Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (61 page)

“They’re turning,” she yelled again.

“I heard you,” he said. “We need to wait for them to be fully committed.”

Arista gripped the rail with nervous hands, feeling the ship moving slower and slower.

“Avast!” he finally shouted. “Back all braces! Raise the jib!”

The ship still had some wind, still some forward motion to it, and when Wyatt turned the wheel, it responded. The jib out front had the angle and caught what was left of the wind, turning the bow. A wave caught them dead on and broke, washing the deck, but the ship held true. The sails caught the wind and filled. Elden hauled down the jib as once more the
Harbinger
flew.

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.

You can!

I won’t. I don’t want to. It’s too wonderful to stop, too incredible. I have to keep going. I love it so—

Arista woke with a wrenching headache. It was so painful her eyes hurt just from opening. She was in the cabin, lying on the bed where they had found Bernie. A lantern hanging from a hook on the ceiling swayed back and forth, casting shadows that sloshed from one wall to the next.

She turned her head and pain swelled behind her eyes. “Ow,” she whispered.

Arista raised a hand and found a bandage wrapped around her head. There was stiffness at the back of her head where the bandage pulled at her hair. Drawing her hand away, she found blood on her fingertips.

“Are you all right?” Myron asked. He sat beside her on a little stool and took her hand in his.

“What happened?” she asked. “My head is killing me.”

“Excuse me a moment,” the monk said, and opened the door to the deck. “She’s awake,” he called.

Immediately, Hadrian and Alric entered, ducking inside and dodging the lantern. “Are you all right?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? And yes, I’m fine… mostly. But my head hurts.” She sat up slowly.

Hadrian looked pained. “I’m sorry about that.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, which made her head hurt even more. “You hit me?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“He had to,” Alric put in, his expression grave. “You—you lost control, or something.”

“What do you mean?”

Arista saw him glance toward the doorway. “What is it? What happened?”

She stood up, weaving a bit, her head still not right, and she felt tired to the point of being groggy. Hadrian extended a hand and steadied her. She ducked her head, careful to avoid banging it against the doorframe, and stepped out onto the deck.

“Oh dear Maribor!” she gasped.

The
Harbinger
was in shambles. The mast was gone; all that remained was a splintered stump. The beams of the deck were warped. One board was cracked to the point of splintering, and on the starboard side near the bow there was a gaping hole that revealed the hull below. The topsail was gone, along with the topsail yard, but the mainsail lay across the bow, torn and tattered. The railing on the port side was missing as well, sheared away.

“
I
did this?” she asked, shocked. “Oh my—is anyone…” She looked around, searching for faces—Gaunt, Magnus, Mauvin, Alric, Hadrian…“Where’s Royce, Wyatt, and Elden?”

“They’re okay. They’re working on the ship. Everyone’s okay,” Alric told her. “Thanks to Hadrian. We tried talking to you, shaking you. Wyatt even poured water over your head. You just stood there mumbling and fiddling with your fingers while the ship came apart.”

Mauvin was smiling at her and nodding. On his forehead a deep cut stood out, and his cheek was red and blotchy.

“Did I do that?”

“Actually a flying pulley did that. I was just too stupid to
duck.” He was still smiling at her, but there was something behind it—something terrible—something she had never seen on Mauvin’s face before: fear—fear of her.

She sat down where she was, feeling the strength melt out of her legs. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s all right,” her brother told her, again with apprehension in his voice. They made a circle around her, but no one came near.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Her eyes filled with tears and she let them run down her cheeks. “I just wanted…” Her voice gave up on her and she began to weep.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Hadrian said. He came forward and knelt beside her. “You saved us. The Ghazel are gone.”

“Yeah,” Mauvin said. “Scariest thing I’ve ever seen. It was like—like what they said Esrahaddon could do, only
he
never did. It was—”

“It was what we needed,” Hadrian broke in over him. “If she hadn’t, we’d all be dead now, and trust me, it would have been a very unpleasant death. Thank you, Your Highness.”

She looked up at Hadrian. He appeared blurry through her watering eyes. He was smiling. She wiped her face and peered at him again carefully. She studied his eyes.

“What?” he asked.