His awareness blurred then, as Kalam surged through a crush of pirates, cutting, slashing and stabbing on all sides. He lost his knife as it jammed between ribs, used the freed hand to yank a helmet away from a collapsing warrior and jam it onto his head – the skullcap was too small, and a glancing blow from a wailing scimitar sent it flying even as he broke through the press, skidding on blood-slick decking as he spun around.

Half a dozen pirates wheeled to attack him.

Salk Elan struck the group from the side, a long-knife in either hand. Three pirates went down in the first attack. Kalam launched himself forward, batting aside a blade, then driving stiff fingers into its wielder’s throat.

A moment later the clash of weapons had ceased. Figures were sprawled on all sides, some moaning, some shrieking and gibbering in pain, but most still and silent.

Kalam dropped to one knee, struggling to regain his breath.

‘What a mess!’ Salk Elan muttered, crouching to wipe his blades clean.

The assassin lifted his head and stared at him. Elan’s fine clothes were scorched and soaked in blood. Half his face was bright red, flash-burned, the eyebrow on that side a smear of ash. He was breathing heavily, and every breath caused him obvious pain.

Kalam looked past the man. Not a single marine was standing. A handful of sailors moved among the bodies, pulling free those that still lived – they’d found but two thus far, neither one the lieutenant.

The acting First Mate came to the assassin’s side. ‘Cook wants to know.’

‘What?’

‘Is that big lizard tasty?’

Salk Elan’s laugh became a cough.

‘A delicacy,’ Kalam muttered. ‘A hundred jakatas a pound in Pan’potsun.’

‘Permission to cross over to the raider, sir,’ the sailor continued. ‘We can resupply.’

The assassin nodded.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Salk Elan managed.

‘Appreciate that, sir.’

‘Hey,’ one of the sailors called, ‘what should we do with the treasurer? The bastard’s still alive.’

‘Leave him to me,’ Kalam said.

The treasurer was conscious as they loaded him down with sacks of coin, making noises behind his gag, his eyes wide. Kalam and Salk Elan carried the man between them to the side and pitched him over without ceremony.

Sharks converged on the splash the man made, but the effort of following him down proved too great for the already sated creatures.

The stripped-down raider was still burning beneath a column of smoke as it vanished beyond the horizon.

The Whirlwind lifted itself into a towering wall, higher than the eye could fathom and over a mile in width, around the Holy Desert Raraku. Within the wasteland’s heart, all remained calm, the air refulgent with golden light.

Battered ridges of bedrock rose above the sands ahead, like blackened bones. Walking half a dozen paces in front, Leoman paused and turned. ‘We must cross a place of spirits,’ he said.