Spirit of the Sea

by Keith Walter

  As the yacht started to catch up with the ferry, Barclay could still see three of the majors conversing and pointing at the ferry. None of them appeared concerned, even when the Fog drifted lazily toward shore. They just pointed beyond the fire at the yacht. Terror took hold as he saw the three begin to move down the docks toward their location.

  “Serin, forget the ferry and punch it. We need to move now!” Barclay yelled toward the bridge. It wouldn’t be enough, he knew. They’d never get far enough away before the majors reached them. He steeled himself. He may not have the strength to beat them all, but with the lake at his back he felt mildly confident he could slow them down.

  ◆◆◆

  Charles raced up from the engine room to see the bay on fire. He could feel anger from shore and the steady rise in power from four distinct individuals. Deep down, he knew there was only one way for this to end. Even if Fog confused the soldiers’ senses, that wasn’t going to stop them. Now that the superior officers had shown up, the whole situation was nothing but a countdown to their demise. If he ran now, he’d be seen and caught. If he stayed, he’d probably go down with this ship.

  “Dead either way,” Charles spoke out loud. He felt the three purebloods on the bridge and who he suspected was their savior standing on the deck. It seemed a pity they’d all have to die on account of his crimes. Charles had thought of how it would end many times. Sometimes he was sad while other times he was relieved. So many things he’d done in his past were horrible. Some were supposedly for a greater good, while others were strictly for survival.

  The promise he’d made crept into his head again. Not now, Al. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tried to push it out. Each time he pushed, the thoughts came back stronger. His feet seemed to move of their own accord, and he found himself headed directly to the dock. He could see Barclay ahead staring at the officers. He sensed the tensing of muscles and the classic signs of someone about to make a bad decision. His body moved before he came to grips with what it meant. He couldn’t help it; he had to make one last bad decision of his own.

  Charles released the runes that protected him from the moons power and leap off the ship. The snapping of wood and spray of splinters engulfed him as his new weight pushed him deep into the weathered boards. The night sky illuminated a myriad of shapes on shore rushing toward the escaping ship. Charles opened himself to the light as he had in his youth. He felt the familiar swell of power as his body began to burn and transform. Senses sharpened as he could suddenly taste the fear coming from the ship and the malice emanating from the shore. It wouldn’t make up for all he’d done. It wouldn’t fulfill his promise. But at least he would go out fighting, on his own terms.

  Charles tried to relax as he felt the familiar heat he’d avoided for so long, but it came rushing back easily. The burning in his legs quickly subsided and was replaced with a fire that began building. It had been years since his last transformation, but there was no forgetting the experience. With his protective runes gone, his body began pulling in the moonlight voraciously. There were only moments before his sickness fully took over, and he had to focus the magic as best he could. He was confident this last act would give the others enough time to escape.

  A tinge of sadness surfaced as he thought about the soldiers in front of him. Like Thames, surely these men and women had spouses and children waiting at home. But it was the soldiers or the escapees, he reminded himself. A deep breath later, and he cleared his mind of everything but the enemy before him. It unnerved him how quick the focus came back. Good and bad, friend and foe—the concepts faded behind the two words he chose. “Stop them,” he uttered, and the words faded into a growl.

  The moonlight was building exponentially under his skin, needing an outlet. He began focusing on size, speed, and ferocity until an image formed in his subconscious. With a roar, he let the moonlight wash through his veins, perhaps for the last time. Pain hovered in the air but it was as if he was temporarily outside of his body. Every fiber of his thoughts was directed toward the officers and soldiers. The magic built up beyond his ability to control it—all he could do now was point the force in the right direction.

  ◆◆◆

  Barclay was too stunned to move. He could feel the ship speeding up under his feet and hear the footsteps of those running below. His first thought was that this Charles was a reckless fool. But when the younger man’s power doubled, then doubled again, and again, and again, a concerning realization followed. Charles was the monster in the box, the thing that scared the Union enough to call in the Entregon. Jumping onto the top rail of the yacht, Barclay balanced nervously, surveying the apparent battlefield.

  Barclay could see the majors and soldiers as they reached the end of the dock in front of the ferry. He knew he should be worried, preparing defensive spells, but he couldn’t take his focus off the shadows obscuring the man clawing his way out of the broken boards. The night was drawing a canvas of lights; the moon above, the fire on shore, and the reflection of both on the water. And yet the shadows on the broken dock promised something even more spectacular.

  He felt the purebloods behind him and considered telling them to prepare for battle. But it would have been pointless. They weren’t soldiers, and they still sported dampening manacles on their wrists. If the fight made it to the yacht, it was going to be short and bloody, though he would surely give as good as he got. His ears perked up as a muffled roar emanated from the shadows, rattling him to his core. He squinted, trying to make out Charles, but the shape seemed too large.

  Broken timber and concrete erupted in a cloud around the growl. A shadow sprang from the chaos and swept across the dock toward the advancing soldiers. It moved quicker than Barclay could follow. All he could tell was that the magic was still growing. There was no way to know if the beast could identify friend from foe, but there was no deviation from the monster’s path. “What the hell are you, Charles?” Barclay uttered under his breath in a mystified tone.

  The old sailor had seen more than a few converts change in his time, but this seemed something completely different. He watched as the creature slammed into the first soldiers. The flash of steel and low-level magic met with tufts of fur, and the soldiers were torn limb from limb. He turned slightly when he heard the two purebloods behind him gag as a fine mist of blood coated the dock. Turning his gaze back to the pandemonium below, he saw the beast hesitate, almost confused when it realized the first wave of soldiers was out of the fight. The beast’s full form was now plainly visible in the moonlight.

  A convert’s curse was to change forms when exposed to the moons power. Transformations typically took the shape of a wolf, but what stood in front of him was of a colossal scale. What must have been hundreds of razor-sharp teeth flashed in stark contrast to the gray fur covering the body of the creature. Unlike the transformations he had seen in the past, the head of this creature was longer and broader, with giant jaw muscles for crunching its prey. At the other end of its body, the normally wolflike tail had grown and thickened almost doubling the length of the body. Giant talons sprouted from what should have been paws giving the thing a reptilian quality. Looming about the size of a shipping container, the beast raced the dock with gruesome enthusiasm.

  Sounds of bones breaking echoed across the water as the monster snatched up a soldier and wrenched them in half. Growls and screams intermingled into a horrible symphony that Barclay had not heard for decades. He clenched his own hands, both infuriated and relieved that he wouldn’t need to sacrifice himself. The yacht was pulling away while picking up speed, and he kicked off the railing and raced back to the bridge.

  “Get the converts inside now!” Barclay yelled over his shoulder. He knew how the sight of blood could affect a soldier in their first battle, and didn’t have time for it.

  “Sweet Behemoth!” The tall woman cried, a hand over her mouth. “What is that?” She clearly had never seen such carnage, and was paralyzed by the sight.

  Barclay rem
embered the way the tall woman had so intimately led the others. “If you want your friends to survive, get moving,” he added quickly. Those words had better effect. The woman broke from her trance, and rushed frantically toward the converts.

  ◆◆◆

  Charles narrowed his focus like a laser—all he allowed to enter his mind were the enemies in front of him and his mantra: stop them. The animal in his subconscious howled with approval, throwing itself at the next wave of enemies. With unnatural speed, he dashed down the dock and behind the first group, chomping down hard on the closest enemy. Talons flickered at the ends of his front paws, shredding what was left of the man. Heightened senses read the atmosphere and instinctively dodged the impending attack. Thunder boomed as lighting rained down on the spot he had been in only moments before. The fires that had subsided were immediately rekindled all around.

  The smell of fire and blood flooded through the area as the beast crashed through what was left of a wall. All four legs pushed in concert as he raced at the first officer. He was fast, but the officer had anticipated the attack, leaping over the beast as it charged and throwing lightning bolts, then landing softly. But he wasn’t prepared for Charles’s next trick.

  The moment the officer jumped, Charles pooled magic in his claws. As his enemy touched the ground, Charles turned and released the magic in a wide swipe. The wind reacted to the power by shooting forward like a hail of razors. The major pulled up his hands to defend against the onslaught but wasn’t quick enough. The wind cut and tore at the fey while launching him backward into the remains of a warehouse. On impact, the shell collapsed onto him, and Charles could smell the sweet perfume of blood increased.

  The sting of arrows and burning of magic drew the beast’s attention farther down the docks. Reactively, more moon magic was drawn into the giant’s form to heal it. A new burning smell wafted into his nose as he recognized the fur on his paws smoldering away. His focus wavered as the reality of the situation crept in. In a frenzy of claws and teeth, the beast drove straight at the soldiers. Yells and screams rang out as he tore through their ranks.

  He was in the middle of the fray when he felt the ground rise up and swallow his rear leg. This time the broken bones were his own and he howled in pain. Clawing at the ground he managed to free himself only to be nearly swallowed again. The moonlight was healing him, but he was starting to take more damage than he could overcome. He tried to find the major responsible for the spell, but instead a red flicker slammed into his chest. Another howl erupted from his throat, and Charles found himself clawing to put out the fire.

  Waves of pain washed over him as his skin bubbled and burned. Spinning, the beast wanted to hurt whomever had hurt it, but never got the chance. Twin jets of water sliced into his left hip. The force cut deep and spun him so that he lost his footing. With only two good legs, he couldn’t stop himself from somersaulting back toward the escaping ship.

  Every muscle screamed in agony when he pulled himself up. The majors continued their assault with powerful and precise attacks. He could feel himself growing colder as he thrashed wildly. It was only a matter of time until they completely overwhelmed his ability to heal. A deep tearing inside his chest forced him to recognize that he fight was over. He had gone as far as he could with his affliction, now it was time for the final act. Another volley of water and fire slammed into him, forcing him to his back.

  The soldiers who had survived his initial assault made a mad dash from behind, stabbing and hacking as he struggled to get to his feet. Charles could feel the rage slowly change into something different, something more somber. It took him a few moments to realize, but the feeling was fear. Again and again the magical attacks found their mark, and again and again the soldiers continued to slice. Seconds felt like hours as the ground was stained red. Slowly, his vision began to cloud and the pain began to waft away. Sleeping was all he could think of as he threw futile swipes into the air.

  Just as his eyes began to close, Charles heard an odd noise far away. It was the same thing that had called him when he left the cage, and the same thing that had vibrated through the ship’s deck into his senses. Maybe it was because everything else was fading away, but he could finally hear it. Save them! it cried, over and over. It wasn’t the words that moved him but the tone. He knew the sound of those words, had felt them himself, the despairing wail of a life shattering. He had lived that sound once before. Why now, why couldn’t he have been allowed to go in peace?

  Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, the soldiers still attacking. Staggering from the blows, it occurred to him that the more powerful attacks from the majors had ceased. He swung his great head from side to side, hoping to see where the voice was coming from. Scanning toward the dock, he saw that the majors had abandoned their attack on him to get closer to the escaping yacht. As his gaze fixed on the ship, the voice got louder, so loud he thought his head was going to split. Save them!

  Mustering the last of his strength, he swatted soldiers in front of him and began running. Each step was agonizing, but his sheer size allowed him to catch up within seconds. In one great leap he placed himself between the majors and the ship. This would be the place of his last stand. They seemed to know it, as well. He held his place, surprised that they had not immediately resumed their relentless onslaught. Glancing back, he saw the ship just slipping past the sunken sloop, and understood the majors’ ploy. They had combined their magic into a single attack, but Charles was no longer their target.

  ◆◆◆

  Barclay had only just turned the ship enough to get the nose forward when a wave hit. He was thrown to the ceiling and then slammed to the floor. A blast of heat followed, sweeping over the boat. It was sheer luck that the hull must have deflected it upward, away from everyone within. Light bulbs burst and the smell of smoke began to waft through the bridge, the electricity surged and died. If they had been broadside, he had no doubt that the wave would have capsized the entire ship. Pulling himself upright, he noticed one of the young pure bloods in similar condition. “You all right, kid?”

  Serin didn’t speak, sucking in air like it had just been knocked out. Instead, she just held up one thumb. Barclay grabbed her by the shoulder and lifted her fully into a nearby captain’s chair. He slid a seatbelt over her shoulder and clicked it in place. “Stay here. Catch your breath.” He moved back to the steering wheel, trying to assess the damage from the multitudes of warning lights that had flickered back to life. After several seconds, he heard the engines restart. Clapping his hands, he praised whoever built such a fine vessel.

  ◆◆◆

  Charles heard the voice in his head scream in pain. He was done with rational thought, with fighting and running and anything else that didn’t involve destroying everything. He could feel the tearing reach its limit in his chest. He did not try to slow it down or regulate it, no longer worrying about the devastating effect it would have. Restraining runes fell as the hurricane within built up power. Steam poured off his body as his wounds closed and the last of his hair singed off. The majors realized too late that the creature they thought was near death still had one last trick.

  His body was failing, Charles realized, and his front claws gave out under his weight. He tried to catch his fall, and the act of simply shifting his hand released a red streak of energy that shredded the dock ahead. He glanced down at his hand and saw several fingers missing, incinerated by the heat within. It didn’t matter, nothing did, so long as that boat got away and the true monsters ahead paid for what they’d done.

  Propping himself on all fours, he could feel the energy tearing at his insides. Color crept into his vision as he zeroed in on those in his way. One shot and it would be all over, so he was going to make it big. Opening his mouth, he let the energy build up at the tip of his tongue. A maniacal chuckle rumbled through his chest as he released decades of pent of up rage and pain. In one unrelenting howl raw magic erupted across the dock.

  ◆◆◆

  Barclay
pushed the engines to their maximum, happy to feel the ship lurch forward. His stomach dropped as the energy behind him skyrocketed. The power of it was more than he had felt since the war, and he knew there was no chance of any of them surviving it. Turning, he stood chest out ready to take the end head on. But what he saw didn’t add up—the energy built into a blinding light but never turned into any sort of spell. Instead, raw magic grew from the docks, and for a moment, Barclay was overwhelmed by the power on display.

  He closed his eyes quickly to avoid being blinded, but only succeeded in missing one last incoming wave. The ship was weightless as it soared and nearly capsized again. Twisting metal and splintering deck boards were oddly familiar sounds as the old yacht struggled against its fate. Again Barclay found himself thrown forward into the bridge windows.

  The old sailor was sure he lost consciousness momentarily, but that wasn’t the real problem. He could hear several different warnings ringing from the consoles, but couldn’t make sense of any of it. His vision was blurry, and his head ached something fierce. There was something important to do, somewhere to go, but he couldn’t remember. Through the haze of smoke and his own likely concussion, a woman stepped into the bridge. At first, he thought it was Serin, but he caught the slumped over form of someone still strapped to the captain’s chair.

  “Who—?” he tried to ask.

  “You’re hurt,” the woman announced. Her voice was light and comforting. She looked around the bridge curiously before smiling wide. “Let me help you.”