Behind them, the Ghazel realized their mistake but were too late. They tried to mimic the turn and she watched as their sails went slack.
Wyatt looked behind them. “They’re lost, stalled in the eye of the wind,” he declared, grinning, his chest heaving with excitement. “It will take them several minutes to catch it again. By then we will—”
“Sail!” Royce shouted. “Starboard bow!”
Wyatt’s grin melted as his head turned. Ahead of them appeared a ship that looked nearly identical to the one behind. It flashed a light and behind them the other Ghazel ship replied.
Wyatt looked fore and aft and she could see the story written clearly in lines of fear on his face. Through great skill, and a bit of luck, they had barely managed to avoid one ship. They would not fare well against two.
“Sail! Port bow!” Royce shouted, and she could see Wyatt visibly slump against the wheel as if struck from behind.
Wyatt lay off the wheel and let the ship slow and level off. There was no need to hasten their approach. Everyone on board looked to him.
“What now?” Alric asked, coming aft.
Wyatt did not reply. He just turned his head, looking back and forth at the ships. His forehead glistened. He bit his lip, and Arista noticed his left hand starting to shake.
“We’re out of options, aren’t we?” Alric asked.
“This ship doesn’t even have nets to impede boarders,” Wyatt replied.
“How will they attack?” Hadrian asked. “Will they board?”
“Eventually, yes, but first they will clear the deck with arrows.”
“Fire?”
“No,” Wyatt replied. “They have us. We’re boxed in, overwhelmed. They will want the ship.”
“Do we have to surrender?” Alric asked.
“Ghazel don’t take prisoners,” Hadrian told him. “They don’t even have a word in their language for surrender.”
“What do we do, then?” the king asked.
“We don’t really have a lot of options, Your Majesty,” Wyatt told him. “Those ships hold sixty, maybe as many as a hundred Ghazel each, and we don’t even have a means of shooting back. Their archers will drive us into the cabin; then they will grapple on and come aboard uncontested. At that point they could lock us in and sail us to their port.”
“Which they will do,” Hadrian added. “Then they will drag us into a ring and… and, well, you get the idea. No sense in spoiling the surprise.”
“I hate ships!” Magnus growled. “Infernal things. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.”
“We’re going to… die?” Gaunt asked, stunned. “I—I can’t die. I’m going to be emperor.”
“Yeah, well, we all had plans, didn’t we?” Hadrian said.
“I didn’t,” Royce said, climbing down from the rigging. Arista noted a modest smile on his lips. “I don’t think I’ll be joining you in the cabin. I don’t mind a game of arrow dodging.”
“Actually only Arista and Myron should go in the cabin,” Hadrian said. “The rest of us will remain on deck. We’ll need shields—anything of wood about an inch thick will do, or metal even thinner. Trilons don’t have much penetration power. We can also use the mast as cover.”
Arista looked out at the approaching ships, coming at angles to intercept them. The Ba Ran Ghazel were coming and there would be no rescue by a dashing prince—the Ghazel always ate their victims.
“Not this time,” she told herself, and letting go of the rail, she walked forward. She stepped around Wyatt at the wheel and passed through the group of men in the waist.
“Arista?” Hadrian called. “You should get in the cabin.”
She looked out at the water.
“Mr. Deminthal,” she shouted, “take hold of that wheel. Everyone else… hang on to something.”
Taking a breath, Arista calmed herself and reached out into the dark—into the energy that lay around them, above and below. She could feel the depths of the ocean, the weight of the water, the floor of the sea, the fish, the seaweed, the glowing algae. She felt the breeze and grabbed it tight.
The wind, which had been a constant presence since they had climbed out of the shaft to the beach, abruptly died. The sails drooped; the incessant quiver and clank of pulleys and ropes halted. Not a breath remained and the world became silent. Even the waves perished. The ships stopped as the sea became as tranquil as a bathtub. The silence was deafening.
Then across the water the hush was broken by Ghazel voices. She could hear them, like the barks and howls of dogs. She felt them too. She felt everything and held it all in her grip.
She raised her hand, holding her fingertips lightly.
Fire? she thought. She had played that note before. She knew just how to do it. But as enticing as the thought of three flaming pyres against the water was, the light would alert the shore.
Wind? She could sense that chord. It was powerful. She could shatter the ships. No. Too unwieldy, like trying to pick up a coin with mittens.
Water? Yes! It was everywhere. She twisted three fingers in the air and the world responded with movement.
The sea swirled.
Currents formed, churning, building, rotating, and spinning. The three Ghazel ships began to rotate, revolving as if they were toy boats in a tub she had flicked with a finger.
Whirlpools formed.
Beneath the goblin ships, circles appeared—large swirling funnels of spinning water. Faster and faster they moved, the centers giving way, dropping lower as the speed of the rotation increased. They widened, spreading out, and grew in strength. Even the Harbinger began to rock noticeably as the maelstroms reached out to pull on the strength of the whole sea.
The barks of the Ghazel became cries and screams as the ships continued to spin. A crack issued across the water as a mast snapped. Then another, and another, poles the size of tree trunks popped like twigs. The Ghazel shrieked and wailed, their voices blurring into one note, which Arista also held.
The sheer enormity of the power she worked was incredible. It was so easy and all at her command. Everything—every droplet, every breath, every heartbeat—it was all hers. She felt them, touched them, played with them. It was irresistible, like scratching a terrible itch. She let the power run. It was so big, so potent. She did not just control the power; she was the power, and it was her. She whirled, she frothed, and she wanted to run, to spin and grow. Like a ball sent off a hill, she felt the building momentum. It excited her and she loved the motion—the freedom! She felt herself letting go, giving herself to it, spreading out and becoming a part of the symphony she played—so grand—so beautiful. All she wanted was to blend with the whole, to become—
Stop it!
The idea was a discord. An off note. A broken thread.
Stop it! Pull back!
A distant voice called to her, struggling to be heard over the crescendo of the music she played.
Regain control!
She didn’t want to listen; she didn’t like the sound. It clashed with the melody.
You’re killing them!
Of course I’m killing them. That is the whole point.
The Ghazel are gone. That is not who you are killing! Stop!
No. I can’t.