Richard Byers - The Reaver

She wheezed a prayer to Silvanus. Perhaps it helped a little, but her debility made a shambles of the precise pronunciation and cadence spellcasting generally required. It was mostly by pure stubborn will that she reached into the eastern sky, gathered the power diffusing there, and drew it pouring down like a waterfall once more.

Something else poured down with it. Through dimming eyes, she saw a blond-haired little boy appear before her. Stedd Whitehorn looked as surprised as she was.

Stedd had done enough healing to sense that Shinthala was in a bad way, and that even if he saved her life, she likely wouldn’t be able to fight anymore today.

The thought flashed through his mind that with the battle still to win, that might be a reason not to spend any of his power helping her. It was a coldblooded choice he could imagine Anton or Umara making.

But he wasn’t them. He squatted down beside the old woman, put a luminous hand on her shoulder, and murmured, “Lathander.”

Warmth flowed from his flesh into hers, and her clenched jaw relaxed. That would have to do for now. He took his hand away, straightened up, took a first good look around, and gasped.

He’d seen a lot of fighting since the start of his travels but never before dozens of men locked in hand-to-hand combat aboard a ship. It was so crowded! He was lucky Shinthala had fallen amid ropes connecting a mast and its sails to the deck. They made a little clear spot amid the clanking, grunting press that had likely kept him from being knocked down and trampled the moment he arrived.

At first, the frenzied hacking and stabbing confused him, and though he peered around desperately, he couldn’t spot Anton. But then a pirate pushed his opponent backward, momentarily opening a gap in the tangle of fighters and revealing his friend sprawled on his face beside the starboard rail, where the side of a bigger ship loomed over the one they were aboard.

Clutching Dawnbringer, dodging this way and that, Stedd darted through the mass of combatants. A blade glanced off a shield and he had to jerk to a stop to keep it from hitting him in the face. A heartbeat later, he sidestepped to avoid the jabbing point of a poorly aimed pike. Then a retreating Turmishan sailor bumped into him and knocked him staggering.

But his smallness let him slip through narrow gaps as they opened up. It also likely kept warriors busy fighting foes their own size from paying him any mind. Certainly, none of Evendur’s followers seemed to notice that here was the very boy for whom the church of Umberlee had offered a huge bounty, in easy reach at last.

When Stedd finally reached Anton, he saw that his friend’s head lay in a pool of blood flowing out faster than the rain could wash it away. The pirate wasn’t moving and maybe not even breathing. The boy flung himself to his knees beside him, put his hands on Anton’s back, and sent light, warmth, and vitality streaming across the points of contact.

For a moment-long enough for Stedd to feel a pang of alarm-nothing happened. Then Anton jerked and gasped in a breath. That started him coughing, but when the fit ended, he raised his head without difficulty.

“Stedd,” he rasped. “First, I couldn’t catch you. Now, I can’t get rid of you.”

“Lathander sent me.”

Anton swiped blood from his face. The cut underneath looked as if it had been healing for a tenday. “I guess he wants you in at the finish.”

“He wants me to give you the power to kill Evendur.” Stedd held out Dawnbringer only to see it vanish from his grasp. He gasped in dismay.

But then he realized it was all right; the mace hadn’t entirely disappeared. Rather, it had melted into a red-gold light that settled into the reaver’s saber and cutlass and set them aglow.

Something about the process drained what was left of Stedd’s own mystical strength, and when it was done, he slumped down panting. “Are you all right?” Anton asked.

“Yes.”

“Then keep yourself that way.” The pirate sprang to his feet, looked around, and started pushing toward the bow.

Having spotted Evendur, Anton would have liked nothing better than to charge and attack him instantly, but with the deck crammed with combatants lurching unpredictably back and forth, it wasn’t that easy. He had to weave, backtrack, and periodically kill someone to make his way toward Umberlee’s Chosen.

A waveservant pivoted toward him and thrust with a trident whose tines seethed with some malignant blue-green glow. Anton parried with the saber, stepped in, and drove the cutlass into the sea priest’s guts. Shortly thereafter, a pirate who’d sailed aboard the Iron Jest two or three years back bellowed, “Traitor!” and sprang at him with a falchion. Anton cut first and sent his former crewman reeling backward with a face split down the middle.

At least such hindrances gave him a chance to test his weapons now that Stedd had blessed them. The differences he discovered had more to do with the way he perceived and reacted than the simple heft of the blades. At certain moments, the men around him almost seemed to move sluggishly because he was so keenly aware of every tiny preparatory motion and the attack that was likely to develop from it. He felt fresh, strong, and clearheaded.

Clearheaded enough, certainly, that he hoped to deny a monstrosity like Evendur Highcastle any semblance of a fair fight. He pushed his way far enough forward that he could come at the dead man from behind.

As he did, he belatedly discerned that it was Umara Evendur was trying to kill with sweep after sweep of his axe. Glaring defiance, an oval shield of reddish glow floating in front of her, the slender wizard struck back with darts of blue light, but Anton’s instincts told him she couldn’t withstand her attacker for much longer.

It’s all right, he silently promised her. You kept him occupied long enough. He charged with the saber poised for a stroke to the neck.

Unfortunately, despite the muddled cacophony of the battle and the rattle of the rain, Evendur heard-or in some other fashion, sensed-his would-be slayer’s approach. He spun around, parried with his boarding axe, and the two glowing weapons rang together. The dead man then started to riposte, and Anton took a retreat.

Evendur, however, didn’t follow through. Instead, he hesitated to peer at the rose and gold gleaming in Anton’s blades.

Anton grinned. “Do you like it? It’s a gift to you from Stedd.”

Though he scarcely had a face left, just eyes sunk in pulp and oozing rags, Evendur managed a recognizable sneer. “That little turd-smear of sunlight’s not enough, Marivaldi. How could it be? My deity rules these waters, and yours is just a sad little memory.”

“I don’t think so,” Anton replied, “but either way, it doesn’t matter. Because the gods aren’t standing on this deck, we are, and I was always ten times the fighter you were. Now that I finally have blades that can kill you, I recommend you jump overboard and swim away like the ridiculous fish the Bitch Queen has made of you.”

Evendur bellowed, sprang, and chopped so explosively that even though Anton had been trying to provoke him, and had the sacred light pent in the swords to sharpen his reflexes, he nearly failed to respond in time. But only nearly. He hitched backward, and the axe with its glowing green edge whizzed past short of his chest.

Before the Chosen could ready the weapon for another blow, Anton slashed low. The saber, its blade more scarlet than gold at this particular instant, sliced the side of his opponent’s knee.

To Anton’s disappointment, the weapon still didn’t take the limb off or even drop Evendur to the deck. But it made him flail and stagger, and, hoping to score again while the dead man was off balance, the Turmishan spun the saber up for a head cut.