Richard Byers - The Reaver

It was a decent supper by the low standards of shipboard life. The cook had paid an exorbitant price in Thayan silver for flour while the galley sat at anchor in the harbor of Immurk’s Hold, and as a result, the ship’s biscuits were currently fresh and soft. A sensible person would enjoy them before they petrified into the usual flavorless, tooth-breaking lumps.

But the best Umara could manage was a few nibbles, even though her body presumably needed nourishment to replace the lost blood. Lingering revulsion robbed her of her appetite.

People claimed a vampire’s kiss could induce rapture. With a mix of wistfulness and thankfulness, she wondered why Kymas never bothered to manipulate her emotions in that fashion. Maybe he assumed she already enjoyed the sting of his needle teeth and the suck of his cold lips-she’d certainly been too prudent to indicate otherwise-or perhaps the nature of her experience simply didn’t matter to him.

She could only hope that when she herself was undead, predation would feel different from the other side. Because if the act still revolted her, and yet she had to perform it over and over down the centuries of her extended existence …

With a scowl, she shoved such anxieties away. Of course, she’d relish drinking blood. Her transformation would sweep away her squeamishness along with any other weak mortal feelings and notions that might otherwise keep her from thriving. It would solve her problems and make her better than she was, and, fixing her mind on that reassuring truth, she slurped in another mouthful of fish, carrots, and lentils.

The taste still failed to stimulate her appetite.

With a sigh, she stuck the remains of her biscuit into a cloak pocket in the hope she’d want it later. Then she walked to the gunwale and flicked the contents of her cup down into the black, benighted sea.

Moments later, the hatch below the quarterdeck clicked open, and Kymas emerged in a red hooded cloak like her own. With his thirst slaked, he looked every inch the mage as courtier, moving in unhurried fashion with a subtle smile on his face. It had taken Umara years to learn to recognize the bare hint of tautness in his posture that revealed something had displeased him.

Fortunately, it didn’t appear that the something was her. Kymas gave her a smile and said, “There you are. Good. You can help me sort this out.” He raised his voice: “Captain!”

Ehmed Sepandem was an aging Mulan with two missing fingers, a pockmarked sour face, and a disposition to match. Umara sometimes wondered if his bitterness arose from the growing suspicion that his masters deemed his lifetime of service insufficient to merit the supreme reward of undeath. Whatever the cause, he was a tyrant to the crew but came quickly as any common swab when a Red Wizard called him.

“Yes, Lord,” Ehmed said.

“Good evening, Captain,” Kymas replied. “Do you know, I believe I’m growing accustomed to life at sea. Though shut up in the cabin you were generous enough to lend me, I somehow sensed the ship was making little headway. So I came on deck to see for myself, and sure enough, it’s so.”

Ehmed glanced back at the lateen sails. “The wind’s still from the east, Lord. We’re beating into it, but it’s slow going.”

“That makes sense on its own terms,” Kymas said, “but I was under the impression that it was precisely for occasions like this that we have oars.”

The captain hesitated. Umara suspected that, like many an underling faced with a superior’s unreasonable demands, he was calculating how to explain the realities of the situation without appearing insubordinate.

“The oarsmen rowed all day,” he finally said. “They have to eat and rest, or they’ll be of no use tomorrow.”

“I see your point,” Kymas said, “and I apologize. Here we are, Lady Ankhlab and myself, wizards of Thay, guests aboard your vessel, and we should have taken an interest in your problems before this. Let’s go down to the first bank.”

The first bank of benches was below deck, and the reeking, whip-scarred wretches shackled behind their oars were slaves. Kymas looked around, and then, pointing, said, “I’ll have that one.”

Even skinnier than his fellows, truly emaciated, the man the vampire had indicated sat slumped motionless and perhaps unconscious over the shaft of his oar. Ehmed grunted. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Lord, but that man won’t last much longer even with proper use.”

“That’s why I chose him,” the wizard replied. “I like to think I’m a good Banite overall, but I confess to a preference for mercy within the bounds of practicality.”

With that, he headed down the aisle between the benches, and Umara and the captain followed. Either sensing something uncanny about the vampire or simply leery of any Red Wizard, slaves shrank from him to the extent their leg irons would allow.

The dying oarsman, however, remained oblivious until Kymas took hold of matted hair crawling with lice and lifted his head. The rower then yelped and tried to slap the Red Wizard’s hand away, but Kymas held onto him without difficulty.

The vampire stared into the slave’s eyes. “I’m going to set you free. Do you believe me?”

His struggles subsiding, the oarsman stared back. “Yes,” he murmured.

“Good.” Kymas glanced around at Umara. “Could you do something about these?” He gestured to the cuffs securing the slave’s ankles.

Umara didn’t have a key to the leg irons, but she didn’t need one. Trying not to breathe in the stench of the filth under the benches, she kneeled down and spoke a word of opening, and the magic popped the shackle open.

“Now come along,” Kymas said. Hobbling, the mesmerized slave followed him, Ehmed, and Umara up back up onto the main deck.

The upper bank of oars was the responsibility of free men, mariners who performed other duties besides rowing. Naturally, they weren’t chained to their benches, but some were resting there even so. In the close confines of the ship, it was a place to sit or stretch out. Others stood in line waiting for the cook to ladle out their evening meals.

“I’d like everyone’s attention!” Kymas called, and the crew turned to look at him. “Gather round.”

After a moment of nearly universal hesitation, all hands except those occupied with some essential task came closer. Umara had seen such reluctance countless times before. Many Thayan commoners preferred to keep their distance from Red Wizards, especially undead ones.

“Thank you,” Kymas said. “Now I don’t have to shout to ask who among you understands what I’m trying to accomplish by chasing around the Inner Sea.”

Nobody answered.

Kymas nodded. “That’s what I thought, so allow me to explain. Over the course of the last couple years, individuals with special gifts have been appearing in various places around Faerûn. Allowed to run wild, these Chosen, as they’re called, pose a threat to Thayan interests. But conversely, if someone could lay hands on one of them and fetch him to Szass Tam, our monarch could harness his power to do great things.”

Based on her own understanding of magic and all the stories she’d heard about the ruler of her homeland, Umara suspected the prisoner in question wouldn’t survive the harnessing. Or else would wish he hadn’t.

“So that’s my mission,” Kymas continued, “and I’m not the first of our master’s servants to undertake something similar. I’m told he dispatched an expedition to the Star Peaks but it failed to accomplish its objective, and those agents had to bear the weight of his disappointment.”

The vampire ran his gaze over his listeners. “I would very much regret finding myself in the same position, and yet the obstacles in my way are considerable. I’ve identified a target, but others are seeking him, too. I need to scoop him up before they do. Thus, it dismayed me to learn that the combination of contrary winds and human frailty has slowed our progress to a crawl.