Richard Byers - The Reaver

She felt a witless urge to remind him he had a ship full of servants he could use to slake his thirst but knew it would do no good. She was the mortal whose blood he’d seen and smelled with the vileness of the Abyss reverberating through his mind, and she was the one he craved.

She steeled herself with the certainty that he wouldn’t kill her. Even in the grip of his thirst, he had a wizard’s self-control, and she was useful. Nor would he transform her into a thing like himself. In his eyes, she hadn’t earned it yet. Then she tugged her cloak and robe away from her throat and went into his embrace. There was nothing else she could do.

“I knew the trick had worked,” Anton continued, “when I heard a great scraping and grinding, the Sembian ship lurched to a sudden stop, and her crew went staggering across the deck. Some even tumbled over the rail. As I’d hoped, the fact that they drew a finger length more than we did made all the difference. They had to stay hung up on those rocks and watch the Iron Jest sail away into the night.”

Stedd grinned. “Tell another story.”

“I can’t think of any more,” Anton lied. When he’d decided to play the part of the boy’s friend as opposed to his captor, it hadn’t occurred to him that the role would involve providing entertainment.

In fairness, he could scarcely blame the lad for seeking some distraction from the misery of trudging mile after wet, hungry, weary mile. Look as they might, they could find nothing growing wild that looked edible, nor even a forsaken cottage or shepherd’s lean- to to provide a respite from the cold, stinging rain. The only structures that came into view were offshore, where the thatched rooftops of drowned villages resisted, for a little while longer, the shoving and dragging of the surf.

But curse it, Anton wasn’t some wandering busker, and he was miserable, too. Too miserable to chatter endlessly for a child’s amusement.

Stepping around a mud puddle, Stedd said, “Then what about things that happened to other pirates? There are a lot of you, aren’t there?”

“I thought you were supposed to be holy,” Anton growled. “Are you even allowed to enjoy tales of cutthroats preying on innocent folk?”

Stedd blinked. “I … I’ve liked tales of pirates and outlaws ever since I was little. Since long before Lathander spoke to me. Do you think it’s bad?”

Anton reminded himself that he was trying to keep the child calm and cooperative, not upset him. “No, there’s no harm in it. I doubt a few stories will twist you out of true.” He smiled a crooked smile. “When I was your age, I relished tales of the brave heroes of the Turmishan navy hunting down fiendish pirates, so plainly, their influence was minimal.”

Stedd mulled that over for several paces. Then he said, “Tell one of those stories.”

Anton scowled. “Curse it, lad,” he began, and then saw the boy had stopped listening to him.

That was because the landscape ahead had snagged his attention. Anton knew little about farming. He’d spent his childhood in Alaghôn, the capital of Turmish, and his adult life at sea. But now that Stedd had drawn his attention to it, even he could see a difference between the terrain they’d covered since coming ashore and what lay before them.

The marshy fields at their backs were either abandoned or had never known cultivation in the first place. Up ahead, somebody was still trying to grow barley and peas, even though the combination of meager sunlight and relentless, battering rain made both crops look anemic.

“Good eye,” Anton said. “Someone still lives hereabouts. Farther along this very trail, I imagine.” He drew his new cutlass an inch to make sure it was loose in the scabbard, then slid it back. The curved brass guard clicked against the mouth of the sheath.

Stedd frowned. “Why did you do that?”

“I have some coin, and I’ll buy food and a cloak for you if the folk up ahead will sell them. But I’ve heard reports of people hoarding food who won’t part with it at any price.”

The boy frowned. “We can’t just steal it.”

Clearly, Stedd was in little danger of growing up to be a pirate. “Aren’t you an important person?” Anton asked. “Don’t I need to get you to Sapra, no matter what it takes?”

“It … it doesn’t work like that. I’m not special, just my work is, and anyway, you can’t walk the wrong path and get to the right place.”

“Whatever that means. Look, I’m not an idiot. I’d prefer not to have to take on the task of terrorizing an entire hamlet all by myself. Why don’t we just walk on and see what we see?”

The boy nodded. “All right.”

As they advanced, the village gradually took shape amid the rain. The rising waters of the Inner Sea had nearly encroached on its northern edge, and a few small boats were beached there, but nothing capable of weathering serious storms, eluding the Iron Jest , and reaching Pirate Isle. If the locals had ever possessed a proper fishing vessel, they’d lost it in the upheavals of the last few years.

Closer still, and Anton caught the clamor of raised voices. Though it was difficult to make out words amid the hiss of the rain, he didn’t think he and Stedd were the cause of the excitement. So far, he could see no sign that anyone had spotted their approach. Still, he made sure the boy prophet walked behind him, lest he lose Evendur Highcastle’s bounty to a nervous peasant’s sling stone or javelin.

The noise subsided to a degree before Anton peeked warily around the corner of a house and found its source. Maybe that was because the gaunt, white-haired woman slumped in the grips of two strong men had screamed pleas and vilifications until her voice gave out. Now she simply watched with tears steaming down her wrinkled face as a line of her neighbors carried a stool, a spinning wheel, garments, a wilted-looking cabbage, and some ceramic jars that likely held preserved or pickled foodstuffs out of her cottage. An Umberlant priest armed with a trident and wrapped in a blue-green mantle patterned to resemble fish scale watched the despoliation, too, but his square, middle-aged face with its wide mouth and fringe of beard wore a smirk of satisfaction.

Anton’s mouth watered at the sight of the food, but the presence of the waveservant interested him even more. Had the cleric heard about Stedd? Did he know that the new leader of the church of Umberlee wanted him?

Unfortunately, it was possible that even a priest in this obscure little settlement knew about every aspect of the situation, the bounty included, and would be happy to claim every copper of it for himself. After being betrayed once, Anton was reluctant to seek help from anyone else who might do the same. He needed to find his own way back to Immurk’s Hold and deliver Stedd to Evendur Highcastle with his own two hands.

He wondered if the waveservant would recognize the lad on sight. Maybe, their hunger notwithstanding, it would be wiser to withdraw and-

Stedd rendered such deliberations moot by darting around Anton and out into the open. “Stop!” he cried, his child’s voice shrill.

Startled, the villagers gawked at Stedd. Anton hurried up to stand beside him. “This is none of our business,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

Although he didn’t mean for anyone but the boy to hear it, the warning made the waveservant sneer. “Indeed it isn’t, stranger. Indeed it isn’t. You and the child stay out of it. Unless you care to come to the shore and offer with the rest of us.”

Perhaps it was the fact that Anton had only just escaped the identical fate that made him feel a pang of disgust. “You’re going to drown the old woman?”