Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) (25 page)

At least, it looked like a pyramid made of bone. After a moment, Caina saw that it was a rough hill of pale white stone with a flat top, perhaps a thousand feet tall. As she looked further, she caught sight of a brilliant green jungle around the base of the hill, and glimpses of a sandy shore encircling the island. 

The necromantic aura, faint but pervasive, radiated from the hill. 

“Pyramid Isle,” said Kylon.

“I see why no one wanted to come here,” said Caina. She looked towards the stern, where Nasser and Annarah and the others stood near the captain, speaking in low voices. “Let’s stay by Nasser. If Murat tries anything, he’ll do it soon.”

“Or,” said Kylon in a low voice, “he’ll wait until we’ve gone ashore, and sail off and leave us marooned.”

“He’s too greedy for that,” said Caina. “He doesn’t need to go ashore himself. He doesn’t even need to risk a single man of his crew. All he needs to do is wait.”

“He’ll likely put his crew to work cleaning the ship from bow to stern while we’re gone,” said Kylon.

“It certainly needs it,” said Caina, and they joined Nasser on the stern. Murat stood next to the pilot, tall and stark in his red coat, which hung open to reveal his muscled chest. 

“Very well,” said Murat as Caina and Kylon came within earshot. “Another three hundred yards. You shall have to row the rest of the way in one of my longboats. We’re past the worst of the reefs here, and if you row due east,” he gestured with a bronze spyglass, “you should reach the island without ripping open the bottom of my boat.”

“Excellent,” said Nasser. “I am pleased the voyage has been so uneventful.”

Murat grunted. “I expect to run into at least one other corsair, or maybe an Umbarian raider or two.” He grinned. “I suppose Pyramid Isle frightened them all off. You’ve got one week, Glasshand. Once we’re in position, we’ll drop anchor and wait here for one week. If you’re not back by then, we’re heading back to Rumarah, and the devils in the island’s jungles can devour you.”

“So long as you keep to your end of the arrangement,” said Nasser, “I do not anticipate any difficulties.”

Morgant snorted. “Ever the optimist.” 

“Ciaran, Exile,” said Nasser. “Come. Let us prepare a longboat.” 

###

Kylon pulled the oar, the length of wood dipping through the seawater with a splash. The longboat rode up the shallow wave and down the other side, propelled by the oars’ strokes. Nasser, Laertes, and Morgant held the other three oars, while Caina and Annarah kept watch for any sorcerous disturbances. Kylon had not pulled an oar in a long time, yet the knowledge had not left him, and he kept rhythm with the others.

Most of his attention remained focused upon Pyramid Isle.

The necromantic aura grew stronger with every stroke of the oars, like walking closer and closer to the heat of a flame. He began to detect different sources of power, loci of the strange, resonant sorcery that Annarah employed. Quite a few of them, in fact, and unless he missed his guess, they held back the necromantic aura from the island. Were those the warding stones that Annarah had mentioned? 

How much stronger would the necromantic aura be without them?

They rode through a bank of mist, the air hot and wet and sticky against Kylon’s face. Sweat trickled down his face and arms, and the smell of rotting vegetation came to his nostrils. 

Then they were through the fog, and he saw stone ruins scattered across the shore.

A broad beach stretched up from the water, terminating a wall of green jungle so vivid and bright that it almost hurt to look at it. Tall monoliths of white stone stood at regular intervals along the edge of the jungle, carved with Iramisian symbols. A ruin sprawled at the edge of the water, and Kylon thought it had once been a small citadel or perhaps a fortified dock. It looked older, much older, than the Iramisian warding stones, and the relentless waves had worn much of it away, the stones lying tumbled across the beach. Strange symbols marked the fallen blocks, images of birds and animals and men. They looked familiar, and after a moment Kylon realized where he had seen those symbols before. 

The Tomb of Scorikhon in Marsis. 

Those ruins were Maatish. 

Kylon felt his oar scrape the sand.

“Here,” he said. He pulled off his boots and then vaulted over the side of the longboat. The swirling water came up to his knees, the sand rough and gritty beneath his feet. “Help me get the boat onto the beach.”

The others followed suit, and together they hauled the longboat onto the beach. Driftwood lay scattered across the sand, and at Kylon’s direction they dragged the boat past the tide line. It would be a bitter irony if they returned successful from the Tomb of Kharnaces only for the tide to carry away their boat. 

Caina gazed at the sea to the west. “Looks like Murat is keeping his word, at least so far. I see him dropping anchor.” The
Sandstorm
was far enough away that it seemed tiny, its sails furled and its oars shipped. 

“He won’t leave until the week is up,” said Nasser, adjusting his sword belt. “There is no profit in departing earlier, and the chance of considerable gain should he exercise a few days of patience.” 

“Hopefully we will not need an entire week,” said Annarah. She gestured, and her pyrikon bracelet unfolded itself from her wrist, transforming into a slender bronze staff. “When Morgant and I came here, it took about a day and a half to travel to the Tomb, secure the regalia in the Tomb’s library, and return. If all goes well, we can repeat that.”

“If all goes well,” muttered Morgant. His emotional sense was always cold and hard, but now it seemed focused and keen, like the cold, glittering edge of a knife. “Why should everything start going well now? Tell me, Kyracian. Do you notice what’s wrong here?” 

Kylon frowned, extending his arcane senses, searching for both sorcery and other living men. Sorcery proved easy to detect. The monoliths radiated the strange power Annarah wielded, and he felt the necromantic aura over the entire island, centered upon the pyramidal hill. Yet save for Caina and the others, he sensed no one else nearby. The island was quiet…

Wait.

Kylon had visited tropical ports before, cities built on the edges of the great jungles south of Anshan and north of what had been Maat. Those jungles had been living, breathing places, filled with animals and insects and birds. The noise of chirping birds and croaking insects had been constant. Here, Kylon heard the rush of the surf, the rustling of the leaves as the wind blew through the jungle. 

But other than that, he heard nothing. 

“It’s too quiet,” said Kylon. 

“It is,” said Caina, scowling at the ground. “But something is alive here. Look.”

Hundreds of footprints marked the sand. Kylon first thought they were the footprints of barefoot children, but that was absurd. There would be no children on Pyramid Isle. His next thought was…

“Monkeys,” said Annarah. “Look. You can see the marks of their tails here and there.” 

Bands of feral monkeys dwelled in the Anshani Quarter of Istarinmul. Sometimes the poor of the city caught and ate them, but more often than not the clever beasts eluded detection, and Kylon had seen them steal food out of the hands of the men eating it. 

“Monkeys?” said Morgant. “Well, they should be no more than an annoyance. We’ll have to make sure they don’t make off with the food, though.” 

Caina shook his head. “The tracks are too big for that. Too…thin, too. A monkey’s paw wouldn’t leave a track like that. And they’re recent. Since midnight, otherwise the tide would have washed them away by now.”

“Remain watchful,” said Nasser. “It would be grievous to have come all this way only to fall victim to the bite of a rabid monkey.”

“Monkeys can go rabid?” said Laertes. The Legion veteran had his massive shield on his left arm and his broadsword in his right. That struck Kylon as a good idea, so he drew the valikon from over his shoulder. The sigils upon the blade remained dark, but he felt better with the weapon in hand. Something about the ominous silence of the jungle reminded him of the final moments before a battle began, when all the world seemed poised upon the edge of a precipice. 

“Oh, aye,” said Morgant. “They’re a public menace in parts of Anshan. Some Anshani anjars and khadjars put a bounty upon the heads of rabid monkeys, and there are entire families whose ancestral occupation is the hunting of dangerous monkeys.” He laughed to himself. “One of the Shahenshahs of Anshan died from the bite of a rabid monkey, if I recall.”

“Truly?” said Laertes. “This is another of your jokes.”

“He’s right,” said Caina, still scanning the jungle. “It was a scandal, so they tried to blame it upon the Kindred family of Anshan. But the truth came out, and the Shahenshah was a laughingstock.” 

“As fascinating as it is to listen to Morgant’s historical ruminations,” said Nasser, “we must be about our business. Annarah?”

“This way,” said Annarah, pointing with her staff. “There is a path that leads through the jungle to the Tomb itself.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I urge you all to stay upon the path, and do not pass the warding stones to enter the jungle.”

“I thought the warding stones were built to keep Kharnaces’s power at bay,” said Kylon. 

“You remember what Murat said,” said Caina. “He spoke of creatures that came out of the jungle. Perhaps Kharnaces’s power manifested in guardians of some kind.”

Kylon nodded and followed as Annarah and Morgant led the way across the beach. He kept a wary eye on the warding stones, watching the jungle for any sign of movement. It did not escape him that Murat claimed the creatures had not emerged from the jungle. Granted, it was possible the corsair had lied, and that his men had ranged into the jungle in search of relics or even simple drinking water. Yet nothing stirred among the trees. 

They walked along the edge of the jungle, closer to the line of warding stones. Each one was rectangular, and stood about ten or eleven feet tall. Iramisian symbols covered their sides, and Kylon felt the concentrated power within the stones, layers of potent wards bound to the symbols. The necromantic aura grew stronger as well, seeming to seep past the warding stones like water leaking through cracks in a dam.

“Something’s wrong,” said Annarah. “The spells upon the stones…they’re weaker. Far weaker. They were much stronger when Morgant and I were last here.”

“That was a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Morgant. “With the storms upon on the Alqaarin Sea, I’m surprised the stones are still standing.” 

“Of old, the loremasters came here to renew the spells upon the stones,” said Nasser. “Without their presence, the wards must have decayed.”

Annarah shook her head, her silver braid bouncing against her back. “They would decay in time, but not so quickly. Something has been…eroding the spells, I think. Deliberately and carefully.”

Caina frowned. “You think Kharnaces is attacking the spells?”

“I do not see how,” said Annarah. “He was hibernating when last we came here.”

“Which was a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Morgant. “Plenty of time to finish his little nap.” 

“If he is awake,” said Caina, “then it is all the more urgent that we get the Staff and Seal away from him.”

“Agreed,” said Nasser, and they kept walking.

After another two miles, they found the path Annarah had mentioned. It was a paved stone road that led deeper into the island, though tree roots had overturned the flagstones here and there. Rectangular stone plinths stood alongside the road at regular intervals, supporting peculiar statues that looked like lions with the heads of men. 

“Ugly things,” said Laertes. 

“Maatish sphinxes,” said Caina. Some dark emotion roiled through her sense. “The Maatish god of war was pictured as a lion. So the pharaohs had statues made with their heads atop those of lions.” She waved a hand at the sphinxes. “Likely whatever pharaoh buried Kharnaces here had those statues made.”

Kylon looked at her, wondering what had upset her.

She saw him looking and tried to smile. “It’s just…Maatish necromancy has darkened half my life. I don’t like walking into a Maatish ruin. It…brings to mind bad memories, that’s all.

“It reminds me of the Inferno,” said Laertes.

“A happy reminder, then,” said Nasser. Morgant gave an incredulous snort. “We were victorious against great odds in the Inferno. Let us see if we can repeat the feat here.” 

He stepped onto the road, and Laertes followed suit. Morgant went next, and then Kylon followed. He was watching Caina, so he saw her stumble, saw her blue eyes go wide. 

“What…” started Kylon.

The dark storm washed over his arcane senses, and he raised the valikon, looking back and forth for enemies. His mind caught up to his surprised alarm, and he realized the necromantic aura was far stronger beyond the ring of ward stones. The spells upon the stones might have degraded, but they still held back the majority of the sorcerous power radiating from the hill. 

“What’s wrong?” said Nasser, lifting his scimitar. 

“The aura,” said Annarah. “It’s stronger…much stronger. There was necromantic power on this island a century and a half past, but it wasn’t nearly this powerful.”

“The Ascendant Bloodcrystal,” said Kylon. “In Caer Magia. It would kill anyone who stood within its influence for seven hundred and seventy-seven heartbeats. This aura…”

“No,” said Annarah, taking a deep breath, though her face remained tight. “No, it’s not that kind of aura. What you just described sounds like an improperly activated Ascendant Bloodcrystal…”

“It was,” said Caina.  

“This is different,” said Annarah. She whispered under her breath, white light flaring along her staff as she cast a sensing spell. “I have never encountered an aura like this before.” 

Caina shook her head. “Neither have I. It…it’s like something is drawing power towards the hill. A lot of power.” She looked at Annarah. “You didn’t sense it before?”

“No,” said Annarah. “There was a necromantic aura, but nothing like this.” 

“It seems clear that Kharnaces is awake,” said Laertes.