The Reaver

by Richard Lee Byers

  He shot up faster than an arrow, faster than he’d ever imagined anything could fly. In a heartbeat, the druids were tiny as bugs below him. The moment after that, he’d left them, the House of Silvanus, and the whole flat mountaintop behind.

  There was barely time to note the courses of the island’s three rivers, peer down into its forests, or note the locations of Sapra and the half circle of farmland that supported it as he flashed along. Then he was hurtling over the sea.

  He had the notion he ought to be afraid, but his flight was too exhilarating, and now that he was in the midst of it, he could feel the river of emerald light bearing him up. It was as real, as mighty and trustworthy, as anything in the world.

  At least until it started to thin.

  He noticed the change first as a slowing down. The current wasn’t pushing him along as forcefully as before. Then he realized the storm clouds above and the waves below didn’t look as green, which meant the verdant haze surrounding him wasn’t tinting them to the same degree. After that came a sense of giving way that made him think of plants withering, or the bottom tearing out of an overstuffed sack.

  Maybe the problem was that, distracted by the thrill of flying, he wasn’t concentrating hard enough anymore. Once again, he fixed his mind on Anton’s face.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t make any difference. He kept on slowing down, and the trace of green that was left continued fading.

  Apparently, his loss of focus wasn’t the problem. Rather, something was interfering with the flow of the Emerald Enclave’s power.

  And Stedd couldn’t do anything about that. He didn’t have the ability to channel the Treefather’s magic; he was just riding it. Nor did he have any idea how to use Lathander’s gifts to achieve a comparable effect.

  Drifting like thistledown on the faintest of breezes, his heart hammering, Stedd peered at the sea far below. It seemed that even though Evendur Highcastle and all his waveservants and pirates had failed to catch him, Umberlee was going to get him after all.

  Umara rattled off words of power, whipped her hand like she was throwing an ordinary knife, and a blade made of flame streaked from her fingertips. Without even breaking stride, Evendur blocked it with a twitch of his axe.

  Two Thayan marines scrambled to flank the undead pirate. As Evendur split the skull of the one on his right, the one on the left drove a boarding pike into his torso, but that didn’t even make him flinch. Using his off hand, he grabbed the pikeman by the throat, jerked him off the deck, and gave him a single brutal shake. When he opened his fingers, the unfortunate mariner dropped with a broken neck, whereupon Umara decided she liked being cornered in the forecastle of the caravel about as little as she’d ever liked anything in her life.

  Not that she’d seen much choice but to jump aboard the Turmishan vessel. Assuming it wasn’t already too late for them, she’d needed to distract Evendur from the stricken Anton and Shinthala. And the Thayan men-at-arms had required a leader’s display of boldness to keep from losing heart.

  That didn’t alter the fact that she’d just broken one of the fundamental rules of combat wizardry: stay well clear of the melee. Worse, she’d done it while battling the most formidable foe she’d never faced.

  With the overcast blocking the sun, shadows barely existed. Still, she found the vague gray streak below a yard. Hissing and snarling words of command in one of the languages of Thanatos, she turned it black and brought it writhing up from the deck in the form of a tentacle.

  The shadow whipped at Evendur to coil around him and bind him in place. But before it could, a wave leaped up and crashed across the deck. It didn’t even make the Chosen stumble, but it washed away every trace of the tentacle as though it had been made of ink.

  Evendur continued his advance. A few more strides would bring him to the forecastle.

  There were two companionways connecting that elevated position to the main deck. Perhaps Umara could dart down one while the dead man was climbing the other. But by itself, that elementary trick would only keep him away for a few extra breaths at most.

  She rattled off a different incantation and swept her hand in a horizontal arc at the end of it. A half dozen duplicates of herself, each mimicking her stance and movements perfectly, appeared around her.

  Evendur glared up at her. “Oh, that spell,” he sneered. He brandished his axe, and another tower of water heaved up from the waves. Umara realized he intended it to smash across the forecastle, obliterate all her decoys, and bash her in the process.

  But it didn’t. Instead, it lost coherence and poured back down to merge with the rest of the sea.

  The attack had failed because Evendur had for the moment exhausted his ability to channel Umberlee’s might. Somewhat encouraged, Umara hurled another burning knife at him.

  Raising his axe, he blocked that missile, too. Clearly, his physical prowess was a different thing than his ability to work miracles, and despite the gashes and burns various foes had inflicted on him, he still possessed it in full measure.

  Evendur started scrambling up the companionway to starboard, and Umara and her illusory twins scurried down the steep little flight of steps to port. He whirled, sprang back onto the deck, rushed her, and closed to striking distance a mere heartbeat after she finished her descent.

  Caught by surprise, she hesitated, and the boarding axe flashed out. Fortunately, it struck one of the phantom Umaras. The illusion winked out of sight like a bursting bubble.

  Retreating, the Red Wizard spoke words that shot a pang of pain through the core of her. She was transforming a bit of her own vitality into a force that was anathema to the undead.

  She thrust out her hand, and white light flashed from it. Bits of Evendur’s flesh charred and sizzled, but he didn’t even appear to notice. The axe swung, and this time, it chopped at the right target. Umara snatched her hand back lest the weapon clip it off.

  Still backing away, she conjured flares of flame and lightning, a lance of ice, and then, in increasing desperation, wrapped herself in a veil meant to befuddle Evendur by making it seem that she too was undead. He just kept coming, the axe popping her duplicates one by one. It was pure luck that it hadn’t cleaved real flesh as of yet.

  Umara refused to acknowledge the truth for as long as she could. But when she found herself down to her last decoy and had all but exhausted her own power, it became inescapable. It didn’t matter that Evendur was presently unable to draw down his deity’s magic. She still couldn’t stop him.

  The blast of magical cold had chilled Shinthala to the bone. The frost encrusting the left size of her body was freezing her still, and she suspected she had frostbite underneath it.

  Yet even so, the cold scarcely mattered. The squeezing in the left side of the chest, the pain jabbing through her left arm, and the grinding aches in her neck and jaw hurt worse and alarmed her more. Being a healer, she understood what they meant. The shock of the initial chill had sent an artery into spasms and made it impossible for her heart to do its work.

  Ashenford and Shadowmoon were right, she thought. None of us should have come here. All I’ve done is throw away my last few years and whatever good I could have accomplished with them.

  And then, as if to validate her despair, she felt the torrent of magic that the druids in the House of Silvanus sent through her attenuate. In a few moments, it dwindled from a river to a trickle.

  She knew it was her fault. Her participation was necessary to draw Silvanus’s magic here, where it was needed, and her stuttering heart had disrupted that process as summarily as it had ended her efforts to destroy Evendur Highcastle.

  Paradoxically, though, the realization that her failure was even more complete than she’d first imagined replaced her despair with resolve. Because she wasn’t the only one who’d depended on the power coursing down from the Elder Spires. The druids aboard dozens of ships, faithful servants of Silvanus who’d trusted an elder of the Enclave to lead them, were relying on it, too, and by the First Oak, they
were going to have it for as long as she lasted, even if that was only a breath or two.

  She wheezed a prayer to Silvanus. Perhaps it helped a little, but her debility made a shambles of the precise pronunciation and cadence spellcasting generally required. It was mostly by pure stubborn will that she reached into the eastern sky, gathered the power diffusing there, and drew it pouring down like a waterfall once more.

  Something else poured down with it. Through dimming eyes, she saw a blond-haired little boy appear before her. Stedd Whitehorn looked as surprised as she was.

  Stedd had done enough healing to sense that Shinthala was in a bad way, and that even if he saved her life, she likely wouldn’t be able to fight anymore today.

  The thought flashed through his mind that with the battle still to win, that might be a reason not to spend any of his power helping her. It was a coldblooded choice he could imagine Anton or Umara making.

  But he wasn’t them. He squatted down beside the old woman, put a luminous hand on her shoulder, and murmured, “Lathander.”

  Warmth flowed from his flesh into hers, and her clenched jaw relaxed. That would have to do for now. He took his hand away, straightened up, took a first good look around, and gasped.

  He’d seen a lot of fighting since the start of his travels but never before dozens of men locked in hand-to-hand combat aboard a ship. It was so crowded! He was lucky Shinthala had fallen amid ropes connecting a mast and its sails to the deck. They made a little clear spot amid the clanking, grunting press that had likely kept him from being knocked down and trampled the moment he arrived.

  At first, the frenzied hacking and stabbing confused him, and though he peered around desperately, he couldn’t spot Anton. But then a pirate pushed his opponent backward, momentarily opening a gap in the tangle of fighters and revealing his friend sprawled on his face beside the starboard rail, where the side of a bigger ship loomed over the one they were aboard.

  Clutching Dawnbringer, dodging this way and that, Stedd darted through the mass of combatants. A blade glanced off a shield and he had to jerk to a stop to keep it from hitting him in the face. A heartbeat later, he sidestepped to avoid the jabbing point of a poorly aimed pike. Then a retreating Turmishan sailor bumped into him and knocked him staggering.

  But his smallness let him slip through narrow gaps as they opened up. It also likely kept warriors busy fighting foes their own size from paying him any mind. Certainly, none of Evendur’s followers seemed to notice that here was the very boy for whom the church of Umberlee had offered a huge bounty, in easy reach at last.

  When Stedd finally reached Anton, he saw that his friend’s head lay in a pool of blood flowing out faster than the rain could wash it away. The pirate wasn’t moving and maybe not even breathing. The boy flung himself to his knees beside him, put his hands on Anton’s back, and sent light, warmth, and vitality streaming across the points of contact.

  For a moment—long enough for Stedd to feel a pang of alarm—nothing happened. Then Anton jerked and gasped in a breath. That started him coughing, but when the fit ended, he raised his head without difficulty.

  “Stedd,” he rasped. “First, I couldn’t catch you. Now, I can’t get rid of you.”

  “Lathander sent me.”

  Anton swiped blood from his face. The cut underneath looked as if it had been healing for a tenday. “I guess he wants you in at the finish.”

  “He wants me to give you the power to kill Evendur.” Stedd held out Dawnbringer only to see it vanish from his grasp. He gasped in dismay.

  But then he realized it was all right; the mace hadn’t entirely disappeared. Rather, it had melted into a red-gold light that settled into the reaver’s saber and cutlass and set them aglow.

  Something about the process drained what was left of Stedd’s own mystical strength, and when it was done, he slumped down panting. “Are you all right?” Anton asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then keep yourself that way.” The pirate sprang to his feet, looked around, and started pushing toward the bow.

  Having spotted Evendur, Anton would have liked nothing better than to charge and attack him instantly, but with the deck crammed with combatants lurching unpredictably back and forth, it wasn’t that easy. He had to weave, backtrack, and periodically kill someone to make his way toward Umberlee’s Chosen.

  A waveservant pivoted toward him and thrust with a trident whose tines seethed with some malignant blue-green glow. Anton parried with the saber, stepped in, and drove the cutlass into the sea priest’s guts. Shortly thereafter, a pirate who’d sailed aboard the Iron Jest two or three years back bellowed, “Traitor!” and sprang at him with a falchion. Anton cut first and sent his former crewman reeling backward with a face split down the middle.

  At least such hindrances gave him a chance to test his weapons now that Stedd had blessed them. The differences he discovered had more to do with the way he perceived and reacted than the simple heft of the blades. At certain moments, the men around him almost seemed to move sluggishly because he was so keenly aware of every tiny preparatory motion and the attack that was likely to develop from it. He felt fresh, strong, and clearheaded.

  Clearheaded enough, certainly, that he hoped to deny a monstrosity like Evendur Highcastle any semblance of a fair fight. He pushed his way far enough forward that he could come at the dead man from behind.

  As he did, he belatedly discerned that it was Umara Evendur was trying to kill with sweep after sweep of his axe. Glaring defiance, an oval shield of reddish glow floating in front of her, the slender wizard struck back with darts of blue light, but Anton’s instincts told him she couldn’t withstand her attacker for much longer.

  It’s all right, he silently promised her. You kept him occupied long enough. He charged with the saber poised for a stroke to the neck.

  Unfortunately, despite the muddled cacophony of the battle and the rattle of the rain, Evendur heard—or in some other fashion, sensed—his would-be slayer’s approach. He spun around, parried with his boarding axe, and the two glowing weapons rang together. The dead man then started to riposte, and Anton took a retreat.

  Evendur, however, didn’t follow through. Instead, he hesitated to peer at the rose and gold gleaming in Anton’s blades.

  Anton grinned. “Do you like it? It’s a gift to you from Stedd.”

  Though he scarcely had a face left, just eyes sunk in pulp and oozing rags, Evendur managed a recognizable sneer. “That little turd-smear of sunlight’s not enough, Marivaldi. How could it be? My deity rules these waters, and yours is just a sad little memory.”

  “I don’t think so,” Anton replied, “but either way, it doesn’t matter. Because the gods aren’t standing on this deck, we are, and I was always ten times the fighter you were. Now that I finally have blades that can kill you, I recommend you jump overboard and swim away like the ridiculous fish the Bitch Queen has made of you.”

  Evendur bellowed, sprang, and chopped so explosively that even though Anton had been trying to provoke him, and had the sacred light pent in the swords to sharpen his reflexes, he nearly failed to respond in time. But only nearly. He hitched backward, and the axe with its glowing green edge whizzed past short of his chest.

  Before the Chosen could ready the weapon for another blow, Anton slashed low. The saber, its blade more scarlet than gold at this particular instant, sliced the side of his opponent’s knee.

  To Anton’s disappointment, the weapon still didn’t take the limb off or even drop Evendur to the deck. But it made him flail and stagger, and, hoping to score again while the dead man was off balance, the Turmishan spun the saber up for a head cut.

  The Chosen somehow whipped the axe high in time to block. Metal clanged, and the sword glanced away.

  Evendur then took a retreat to steady himself and reestablish his guard. It seemed to Anton that he limped just a little.

  The Turmishan grinned. “Fighting’s isn’t as entertaining when the other man can hurt you back, is it? At le
ast, not as entertaining to cowards.”

  “I just wanted this,” the wavelord replied. He stooped, used his off hand to snatch a cutlass from a corpse’s flaccid grip, and then advanced. The boarding axe shifted back and forth and high and low, threatening the same sort of attack it had made before. He held the short, curved blade well back as though he only expected to use it in the clinches.

  But Anton read a certain coiled readiness in the hand that gripped the sword. Or perhaps it was simply because he himself customarily fought with two weapons that he sensed Evendur’s true intent. Either way, he was willing to gamble that when the dead man next attacked in earnest, the axe would feint to draw a parry, and then the cutlass would flash out to deliver the killing stroke.

  Though retreating, Anton allowed his adversary to take longer steps and steal distance. Then the axe whirled at his head.

  For safety’s sake, he took one more half step backward. But he didn’t block, and, not waiting to see if he would or not, Evendur charged with the cutlass extended.

  Anton dropped to one knee and the attack passed over him. As Evendur was now too close for the saber to strike to best effect, the Turmishan used his own cutlass to make another cut at the dead man’s leg. The attack landed where the first one had, slicing the initial wound deeper and grating on bone.

  An instant later, Evendur slammed into him. The impact jolted Anton, but the Chosen tripped right over him.

  Anton whirled to find that, as he’d hoped, the wavelord lay sprawled on his belly. The Turmishan leaped to his feet and cut.

  He managed four slashes before Evendur wrenched himself around and struck back with the axe. It was a clumsy blow, but one that still would have taken Anton’s leg off if he hadn’t hopped backward.

  Evendur heaved himself to his feet, plainly favoring the damaged leg. Anton circled, obliging the dead man to pivot on it, feinted low, then cut to the forearm. The saber scored, but when he tried to pull it back, it stuck in the wound.