and lesser nagataaru that Kharnaces had called to his side.
He was less pleased to see Caina and Kalgri lying on the ground, struggling for leverage. Even as he watched, Kalgri flipped Caina upon her back with enough force that the back of her head bounced off the ground. Caina flinched, and Kalgri laughed, snatching up a dagger from the ground and raising it for the kill.
Morgant hurried towards them, and several things happened at once.
“Beware!” shouted Callatas, turning towards Morgant as he raised his hands in the beginnings of a spell.
Kalgri’s head snapped around, her eyes narrowing as she saw Morgant, and purple fire writhed in the depths of her gaze like a flame behind blue glass.
Annarah leveled her staff and shouted something in the Iramisian tongue, and a bolt of scintillating white fire leaped from her pyrikon and sped across the hilltop. It slammed into Kalgri’s chest and hurled the Huntress off Caina. Kalgri hit the ground and bounced, staggering to her feet, fresh red burns marking the side of her face and neck. A strange mixture of rage and glee twisted her damaged face, her eyes glittering like blue knives.
Morgant liked to think that his sanity had weathered the centuries at least somewhat better than hers.
It occurred to him that she was battered and injured, that she was at the limits of her endurance. He would not want to fight the nagataaru-infested Red Huntress at her full strength, but in her weakened state, this was his best chance to kill her.
Then he could figure out how to deal with Callatas.
Kalgri spread her arms, grinning at him. In her left hand, she held a leather pouch. In her right hand, she carried one of Caina’s throwing knives, gripping the weapon by the blade. She must have taken them while she wrestled with Caina, and Morgant realized that the pouch likely held the Seal of Iramis.
That was bad.
Caina was still moving, but she couldn’t seem to get up. She had taken a bad hit or two to the head.
“Old man,” hissed Kalgri, the purple fire brightening in her eyes. “Come and get me. Let’s see if you can still perform.”
“Whatever you’re charging,” said Morgant, “the price is still too high.”
Kalgri let out that demented giggle of hers. Morgant glanced back, saw Annarah move to the side. As he did, Kalgri surged forward. Morgant turned to face her, wondering why she was doing that. Did she plan to throw the knife at him? He could easily dodge it, and…
Callatas shouted again, flinging out his hands.
Invisible force slammed into Morgant, throwing him from his feet. He tucked his shoulder and rolled, springing back to his feet in a single fluid motion. As he did, Annarah cast another spell, hitting Kalgri with a burst of white fire. The Huntress screamed in pain again, the crackle of burning flesh audible even over her scream, but she did not fall.
She stepped forward, arm snapping, and hurled the throwing knife at Annarah. Morgant heard the thud as the blade sank into the side of Annarah’s neck. She fell to her knees with a strangled scream, blood dripping from her lips.
Morgant cursed and started towards Annarah, and Callatas hit him with another pulse of invisible force.
He hit the ground just as he saw Caina push herself to one knee, breathing hard.
###
Callatas drew on more sorcerous power. White spots danced across his vision, and Pyramid Isle felt as if it had started to spin around him. Too much more effort and he would collapse, and Caina and that damned assassin and Annarah could stroll over and cut his throat.
The surge of emotion that went through him when Annarah fell with the knife jutting from her neck was a surprise. She had hindered his plans for a century and a half with her cleverness. If not for her, the Apotheosis could have been achieved decades ago.
Yet she had been his favorite student.
No matter. To work the Apotheosis, to sweep away the old humanity and bring the new, he would have to kill Annarah.
He was going to kill far more people than her before this was over.
Kalgri sprinted towards Callatas, giggling as she ran, the pouch holding the Seal clutched in her fist. Calculations flashed through Callatas’s mind. Annarah was down, bleeding to death. Caina was still trying to rise. Morgant was down as well, but once he regained his feet, he would attack.
For a moment, Callatas considered attacking and killing them all.
Then Kalgri came to his side, and he ripped the pouch containing the Seal from her hand, taking the ring and sliding it upon his finger.
At last he had all three pieces of the regalia once carried by the Princes of Iramis, and this time, there was no self-destructive compulsion upon his mind. If he tried to press the attack now, if he tried to kill the Balarigar and her allies, he might succeed…but in his weakened state it was just as likely that he would perish.
Callatas dared not gamble with his own life, not when ultimate victory was just within his grasp.
Fortunately, he had a way to escape the island and kill with the troublesome Balarigar with a single stroke.
“Hear me!” roared Callatas as he lifted his hand, the Seal glinting upon his finger. The ring’s stone glowed brighter as it projected his will over the island. “By the power of the Seal, I call you. By the power of the Seal, I bind you! By the power of the Seal, I compel you! Come forth to the hilltop and slay the Balarigar. Come now and kill all those with her!”
Power surged through the Seal, and Callatas felt his mind expand, his will reaching out to touch the entire island. Hundreds of Kharnaces’s undead creatures and nagataaru servants had been destroyed atop the hill, but hundreds, perhaps even thousands more, remained on the island. They had been vassals of the Harbinger, the nagataar
u lord possessing Kharnaces, but the Harbinger had been banished back to the netherworld.
Callatas felt the tug as thousands of alien, malevolent minds responded to the Seal’s power. There were still lesser nagataaru upon Pyramid Isle, and if they had been able to do so, the ferocious spirits would have slain Callatas and devoured his life force. But he was stronger than them, and with the power of the Seal, they had no choice but to obey him and kill Caina.
Callatas would be long gone by then.
“What now, father?” said Kalgri, her voice a harsh rasp. The fire unleashed by Annarah’s Words of Lore must have damaged her throat. “Shall we finish them?”
“No,” said Callatas, focusing his will upon the Staff.
The ancient relic answered his call, gray light glimmering along its length.
Kalgri gave him a sharp look.
“Stay here and fight if you wish,” said Callatas, slashing the Staff through the air in a vertical line. A curtain of gray mist rose from the ground, shaping itself into a gateway, and Callatas glimpsed the bleak gray plains of the netherworld through the gate. “I am returning to Istarinmul to begin the Apotheosis. Stay here and kill them, and then starve to death on this wretched island. Or come with me, and watch the old world and the old humanity die.”
Kalgri shivered, her blue eyes widening, and the lustful smile that spread over her burned and bloody face made her look savage and insane.
“Leady the way,” said Kalgri.
###
Caina stumbled to her feet, snatching up her valikon as she did.
Her head throbbed with agony, and she hoped her brains were not leaking out of her ears because it felt that way. The last time she had suffered a headache so fierce had been in the netherworld a few days ago when she had pursued Callatas, and that had almost killed her when a blood vessel burst in her brain. Only Annarah’s last-minute healing had saved Caina.
What had saved her this time? Why hadn’t Kalgri finished her off?There was a pulse of gray light, faint in the glare of the dawn, and Caina turned, a wave of dizziness almost knocking her off her feet.
Callatas and Kalgri stood together on the other side of the hilltop. A sheet of gray mist seethed before them, shimmering into a gate to the netherworld. Through the gate, Caina saw the bleak, gray plains of colorless grass, the writhing black sky, the ghostly echoes of the golden towers of Iramis. Blue light glinted on Callatas’s finger. He had the Seal, which meant he could traverse the netherworld in safety, binding the wills of any spirits that attacked him.
Once he returned to Istarinmul, he could work the Apotheosis with ease, and there would be no one to stop him.
Caina ran as fast as she could through her headache and the dizziness, wobbling and stumbling like a drunkard.
Callatas and Kalgri stepped through the gate and into the netherworld. The Grand Master turned, and as he did, his eyes met Caina’s.
He smirked and raised his free hand in a mocking little salute, gesturing with the Staff of Iramis as he did.
The gate winked out of existence an instant before Caina could have reached it.
She stumbled to a halt, managing to stop herself before she pitched over the edge of the hilltop and to a painful death on the jagged hillside. Bitter regret flooded through her, followed by a surge of fear. Callatas had escaped Pyramid Isle, and he could return to Istarinmul with far greater speed than Caina could, even assuming that Sanjar Murat and the crew of the Sandstorm had survived the backlash of necromantic force.
Caina had failed, utterly and completely. Callatas would work the Apotheosis, and there was nothing she could do to stop him…
Her jaw set.
Perhaps there was nothing she could do to stop him, but she would not give up. Not yet, not while she still had even a shred of strength. There were too many lives at stake. She had vowed to Kylon that she would meet him again in the House of Agabyzus in Istarinmul, and she would keep that promise, no matter what she had to do.
Movement in the dead jungle below caught her eye, and a fresh burst of fear erupted through her. She looked towards the sphinx-lined road that led towards the beach, and she saw dark shapes moving along the road and towards the entrance to the Tomb of Kharnaces, hundreds and hundreds of dark shapes. Some of them were the mummified baboons that patrolled the jungle, while others were the embalmed, nagataaru-infested warriors that had been placed in the shadows of the Tomb of Kharnaces.
Kharnaces had been destroyed, but the lesser nagataaru bound to the Harbinger remained, and the Seal allowed Callatas to command them.
Callatas had sent the nagataaru to kill her while he finished the Apotheosis.
The nagataaru could not sense Caina, thanks to her abilities as a valikarion, and Annarah’s pyrikon could shield her presence. Morgant carried an enspelled ring that masked him from spirits. But here, on the open hilltop with no cover and no other way out but the stairs, the nagataaru-infested undead could swarm them.
They had to move.
Caina turned and ran back towards the center of the hilltop, the nagataaru rushing through the dead jungle like a swarm of rotting insects.
Chapter 2: Tomb Trap
Caina sprinted across the hilltop, dodging the scattered bones and armor and mummified baboons lying on the ground. She snatched up her ghostsilver dagger as she passed it, shoving the weapon into its sheath. Her head still felt as if she had iron spikes driven into her temples, but the dizziness had passed. She spotted Morgant near the entrance to the stairs, resting upon one knee next to Annarah, who…
Another jolt of alarm went through Caina.
Gods, but that was a lot of blood.
They had survived the explosion, but had Morgant been injured in the fighting? No, he looked grim and gaunt as always.
The familiar hilt of one of Caina’s throwing knives jutted from the side of Annarah’s neck.
“Ghost,” said Morgant, his voice hard. “It’s too late.”
Caina had killed a lot of people with throwing knives, and she knew Morgant was right. To judge from the flow of blood it had nicked Annarah’s vein, and she had only moments left. If Caina tried to remove the knife, it would tear open the vein and Annarah would die almost at once.
Fresh rage joined the mix of emotions churning inside of Caina’s head. The Red Huntress had murdered so many people, Kylon’s wife and unborn child among them. It seemed Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis, would join their number.
“No,” spat Caina, her voice cold as determination hardened within her.
“I’m afraid so,” said Morgant. His gaunt, pale face looked more skull-like than usual, his gray hair stirring in the wind. “We’ve both seen a lot of people die. We know what it looks like.”
“We do,” said Caina, reaching for her belt, “but not today. I…”
A dark leathery shape erupted from the entrance to the stairs, loping across the ground on all fours. A long time ago, it had been a baboon, but the necromancers of ancient Maat had mummified it, and Kharnaces had bound a lesser nagataaru within the undead flesh. Now it was a leathery horror, patches of brittle fur bristling from its gray hide, the lips drawn back from its teeth, purple flame and shadow dancing in the empty sockets of its eyes.
The undead baboon came straight at Annarah. The nagataaru couldn’t sense Caina, and Morgant still wore his bronze ring. Annarah, with her wounds, could not shield herself, and so the nagataaru would kill her first.
Caina leaped to intercept the baboon, and two more of the creatures burst from the stairs. She drew the valikon from its scabbard, and the ghostsilver blade blazed into bright white fire as the weapon reacted to the presence of the nagataaru. The baboon did not see her coming, and she swung the valikon with both hands. The ghostsilver blade crunched through the ancient bone of the baboon’s neck, the white fire shining brighter as it consumed the nagataaru within the creature. The baboon collapsed, its torso disintegrating as the valikon unraveled the necromantic spells upon it.
She spun to face t
he next two baboons, but by then Morgant was moving. He flowed forward, his black coat and trousers making him seem like a living shadow. The black dagger flicked in his hand, and it sliced through the neck of an undead baboon without a hint of resistance. The creature collapsed, the nagataaru within rising from the baboon as a hooded wraith of shadow and purple flame as it was pulled back into the netherworld.
Morgant turned and drove his black dagger into the second baboon, and as he did, currents of power flared in the weapon. The blade had not soaked up much heat as it sliced through the ancient bones of the first baboon, but it had absorbed more than enough heat to set the second baboon afire. The creature went up in flames, and Morgant twisted, driving his boot into its back.
The baboon sprawled to the ground, the flames consuming it. Morgant stepped back, spinning his scimitar and dagger as he turned towards the stairs.
“There are more of them coming,” said Morgant. “I can hear them.”
“I know,” said Caina, looking at Annarah. She was still alive, thank the gods.
“Unless you want to die here,” said Morgant, “you need to think up something clever right now.”
“Hold them off,” said Caina. She tossed the valikon to him. Morgant caught it out of the air.
“What are you doing?” said Morgant, spinning the valikon to test its balance.
“Get ready to take cover,” said Caina. “I’m not sure what is going to happen.”
She knelt next to Annarah, opening the lead foil-lined pouch at her belt. Caina took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. If this was going to work, she had to time it perfectly.
Two more baboons emerged from the stairs, and Morgant cut them down with quick blows from Caina’s valikon. He could hold out against scattered groups of the undead for a long time. But if the more powerful creatures arrived, equipped with helms that let them see the material world, not even Morgant the Razor could stand against them for long.
They had to be gone by then. Or, at least, they had to find a defensible location where the nagataaru-infested undead could not swarm them.
Ghost in the Winds (Ghost Exile #9) Page 2