Richard Byers - The Reaver

The Chosen somehow whipped the axe high in time to block. Metal clanged, and the sword glanced away.

Evendur then took a retreat to steady himself and reestablish his guard. It seemed to Anton that he limped just a little.

The Turmishan grinned. “Fighting’s isn’t as entertaining when the other man can hurt you back, is it? At least, not as entertaining to cowards.”

“I just wanted this,” the wavelord replied. He stooped, used his off hand to snatch a cutlass from a corpse’s flaccid grip, and then advanced. The boarding axe shifted back and forth and high and low, threatening the same sort of attack it had made before. He held the short, curved blade well back as though he only expected to use it in the clinches.

But Anton read a certain coiled readiness in the hand that gripped the sword. Or perhaps it was simply because he himself customarily fought with two weapons that he sensed Evendur’s true intent. Either way, he was willing to gamble that when the dead man next attacked in earnest, the axe would feint to draw a parry, and then the cutlass would flash out to deliver the killing stroke.

Though retreating, Anton allowed his adversary to take longer steps and steal distance. Then the axe whirled at his head.

For safety’s sake, he took one more half step backward. But he didn’t block, and, not waiting to see if he would or not, Evendur charged with the cutlass extended.

Anton dropped to one knee and the attack passed over him. As Evendur was now too close for the saber to strike to best effect, the Turmishan used his own cutlass to make another cut at the dead man’s leg. The attack landed where the first one had, slicing the initial wound deeper and grating on bone.

An instant later, Evendur slammed into him. The impact jolted Anton, but the Chosen tripped right over him.

Anton whirled to find that, as he’d hoped, the wavelord lay sprawled on his belly. The Turmishan leaped to his feet and cut.

He managed four slashes before Evendur wrenched himself around and struck back with the axe. It was a clumsy blow, but one that still would have taken Anton’s leg off if he hadn’t hopped backward.

Evendur heaved himself to his feet, plainly favoring the damaged leg. Anton circled, obliging the dead man to pivot on it, feinted low, then cut to the forearm. The saber scored, but when he tried to pull it back, it stuck in the wound.

He started to pull harder, but at the same moment, Evendur dropped his cutlass. Apparently unafraid of any resulting harm to his fingers, he grabbed hold of the saber blade and jerked Anton closer. The boarding axe spun at Anton’s ribs.

Anton couldn’t parry. One sword was immobilized and the other was on the wrong side of his body. He let go of the saber hilt and dropped to the deck. The axe streaked over him then looped up for a chop straight down.

Anton rolled and fetched up against somebody’s legs. The axe crunched down beside him. He scrambled and grabbed the haft before Evendur could jerk the weapon free. Then he drove the point of his cutlass into the crook of the dead man’s elbow.

Still clutching the axe, Anton tried to drag himself closer for a cut to the groin. But with a snarl, Evendur heaved the weapon up and away, breaking his enemy’s grip, and staggered backward.

That at least gave Anton the chance to spring back to his feet. Meanwhile, Evendur dropped the saber and shifted the boarding axe to his off hand, evidence that the stab to the elbow had done some good.

Anton shouted and sprang, and the Chosen reflexively retreated away from his adversary’s fallen sword. Anton hooked it with his toe, kicked it into the air, and caught it.

He shot Evendur a grin. “That’s better.” Then he attacked in earnest, and his foe did something he’d never seen him do before, either before the end of his natural life or after. Umberlee’s Chosen gave ground steadily, one hobbling retreat and then another, fighting defensively because his wounds and Anton’s aggression left him no choice.

Perhaps recognizing that his master was losing the duel, a waveservant lunged in on Anton’s flank. The reaver twisted out of the way of a trident stab and slashed, shearing into the sea priest’s side. The waveservant’s knees buckled, and his weapon slipped from his fingers.

Unfortunately, even though the exchange had only required an instant, the need to dispose of the cleric perforce relieved the pressure on Evendur and gave him a chance to come back on the attack. As Anton pivoted back toward his true foe, he was ready to defend and accordingly surprised to find that the undead pirate had kept on retreating, opening up the distance between them.

“I win!” Evendur spat, and with that, the sea roared. A wall of water reared up over the port side, and the caravel listed to starboard.

Anton realized it no longer mattered that he’d been prevailing in the clash of blades. The dead man had lasted long enough for his magic to renew itself and was now about to capsize the ship. Evidently, he had no compunction about drowning his own followers if it would kill Anton and his allies as well.

Anton charged. The deck kept on tilting beneath him, nearly costing him his balance. Other warriors reeled in front of him, and he had to dodge around them. Meanwhile, Evendur kept backing away, although his crippled leg prevented him from moving as fast as his pursuer.

Anton staggered into what he hoped was striking distance. Only just, but the deck was slanting so steeply that in another heartbeat, he wouldn’t be able to advance at all. He took a final bounding stride.

The mass of water to port crashed across the caravel, battering and blinding him, hiding his foe in a blast of stinging gray. He cut at the spot where Evendur’s neck had been an instant before.

He thought he felt the saber connect with something. Then the wave tumbled him off his feet and wrapped him around the pulley at the foot of a line.

For a moment, he thought that was where he was gong to die. Then he had air to breathe, the deck was tilting back to port, and, gasping, he realized the ship hadn’t quite reached the tipping point after all. Perhaps being grappled to the galleon, which in turn was bound to the Octopus , had slowed the process. There had been no way for Evendur to capsize one ship without channeling sufficient power to overturn all three.

Anton looked to see what had become of Umberlee’s Chosen but could only find part of him. It wasn’t immediately apparent where the severed head had rolled or washed to. Fortunately, the motionless body showed no signs of imitating the dismembered but still spry troll of Umara’s recollections.

The wave had staggered everyone, but the Turmishans and Thayans recovered first, or maybe Evendur’s demise robbed his followers of their fighting spirit. In any case, a couple more Umberlant warriors fell to their opponents, and then the rest threw down their weapons and cried for quarter.

Stedd and Umara headed for Anton, the blond boy running, the slender, shaven-headed woman pacing with the deliberate dignity of a Red Wizard, even though her soaked, slapping garments made the affectation vaguely comical. “Did we win?” asked the boy.

Breathing hard, Anton waved his saber-the dawn light in the steel now fading-to indicate other ships still fighting in the distance. “The Turmishan fleet still has to deal with all those other enemy vessels. But even so, yes. We just won the battle.” He grinned. “Well, I did, mainly. But I’m generous enough to share the credit.”

At first, Anton didn’t know what had awakened him. Then he realized it was silence.

For months, he’d slept despite the sound of the rain, sometimes hammering, sometimes accompanied by the crash of thunder, sometimes merely pattering, but always present in one form or another. Now it was gone.