Richard Byers - The Reaver

This whale had been Evendur Highcastle’s opening move, a way to soften up the Turmishan fleet before it and his own armada even came together. He likely had worse in store. But Shinthala could only counter threats and smite targets as they presented themselves. She looked around and spied a ship to port under attack by some sort of marine hydra swimming alongside it. Half a dozen heads atop serpentine necks struck at the men on deck with a motion that reminded her of hands picking berries.

She tried to free it of the coercion that controlled it. Another man died while she chanted, and this time, the Umberlant enchantment proved too strong to break.

She needed to try something else, quickly, while there were still living crewmen left aboard the beleaguered ship. She thought of using her affinity with lightning, but she’d already decided to hold that power in reserve. Instead, with a single murmured word, she invoked another of the Oakfather’s gifts, a bond as close as kinship with the elemental spirits.

Flapping the sails behind her, a whirlwind howled into existence above the sea. A water spirit might have served her needs even better, but she feared the Chosen of Umberlee could turn such an entity against her.

The living whirlwind rushed at the hydra, buffeting but not quite capsizing the ship it was attacking in the process. The wind engulfed the beast in its murky spin and lifted it out of the water. The reptile roared and thrashed for a moment, and then the forces at work in the vortex tore it apart and flung the heads and other pieces in all directions.

Shinthala grinned and looked around to determine where to send the spirit next.

Cursing, Anton peered at the ships around him. Even for a veteran sea warrior like himself it was difficult to locate his quarry amid the chaos of an engagement being fought over miles of water in the gloom of the overcast and the rain.

He could see a great deal. In some places, whales, sea serpents, and krakens still assailed the Turmishan fleet. In others, Turmishan and Umberlant vessels hurled flaming catapult shot, volleys of crossbow bolts, and shimmering bursts of magic at one another. Two ships had already come together, the deck of one of them packed with combatants. Every few moments, a body fell over the side.

But Anton couldn’t figure out which ship Evendur was aboard, and hadn’t been able to determine the Chosen’s location previously because the Octopus had only joined the pirate armada at the start of the day.

As far as he’d been able to tell, none of the reavers had regarded the ship’s tardy arrival as cause for concern. Why should they? They recognized Mourmyd Jacerryl’s vessel as one of their own, and they knew contrary winds and other hindrances could prolong any journey over water.

Anton hoped the familiar sight of the ship would fool Evendur just as effectively, and that would allow those aboard the Octopus to attack him by surprise. Because that was the only way to sneak up on him. Umara’s wizardry couldn’t veil something as big as a caravel.

Nor, Anton reflected, did it seem to be good for much else at the moment, even though she muttered and gestured away, her index finger writing runes in crimson glow on the air, her telltale red garb put aside for nondescript mannish garments of brown and gray. “Anything?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“If anyone had told me that a Red Wizard of Thay couldn’t locate something as stuffed full of magic as the Chosen of a god …”

“The problem,” Umara growled, “is too much magic. Druids or waveservants on every ship, all praying at once … I’m doing the best I can.”

Anton found a smile for her. “I know. Sorry.”

“Turmishan galley off the port bow!” a man in the rigging bellowed.

Anton pivoted in that direction and saw that, indeed, a ship much like the one the Thayans had abandoned off Gulthandor was heading toward them. Worse, the oars were speeding it along fast enough that the Octopus couldn’t evade it. The wind had been blowing erratically as spellcasters on both sides struggled to bend it to their purposes, and at the moment, only a feeble breeze pushed at the caravel’s sails.

Anton didn’t want to fight Turmishans but had no way of convincing them that the crew aboard the Octopus was anything other than the motley band of corsairs they appeared to be. He turned to Umara. “Can you hold them back without hurting them?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” She pulled the rust-colored wand from her belt and swept it back and forth as she chanted rhyming couplets. Anton had the feverish feeling that he could almost see what the tip of the rod was sketching on the air. His vision seemed to splinter around each stroke.

Still, he didn’t know what she was conjuring until the long crimson creature with its piscine tail and body and horned, half-human face surfaced midway between the Octopus and the galley. Even then, he didn’t know exactly what it was, an accurate representation of some huge demon fish that swam the seas of the netherworld or simply a product of Umara’s imagination.

Whatever it was supposed to be, the phantom swam at the galley as fast as the Turmishan ship’s oarsmen pulled it through the waves. The creature’s fangs gnashed as though it couldn’t wait to start chewing through the hull.

Men on the galley cried out in alarm. An officer shouted commands. Anton grinned. But then another voice-a druid’s, mostly likely-shouted, “Ignore the beast! It isn’t real!” And with that, the huge fish with the demon face started to flicker, present one instant, absent the next.

Umara whispered words that made Anton feel as though he were choking. Her fingers clenched on the wand, and blood trickled down her wrist as if she were gripping a blade.

The flickering stopped. The demon fish veered left an instant before it would have collided with the galley’s ram and sped on down the vessel’s starboard side. The gnashing fangs, its momentum, or a combination of the two, snapped off one oar after another.

The creature hadn’t quite finished when the druid bellowed words that made it vanish and stay vanished. But by then, the galley was crippled. Anton judged that even a puny breeze would enable the Octopus to leave her behind before the Turmishans collected their wits and ran out replacement oars.

He turned to Umara and asked, “But it was an illusion?”

Breathing hard, she smiled. “Some illusions are more illusory than others.”

“Evidently. Nice work.” As the Octopus left the galley in its wake, he resumed his peering. And then he spotted a ship, small in the distance but still impressive to knowledgeable eyes, to the northeast.

She was impressive because she was a galleon. The large ships with their long beaks and lateen-rigged mizzenmasts were rare on the Sea of Fallen Stars, and no captain from Pirate Isle commanded one. Some coastal lord-an Impilturian, judging from the lines of the vessel-especially eager to curry favor with the church of Umberlee must have sent her when the waveservants put out the call for reinforcements.

Anton pointed. “That’s Evendur.”

“How can you tell?” Umara replied.

“You met the arrogant son of a hag. Can you imagine him commanding anything other than the biggest, grandest ship in his fleet?”

The wizard smiled. “When you put it that way, no.”

“Neither can I.” Anton raised his voice. “We’re going after the galleon off the port bow!”

A sailor frowned. “With the wind the way it is, it could take all day to catch her if we can do it at all.”

“I’m a pirate,” Anton replied. “Catching other ships is my trade. You Thayans just do what I tell you.” He ran toward the stern to take the helm.