The Reaver

by Richard Lee Byers

  “Don’t believe him,” Dalabrac said. “One of my friends died to rescue you. By now, there’s a fair chance Anton has, too. And if that weren’t sacrifice enough, this pasty squirt of dung just murdered Darstag. You saw it for yourself!”

  “I acted in self-defense,” Kymas replied with a twinge of amusement. As things had worked out, that assertion was actually true.

  “No. This is self-defense.” Dalabrac blew into the blowpipe.

  Kymas expected a poisoned dart or some other mundane weapon to which vampires were impervious. But to preserve his masquerade of mortality, he twisted to the side.

  A puff of dust emerged from the end of the pipe. Then, with an earsplitting screech, it instantly congealed into a floating chain. Still shrieking, the links hurtled at Kymas, and he recoiled another step. The chain spun around the space he’d just vacated and yanked itself tight. As it had nothing to bind in its coils, the result was simply to jerk itself straight.

  Because he recognized the spell, which some enchanter had seen fit to store in dust-and-blowpipe form, Kymas knew the magic had yet to run its course, and as expected, the screaming chain lashed at his head like a flail. He raised his arm to block.

  The impact stung, but it didn’t stagger or stun him as it might have a lesser being. As the chain whirled back for a second stroke, he rattled off the first words of a counterspell to expunge it from existence.

  Dalabrac puffed into another blowpipe, and the vapor that sprayed out gathered itself into half a dozen pairs of fanged jaws. Like the chain before them, they streaked at Kymas.

  He swatted two away and dodged another, but the rest bit him. In the aggregate, the pain he was now experiencing was enough to spoil the precise cadence and articulation spellcasting required. The half-formed magic dispersed in a useless hiss and shimmer.

  He could attempt another counterspell and probably succeed, but he decided he didn’t care about preserving his impersonation if it meant standing and enduring more punishment like a slave bound to the whipping post. He dissolved into mist and flowed out of the middle of the gnashing, flying jaws and shrieking, swinging chain.

  He resumed solid form as soon as he’d drifted far enough that his magical attackers wouldn’t instantly reorient on him. His fangs were out, and inside his newly torn garments, his wounds were healing with supernatural rapidity. Some of his Red Wizard tattoos were likely on display as well, though he doubted the goggling, horrified mortals noticed the latter.

  Dalabrac’s hand shot inside his jerkin, surely to bring out yet another blowpipe. No, you don’t, Kymas thought. He sprang and bore the halfling down beneath him, then drove his fangs into his prey’s neck.

  The first mouthful of blood was ecstasy so keen it bordered on delirium. The fact that Dalabrac had had the insolence to defy him, to inflict pain and indignity on him, made the taste all the sweeter.

  “Get off him!” Stedd shrilled, his voice barely audible over the still-screaming chain. Then light blazed through the dark and the veils of rain, and Kymas’s skin charred and blistered.

  As he averted his face, Kymas supposed he should have been prepared for this. After all, Stedd was the Chosen of the god of the dawn. But up until now, he’d simply acted like a normal child, as if he was currently incapable of manifesting divine power. Perhaps the threat of an undead night stalker, the very antithesis of everything Lathander represented, had stirred him to a supreme effort.

  However it happened, Kymas didn’t want to suffer another flare of holy sunlight. As soon as the first one faded, and he could bear to look in Stedd’s direction again, he leaped up, grabbed the dying Dalabrac, and threw him.

  The halfling’s body slammed into the little boy and knocked him down. Kymas charged, pounced, and pinned Stedd on the ground.

  Then he had to struggle not to bite him. Stedd had hurt him worse than Dalabrac, and drinking him would be even more satisfying. But the thought of Szass Tam, and the prospect of the lich’s displeasure, steadied him.

  He slapped Stedd in the temple and knocked him unconscious. Then, his burns still smarting, he tossed the boy prophet over his shoulder and hurried onward.

  Anton took another look over his shoulder. Though it was difficult to be certain with only the occasional lightning flash and trace of yellow candle glow leaking out one window or another to light the night, it appeared that he and the wizard in brown had shaken any pursuers off their trail.

  That arguably meant his companion had outlived her usefulness. In fact, now that the half-drowned harbor lay ahead, she was apt to become a hindrance. It was time to dispose of her as the Fire Knives had surely already rid themselves of the long-legged associate to whom she’d deferred as “Saer.”

  Given her mystical talents, the safest way to do it would be with a saber slash or dagger thrust from behind. But he found himself reluctant to kill her. He supposed it had something to do with the fact that they’d fought the winged spirits together. Sourly amused at his unaccustomed sentimentality, he slowed down to let her get a pace ahead of him. After that, he gripped the hilt of his knife. The pommel was heavy enough to make a good bludgeon.

  He was just about to draw the weapon when two recumbent forms, one half as long as the other, appeared in the gloom. Casting about for signs of a lurking threat, Anton nonetheless quickened his stride, and the wizard did the same.

  The smaller body was Dalabrac, and the larger was his walleyed henchman. The rain had washed away most of the blood that would otherwise have pooled around the corpses, but judging from the tears in his neck, the halfling must have bled copiously. Anton wondered what had made the wounds. A savage dog?

  “I guess more angels or sunlords must have caught up with our companions before we did,” said the mage. “Your friends died—sorry—but until we know otherwise, let’s hope Stedd and my master got away.”

  It was more likely that the Fire Knives had attacked the pale man in an effort to take sole possession of Stedd and he’d somehow killed them instead, and Anton wondered if the woman in brown failed to see that. She struck him as shrewd enough to put the pieces together. But it would be counterproductive to challenge her version of events.

  “If so,” he said, “they surely hurried onward to your ship. Let’s do the same.”

  She hesitated. “I will. You don’t have to.”

  He cocked his head. “Meaning?”

  “Just … the halfling hired you, and he’s dead. Stedd mistrusts you. The ship’s crew likely won’t welcome an infamous pirate. You might be better off if we part company.”

  “I appreciate your concern. But it isn’t about coin anymore. Believe it or not, I actually like the boy—well, sometimes—and I like to finish what I start. And if he truly is a messenger from a god, well, perhaps a man who’s lived as I have could use a friend in the highest of high places. I’ll tell you what. Let me escort you all the way to your vessel and see for myself that Stedd made it there safely. Then, if there truly isn’t a berth for the likes of me, I’ll take my leave.”

  The wizard sighed. “Have it your way.”

  As they hurried onward, Anton was glad he’d persuaded her to lead him to Stedd’s present location but unable to imagine what he was going to do when they arrived. What could he do against a whole ship? He told himself he’d think of something, but when a rickety length of temporary pier came into view, and the wizard gasped and faltered, he realized he wasn’t even going to get the chance.

  There was no ship tied up at dockside. The pale man had cast off and left the mage behind. Straining, Anton peered out to sea, but the vessel had already vanished.

  “May he burn in the Abyss forever,” the wizard growled.

  “If you’re talking about your superior,” Anton said, “I second your opinion. But we can’t just stand here cursing him. By now, the sunlords, the church of Umberlee, and the watch—the entire city, give or take—are all seeking us. Fortunately, I have a fast boat of my own ready to sail, the one in which I intended to carry Stedd to sa
fety.”

  The wizard studied him. “And you’d take me with you?”

  “After all we’ve been through together? Certainly.”

  Obviously, they had indeed fought side by side, but more to the point, he might need her. She knew what her master’s ship looked like. He didn’t.

  “Then thank you,” she said.

  “Come on,” he said, “it’s this way.”

  At least he hoped it was. He didn’t think Dalabrac had been lying about that particular detail, but then, he hadn’t discerned the halfling’s true intentions during their first conversation in the Golden Helm, either.

  As he and his companion hurried along the shaky docks, he noticed yet another corpse, one that presumably had nothing to do with his own endeavors, bumping against one of the piles. Rats skittered through the gloom, and he reflected that they at least appeared to be prospering during the Great Rain. Evidently they knew how to find and take what they needed even when other creatures were going hungry. Maybe they too were pirates in their way.

  Finally, and to his relief, a point of blue light appeared in the darkness ahead. “Wait here until I call you,” he told the mage. “The captain doesn’t like surprises.”

  As he prowled forward, he wondered if he was the one about to get a surprise in the form of Fire Knives lying in wait. But he couldn’t see any such lurkers aboard the long, low sailboat with the blue lantern hanging from the stern. Although really, it wasn’t easy even to make out the vessel herself. When the rains came, its master, lifelong smuggler of contraband and fugitives that he was, had dyed the sails and painted the hull to blend with gray skies and seas.

  In any event, only one figure looked up at Anton from the deck, and that one was only a bit taller than Dalabrac had been. His skin was dark like the Turmishan’s, but the close-trimmed beard framing his sharp-nosed face was so silvery a blond that it seemed to glow in the darkness.

  “Where’s everybody else?” asked Falrinn Greatorm.

  “I’m bringing a wizard I met along the way,” Anton answered. “Dalabrac won’t be joining us, nor will any other Fire Knives.”

  The gnome snorted. “First, Dalabrac sends word that we wants to use my boat to set a trap for you.” He hesitated. “You understand, it was nothing personal.”

  “Just business.”

  “Aye. But then the next message tells me he and I are setting sail and you may or may not be coming along.”

  “Depending on whether he decided it made more sense to deal fairly or betray me.”

  “So I assumed. But now you’re here, and he isn’t.”

  “I’m sure it’s frustrating for a methodical fellow like you when things keep changing. But at least somebody turned up, and I still need transport.”

  “As I need payment,” Falrinn said.

  “Dalabrac didn’t pay?”

  “He isn’t you.”

  Anton frowned. He didn’t have time for an extended palaver. He and the wizard needed to set sail before anyone showed up to stop them, an imperative that tempted him to simply steal the sailboat. But the Footloose Maid was a unique vessel, and he might need her master to get her out to sea quickly or make the best possible time thereafter.

  “Look,” he said, “you must have heard about Evendur Highcastle’s bounty on the boy preacher.”

  “Aye, but so what? The child’s right here in Westgate under the protection of the sunlords.”

  “Like the various messages you had from Dalabrac, that information is out of date. The boy set sail tonight, and if you help me chase him down, I’ll cut you in for half.”

  Scowling, Falrinn stood and pondered long enough that Anton started to reconsider the idea of stealing the boat. “Curse it, Marivaldi, if it was anyone but you … But I won’t deny that over the years, I’ve made a fair amount of coin off your crazy schemes. Fetch your wizard and help me cast off.”

  “She doesn’t know my true intentions. You’ll need to watch what you say.”

  “Oh, that sounds promising. But don’t worry. I’ll follow your lead. If I didn’t know how to lie, some harbormaster would have hanged me long ago.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  EVENDUR HIGHCASTLE SAVORED THE GLEAMING AND CLINKING OF the gold and platinum pieces spilling through his fingers back into the coffer. He’d claimed his share of plunder as a pirate, but the sums were paltry compared to the treasure that came to the hierophant of a thriving religion.

  Flecks of his spongy fingers dropped along with the coins, but noticing things like that no longer troubled him. He’d come to understand that no matter how thoroughly he rotted, he’d remain as strong as ever, and he didn’t care that his appearance was horrific. To the contrary. Even as a mortal man, he’d liked inspiring fear. It was as pleasurable as it was useful.

  Although if Imbras Ilshansa was frightened, the pudgy, brown-haired young Impilturian concealed it with the aplomb of an accomplished envoy. “I hope the gift is satisfactory,” he said.

  Evendur turned away from the coffer and the eight others like it and back toward the emissary and the deep, round pool at the center of the chamber. “It’ll do for a start. But the proper term is ‘offering’. Or ‘tribute’.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Imbras said. “Offering, of course. And, I trust, the first of many. If Impiltur thrives, it will naturally pay homage to the goddess who nurtures it.”

  Evendur grinned. “Just what kind of nurturing are you looking for?”

  The envoy hesitated. “Well, Wavelord, if you would have me speak frankly … Folk in my land are turning to the worship of Umberlee in increasing numbers, and that, plainly, is exactly how it should be. Unfortunately, in many cases, they’re the same people most dissatisfied with the Grand Council. Thus, their faith often becomes a justification if not a vehicle for riots, rebellion, and anarchy.”

  “Yet if Impilturian waveservants preached their sermons just a little differently, they could channel all that anger in a useful direction.”

  “The people have the right to be angry,” Imbras replied. “The Grand Council has failed them, and the reason is that such a body is by its very nature incapable of effectively governing a realm. Impiltur needs to restore the monarchy.”

  Evendur grunted. “Before my rebirth, I didn’t pay much attention to royal bloodlines. But I believe House Ilshansa claims such a tie to old Imbrar II.”

  “I freely acknowledge,” Imbras said, “that my uncle hopes to take the throne. Why shouldn’t my family assert our claim when it’s by far the most legitimate? And once we’ve united the realm, we’ll finally drive out the demon cults that have plagued us for decades.”

  “If Umberlee gave Impiltur—and House Ilshansa—such a glorious future, ‘homage’ wouldn’t be enough. Your folk would have to worship her before all other deities.”

  “The Queen of the Depths will be the patron deity of the royal family and any noble or merchant who hopes to find favor in our eyes. Her temple will be the grandest in every town.”

  “In that case—”

  A roar sounded from the center of the room and echoed off the wall. Startled, Evendur and his petitioner jerked in the direction of the noise.

  A whirling column like a waterspout rose swaying from the well. Such a manifestation unquestionably involved one of the forces or intelligences to which Evendur was attuned, and he focused his will to probe it.

  But before he could begin, the water spun outward and swept him up along with Imbras. They tumbled in an impossible whirlpool that filled the chamber but evidently refused to spill out the doors and windows.

  As Umberlee’s Chosen and an undead besides, Evendur had no fear of drowning, but it enraged him to have the element of which he was the rightful master turned against him. He grabbed for the source of the disturbance with his thoughts, his intent now less to comprehend or communicate that to rend and smash.

  An opposing power slapped—or perhaps flicked—his awareness back inside his skull with an effortless violence that jolted him. He b
elatedly realized there was only one entity that could do this, and that might mean he was in real trouble after all.

  When he reached out again, his psychic tone was deferential. Unfortunately, it made no difference. The Bitch Queen rebuffed him again, and with equal brutality.

  The watery vortex slammed and scraped him against the chamber walls until he feared that even his preternaturally powerful body would come apart. He felt a pang of dread at the possibility of enduring eternity as a detached head or something similarly broken and helpless.

  Then, at last, the whirlpool drew in on itself and dumped him on the floor. A waterspout rising from the central pool once more, it took on definition until it was the looming torso of a blue-green woman with seashell ornaments and a cloak made of jellyfish.

  Common sense suggested that the water couldn’t simultaneously hold the steady form of a woman and swirl, but even so, Evendur felt that somehow, he could still see the raging tumult of the waterspout as he looked at her. Or maybe the violence was in her smile, all but unbearable with an infinite love of ruin.

  Not unbearable to her Chosen, though, and given that, unlike Imbras, Evendur was still intact, he dared to hope he retained that status. He clambered onto his knees and bowed his head. “Goddess,” he said.

  In response, pain ripped through him, and he cried out. The torment was Umberlee’s way of telling him she was angry. And that he would be wise to hold his tongue.

  “I tasked you to be my hunter,” snarled the Queen of the Depths. “To seize the Morninglord’s Chosen and offer him up to me. And instead I find you playing at diplomacy.” Her malice lashed him again, and then again.

  Jerking, Evendur endured the bursts of agony as best he could. A part of him wanted to protest that on other occasions, the deity herself had commanded him to forge alliances like those he’d been pursuing in Impiltur, but he sensed such a plaint would only further enrage her. Reason and fairness were alien to her nature.

  After perhaps twenty strokes of the psychic lash, the punishment stopped, although the lingering anger in her voice made it sound as if she might yield to the urge to resume at any moment. “Because of your blundering,” she said, “Red Wizards have seized the Chosen of Lathander. They’re sailing east from Westgate to give him to Szass Tam, who will then put him to death.”