Richard Byers: The Reaver

“You’ll remember the gale you insisted on sailing through. There’s a chance it’s still blowing, or that another will rise, and if we give a life to Umberlee, maybe she’ll show mercy to the rest of us.”

Anton snorted. It made his head throb. “A little treachery is one thing, but now I’m truly disappointed in you. You’ve spent too many years at sea to believe you can bribe the weather, by tossing people overboard or otherwise.”

Naraxes frowned. “Maybe I didn’t always believe it, but I’ve changed along with the world. You haven’t, and that’s another reason to get rid of you. Only captains who truly revere Umberlee-and the crews that follow them-will prosper in the days to come.”

“And reverence involves more than hunting someone down and trading him for a heap of Evendur Highcastle’s gold. Fair enough. But maybe it’s not too late for me. Perhaps you, with your deep understanding of spiritual matters, could instruct me in the mysteries of your faith.”

Naraxes smiled a crooked smile. “Why settle for a mortal teacher when you’ll meet the goddess herself soon enough?”

“Are we absolutely set on that? What if we don’t run into a storm?”

“Then a sacrifice will show our gratitude and keep you from reaching Pirate Isle alive to complain you were ill used. The goddess knows, you have no friends there, not as such, but even so, other captains might object to a mutiny.”

“And here I was consoling myself with the expectation that all Immurk’s Hold would mourn my passing.”

“Not likely. But it still seems easier all around if people believe the pig farmers killed you. Make your peace, Captain. We’ll come and fetch you when it’s time.”

Naraxes turned, hung the lantern over his arm, and climbed the ladder that ascended to the main deck. The hatch creaked open, thumped shut, and utter darkness swallowed the hold once more.

“Well,” Anton murmured, “that could have gone better.” He tried to bring his feet and the hands tied behind his back together.

Pain stabbed down the length of his body. Until this moment, the hammering in his head had masked the full extent of his injuries, but now they announced themselves enthusiastically. He had broken ribs and a broken collarbone for certain, perhaps a broken hip and knee as well, and bruises and swelling everywhere.

But he’d always been strong and limber, and he couldn’t afford to let the damage stop him. His breath rasping between his teeth, he strained uselessly until the self-inflicted torture wrung a cry out of him, and he had no choice but to relent.

Panting, he gathered the resolve to try again. Then he heard something sliding and bumping in his direction.

Still addled with pain, he needed a moment to remember his fellow captive and infer that the boy was crawling toward him. “What?” he croaked.

“I can help you,” Stedd answered. “Just stay still.”

Anton wasn’t sure exactly why the boy wanted to help him, but in his current circumstances, he didn’t care. He drew breath to instruct Stedd, and then small fingers brushed his forearm.

Surprise kept him from speaking as he’d intended. Stedd’s touch was warm, but somehow, not in a way that suggested fever. Rather, the warmth felt right, natural, or at least that was as close as Anton could come to describing the sensation.

“The Morninglord gave me a lot when I was using it to help the village,” said the boy. “I don’t know how much more I can pull in right now. But whatever I get, you can have.”

For a breath or two, nothing more happened, and Anton wondered how, without alienating him, he could convince Stedd to stop playing at being a holy man and do something practical. Then the child gasped, and the warmth in his fingers surged up Anton’s arm and into the core of his body, while red and gold light washed across the hold. Because he and his fellow prisoner were lying back to back, Anton couldn’t see the source of the glow but assumed Stedd was creating it somehow.

The tingling warmth and the light faded together, and as they did, Anton realized his many pains were dwindling, too. Even when he stretched, twisted, and pulled against his bonds, the resulting discomfort was insignificant compared to the torment he’d suffered mere moments before.

“By the fork,” he murmured.

“You should thank Lathander,” panted Stedd, a touch of childish exasperation in his voice, “not call out to his enemy.”

Folk had gotten out of the habit of thanking Lathander since the god had supposedly disappeared a hundred years ago, but Anton saw no profit in remarking on it. A theological discussion wouldn’t get him untied. “If you say so. Now hitch down until you can reach the top of my left boot. Unless my shipmates searched me very thoroughly, there’s a skinny little blade riding in a hidden sheath. Pull it out.”

Stedd fumbled at the task for a while. Then he said, “I found it, but I can’t get it! They tied my hands too tight. My fingers are numb!”

“Never mind,” Anton replied. “Roll back out of the way and let me do it.”

This time, he managed to contort his body into the necessary position but then discovered his fingers were dead and clumsy, too. As he repeatedly tried and failed to extract the blade, he wondered why the power that had fixed his battered head and body hadn’t relieved him of this impediment as well. Maybe it enjoyed spurring men on with false hope and the frantic, futile struggles that ensued.

But his own struggling wasn’t futile, or at least not yet. Finally, his thumb and forefinger pinched the end of the knife hilt-really, just the portion of the needle blade that lacked sharp edges-and slid it forth.

He reversed the blade and sawed at the loops of thick, coarse rope constraining his wrists. With the knife in such an awkward attitude, it was impossible to bring any strength to bear. He had to rely on persistence and the keenness of the blade, and they seemed unlikely to get the job done before Naraxes and the other pirates came for him.

But eventually, one strand parted, then another, and then the remaining ones felt looser. Anton set down the knife and struggled to pull his wrists apart. That loosened the coils a little more, and he managed to drag his right hand out of them.

A moment later, his hands stung as though he’d stuck them into a nest of hornets. Teeth gritted, he rubbed them together to restore the circulation as quickly as possible, then picked up the knife and cut his feet free.

“That’s got it,” he whispered, “I’m loose. Speak up and show me where you are.” He’d lost track of the boy’s precise location while he was squirming and writhing around.

“Here,” answered Stedd.

Anton crawled to him, and, working by touch, cut him free. The boy hissed as he too suffered the pain of returning circulation.

“That will pass in a moment,” Anton said, “and then we need to go.”

“Where?” Stedd asked.

“The only place there is to go. Up on deck.”

The boy hesitated. “Aren’t the pirates up there?”

“A couple, certainly, but most of them are in their berths asleep.” Or at least Anton hoped so.

“But not all?”

“This is our one chance to get off the ship, and it’s death for you to stay. Do you understand that?”

Stedd took a long, audible breath. “Yes. And the Morninglord will look out for us.”

“ I’m looking out for us. Follow my lead and we have a chance. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Anton still had his bearings and thus experienced no difficulty guiding his charge to the ladder. “Wait here until I signal for you to come up,” he whispered. “Then do it quietly.”

Anton then climbed high enough to crack the hatch open and peek out. Nobody waited on the other side to shout an alarm or jab a spear in his face, so he scuttled on out into the cold, clattering rain, crouched down behind the main mast and the shrouds supporting it, and took a better look around.