Page 54 of Vasmora

“The Dreadhorde.” Oswin scrambled for the tiller, his hands trembling against the lever as he groaned and shook, straining to push it. Light glowed at his palm, and with one heave, it shifted with ease.

“What are you doing?” Zevander growled, lurching toward him, stumbling with the rocking of the boat.

“You want to be used to patch their sails? I’m turning us around!”

The boom swung wide, and Zevander ducked low, narrowly avoiding a strike to the head. “Why not stay the course? We have the wind.”

“That’s their territory! This is precisely why I didn’t want to do this. Foolish! Now, hold fast!”

The boat pitched and shuddered to the side, the sails luffing, snapping violently. The mainsail thrashed, the boat slowing, as if the water had turned to honey. Once the sails collapsed, Oswin took hold of the main sheet, gripping the thick rope in his frail hands as he fought to release it slowly. Wind struck, and he braced himself, pulling the mainsheet until it caught a gust that goosed them forward, as the bow cut a faltering arc through the water.

The horizon shifted in Zevander’s periphery. “You’ll put us downwind of them. They’ll catch us.”

“They’d catch us either way! And by gods, when they close in, I recommend you jump. You’d fare better with the sharks and sea dragons, who’d be far more merciful!” he shouted, drawing the sail tight.

The boat took to the new direction, but Zevander turned to see the ship closing in, its shadow looming, its sail visible without the scope. It sliced toward them at an angle, and the horn sounded again.

“They’re gaining!” Zevander growled, as they headed away from the intended course.

Away from Maevyth.

The much bigger vessel narrowed the distance, heading straight for them.

“Drop anchor,” Zevander said, his voice level.

“Are you mad?”

“You’ve no chance of outrunning them.”

“Ah, yes, I see your point. Better to lie down and let them flay the skin from my body.”

Blood hot with ire, Zevander raised his palm, summoned a scorpion, and watched as Oswin’s eyes widened. “Drop anchor, or getting flayed will be the least of your worries.”

“You’ll be fighting alone. The best I can do is heal the multitude of wounds you’ll suffer, if you walk away with your skin intact.”

Zevander remained unmoved, staring back at him, eyes threatening.

The old man groaned, but as he had before, he shifted the tiller, pulling the bow away from the wind until the sails flapped.

As the boat slowed to a stop and Oswin dropped anchor, Zevander pulled a vial of vivicantem from his cloak, careful to squeeze only a drop on his tongue. He’d need the rest for what was to come once he reached the general’s lair.

Grapnels bit into the rails, lines taut. The hulls slammed against each other with a thundering crack. Men slid along the lines with ease and climbed over the rail. Oswin turned for the edge, no doubt planning on jumping into that black sea, but Zevander gripped his shoulder to steady him.

“Go down below,” he ordered, only glancing at the much older man, whose eyes shimmered with fear.

“If I go below, I’ll take a knife to my own throat,” Oswin said, and Zevander released him.

“I suggest you pause.” Zevander rolled his shoulders back, and while the older man hid away in the cabin, he turned his attention to the five marauders huddled at the bow about eight meters from where he stood. They were neither men, nor mancers, in his mind, but grains of sand in an hourglass. Minutes of Maevyth’s suffering. “What do you want?” he asked, flexing his hands at his sides, his eyes already scanning over their weapons, tracking every subtle movement.

What must’ve been the most superior of the men shot him a smile, bearing a mouth full of gold teeth, and tipped his head. “What do I want?” He let out a chuckle. “Your boat, your livers, and your skin.”

Zevander’s skin tingled, his scorpions crawling over him, begging to be unleashed. In his periphery, at least twenty other men peered down from the bigger ship’s deck. Who knew how many more remained hidden in the body of the vessel? Within seconds, his mind had already spun out a plan. Separate the ship and crew. Set it aflame. Trap the men aboard the smaller boat. Kill them all.

Gold tooth struck fast, a long, green tentacle lashing out from his palm and licking the air toward Zevander.

Zevander’s reflexes snapped, and he dodged it, stepping to the side as the appendage whizzed past his ear. The tentacle retracted, slipping past three daggers that cut across the length of the boat toward Zevander. The gaunt man with silver hair who’d thrown them already reached for the next. One struck Zevander’s arm, and he let out a hiss. He wrenched left, and the other two slammed into the rotted wood behind him.

Silver Hair flicked his wrist and chucked two more blades.