Richard Byers - The Reaver

But a ship’s lanterns wouldn’t blink. They’d shine steadily. Uncertain whether she’d seen something real or just a trick of the night, she leaned forward and peered intently.

For several breaths, nothing happened. She decided she had been mistaken and started to settle herself more comfortably. Then light pulsed again, but a different light, a hair-thin, crooked white line accompanied by a tiny snap like the crack of a distant whip.

Now Umara knew what she was seeing. “Come here!” she called.

Falrinn had been snoring in the shelter amidships, and Anton had been dozing beside the rudder. They both stood up and made their way into the bow.

“What do you see?” the pirate asked.

“Nothing now,” Umara asked. “But somewhere ahead of us, a wizard threw a blast of flame and followed it up with a thunderbolt.”

“I assume,” Anton said, “that Kymas Nahpret has those spells in his repertoire.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re finally catching up with him. Good.”

Falrinn spat over the side. “He wouldn’t be throwing battle magic unless somebody else had caught up with him, too.”

Anton smiled. “Don’t tell me the Inner Sea’s cleverest smuggler is afraid of a little scrap.”

“Smuggling’s not like piracy. Pirates make trouble, smugglers avoid it. But I’ll get us close enough to see what all the fuss is about. You two keep watch.” The gnome made a minute adjustment to the headsail, then went to trim the mainsail.

Umara waited. Nothing else flickered in the blackness ahead. After a time, she said, “There truly were spells discharging. I may not be a sailor, but I know magic when I see it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Anton replied.

“So why aren’t we seeing any more of it?” Umara asked.

“It’s possible,” the reaver said, “that a fiery blast and a bolt of lightning were enough to scare off or even destroy an enemy vessel. Or that Kymas discovered it’s still out of range, and now he’s conserving his power. Or that an enemy archer shot back at him and took him out of the fight.”

“That last is doubtful,” she said.

“Why?” Anton asked.

Umara belatedly remembered she hadn’t told Anton that Kymas was a vampire. His ignorance on that particular point might hinder him if he did try to steal Stedd, and in any case, she preferred he have no reason to suspect she herself was occasionally obliged to submit to such a creature’s embrace. She didn’t want the pirate imagining her in that degraded attitude.

“If there was any danger from bowmen,” she replied, “Kymas likely would have armored himself with enchantment.”

“Ah.”

“How long, do you think, before we get close enough to know what’s really happening?”

Anton shrugged. “Obviously, I can’t know when I’m not even the one who saw the flashes, but perhaps a long while yet. Maybe not even until after daybreak.”

“If it takes that long, the fight will definitely be over.”

“Not necessarily. Ships can maneuver and chase each other around for ridiculous amounts of time before they start fighting in earnest. I’ve spent some of the most tedious days of my life just standing on a deck waiting for a battle to start.”

But Umara didn’t find the watching and waiting tedious. She strained her eyes peering, and pictured all the situations she might discover when the sailboat finally drew close enough. Surely, given Kymas’s supernatural might and the mettle of the marines in his service, the galley would prevail in a sea battle. Yet what if it didn’t?

She imagined the broken vessel sinking and carrying Stedd down with it, and the mental picture made her wince. It would be a sad, ugly way for the boy to die.

Then, scowling, she pushed the soft, foolish thought away. Stedd was fated to die no matter what. It was her task to make certain that his death was useful, to her monarch, her master, and herself.

After a while, she and Anton both spotted another wink of red-orange fire. He called out, “Two points to starboard!” Falrinn adjusted the rudder and cold rain drummed on the deck.

Sometime after that, the eastern sky started lightening, revealing massed gray thunderheads like floating mountains. Beneath them, still far apart and small with distance, Kymas’s galley and a caravel emerged from the falling sheets of rain and the gloom. Umara frowned because it appeared her master was running from that one lone ship and it was giving chase. Given equal odds, she would have expected the undead wizard to seek battle as quickly as possible, before daybreak drove him under cover.

Something else surprised her, too. The caravel’s sails bellied with the same blustery westerly that was blowing Falrinn’s sailboat along. But the crew aboard the galley had taken down her sails and were relying on the churning oars for propulsion.

“By the fork,” Anton murmured, “that’s the Iron Jest .”

“Your ship?” Umara asked. He’d told her the story of his mutinous crew.

Falrinn came scurrying forward. “When did the Jest acquire a weather worker?” he asked.

Anton shook his head. “When I took my leave of her, she didn’t have one.”

“Well, she does now,” said the gnome. “He’s stolen the wind from the galley. If not for the rowers, she wouldn’t be making any headway.

As it is, I judge she’s struggling against an unnatural current.”

“It looks that way to me, too,” Anton said.

Umara had no idea how her companions could tell, but she didn’t doubt they were right, and proof that there was some manner of spellcaster aboard the Iron Jest came just a moment later. Making use of the time remaining to him, Kymas hurled a spark at the pirate vessel that roared into a burst of yellow fire when it struck the bow. Despite the rain, the forecastle caught fire. But at once, water leaped up from the surface of the sea, washed across the bow of the caravel, and extinguished the blaze.

Moments later, the water beneath the galley heaved, lifting it high and dropping it back down. A sailor fell overboard. Oars snagged on one another, a couple snapping, and in the wallowing aftermath, some rowers made haste to free the tangled ones and jettison the broken stubs for replacements, but others remained stationary. The zombie oarsmen, Umara realized, couldn’t take the initiative to perform that or any task. Someone needed to command them.

“The Thayans,” Falrinn called from the stern, “are lucky the sea mage hasn’t just sunk them outright. It looks like he’s got the power.”

“He won’t,” Anton shouted back. “The church of Umberlee wants Stedd alive. He’s risking flinging the boy overboard as it is, but he’s probably right that Kymas has him stowed securely.” He turned to Umara. “So in the end, it’s apt to come down to grappling hooks, boarding pikes, and cutlasses, and with both ships locked together, tricks with the wind and the waves won’t be useful anymore. Can your people hold their own in a fair fight?”

Possibly not. Not if Kymas had already shut himself away and the pirates’ wizard had any useful spells left for the casting. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Kymas may have used up most of his power already. We should help them if we can.”

Help? For a moment, Anton wasn’t sure what to make of the idea, for by any sane estimation, both his former crew and the Thayans were rivals trying to abscond with the prize that was rightfully his. So why risk his own life aiding anybody?

Because he was in the straits. Pirate Isle was just a day or two away, while Thay was still hundreds of miles to the east. So if Umara and her folk ended up with boy, he’d have more time to work out a way to steal him.

Besides, he had a score to settle with Naraxes and the other mutineers.