Chapter 83 : The Navy Arrives
Evan exhaled through his nose and let his presence expand outward. Dread Pulse — a technique present across every magical tradition, designed to undermine the enemy's will to fight. It rarely worked against peers, and it required at least a full tier of advantage to be reliable, but the man charging the fallen bodyguard wasn't his peer.
The man's stride broke. Some animal part of him decided that every person around him had become something worse than human, and that the only reasonable response was to remove himself from their proximity as quickly as possible. He spun and ran, forgot he was on a ship, and went over the railing in a flat dive.
The bodyguard stared at this for a moment, understood what had just happened, and got to his feet with a grateful look at Evan before throwing himself back into the melee. The balance shifted again. Another boarder died to a sword, two more took wounds, while the prince's side absorbed a serious injury of its own.
Then the cannon fire started in earnest. None of it hit the ship, but the water columns were landing close, and the deck lurched under the concussive impacts traveling through the hull. Several passengers dropped to their knees praying. The fighting on deck stalled as everyone flinched.
A chain-shot caught the rear mast. The wood cracked and the sail came down, and the noise and the tilt of the ship sent half the passengers into open panic. People crossed themselves and called for the Maker's protection.
Evan was scanning the two pirate ships, thinking through options. If he could board one, he could handle his own safety — and could probably coerce the crew into delivering him to Nabos intact, one way or another.
Before he moved, Bishop Mason acted.
Magic Sea-fog Mirror Image — a large-scale illusion requiring an enormous expenditure of power. Fog rolled out across the water, and from within it, a second vessel emerged: a copy of the passenger ship, detailed enough to track. The original ship settled into a thin haze. The next volley of cannonballs punched through the illusion without resistance.
The pirate ships' mage had identified it. A figure in black robes rose from one of the decks and began to cross the water toward them, already chanting. A sustained gale drove outward from his hands and the fog peeled away, leaving both ships — real and phantom — briefly visible before the image dissolved entirely.
Evan went over the railing.
A grey-dark beam of light rose from his hand as he moved — the death-light technique he had reworked from its original function, which was corpse animation, into something that struck a living target directly. It caught the black-robed mage in midair. The man didn't fall dead; instead his body temperature plummeted, death-energy locking his muscles for an instant, just long enough for him to lose altitude and hit the water. He surfaced a moment later, coughing, having taken back control of his own body.
He looked up and found Evan already above him.
"Death Gaze."
The mage registered the eyes and then registered nothing at all. He went back into the water.
Evan had no particular hesitation about this. A mage backing a strike force that was trying to sink a passenger ship full of civilian travelers had made a choice that had consequences. He wanted to control one of the pirate ships, which meant dealing with their magical support first.
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The pirates hadn't expected a second mage on the passenger vessel, and the brief confusion gave Evan a moment to assess. Another figure was rising from the second ship, and the Wyvern was banking toward him, the rider trying to redirect it.
Evan opened his mouth. What came out was barely a sound at all — the adjusted Lich's Howl, reconfigured toward subsonic and ultrasonic frequencies. Wyverns were particularly susceptible to infrasound. The creature's wings snapped sideways and it pulled away in naked animal panic, the rider hauling on the controls and accomplishing nothing.
The second mage had stopped advancing. From across the water: "I'm Oppenheimer. Who are you, and why are you interfering?"
"Evan Wang. You were going to sink my ship. That's why." Evan studied him — wind mage, probably primary school, the levitation was too practiced for it to be secondary. "A mage working with pirates. Does that sit well with you?"
"Everyone has their own path. This business doesn't concern you. We can take you to Nabos directly, if that helps."
"That's a reasonable offer," Evan said. "But you're out of time."
He had been watching the horizon while they talked. Two warships were coming on hard, the Kingdom of Cartan's colors at the mast, and between them and the pirate ships, a true dragon was already in the air under a rider's direction, closing fast. More sails behind the first two.
The Rotterdam naval patrol. The Strait had seen Northmen activity recently, and the navy had been running heavier watches.
Oppenheimer's face changed. He looked back, saw the warships, and descended without another word, returning to his ship with the purposeful speed of someone whose employer had just become very motivated to leave.
Evan returned to the passenger ship. The deck fighting had ended while he was gone. Elloran looked at him with open curiosity. "What happened?"
"Rotterdam's navy arrived. We're through the worst of it." Evan said it at a volume the whole deck could hear. The response was immediate — passengers who had been weeping on their knees a moment ago were on their feet cheering. The captain had already started organizing the crew to assess damage and begin repairs. The rear mast was down, but the hull was intact.
The two pirate ships were already turning. Cannon fire from the approaching warships followed them as they ran. Whether the Blood Sharks made it clear was not Evan's concern.
Elloran showed fatigue for the first time, the controlled expression giving way briefly to something more honest. His attendant touched his elbow. "Your Highness. You need to rest."
He nodded, then turned back to Evan. "Forgive me — I'm not well. Rest, then conversation, if you're willing. I don't know your name."
"Evan Wang."
"Mister Wang. My apologies." A short cough, and he allowed his attendant to guide him back to the first-class cabins.
"Please," Bishop Mason said to Evan, gesturing toward the open door of one of the remaining cabins.
Inside, a bodyguard opened the wine cabinet and poured for the two of them before stepping out and pulling the door shut.
Evan lifted his glass. The red caught the light in the way of something expensive. He tasted it — his palate was returning, slowly, one of the ongoing surprises of the year, but it was still nowhere near normal sensitivity.
"Good wine," he said. The courteous response.
Mason drank and set his glass down. "The Maker's grace on us today. Were you practicing death magic earlier? The technique you used on their mage."
"Death magic is my primary school. I'm heading to Hollingburton to see about a teaching position." He held Mason's gaze steadily. "The prince — something is clearly wrong with him."
"Prince Elloran was a knight before all this. Someone arranged for him to be harmed — specifically so an Oomani could take advantage of the opening. He's been holding it back through sheer will, using it as a power source rather than letting it control him." Mason's expression was measured. "What you saw when he dealt with the assassin — that's what it looks like when he lets it act."
"I see. And you're going to Nabos because—"
"The Druidic practitioners there. We're hoping they have a solution the Church's methods haven't provided yet." Mason paused, anticipating the obvious follow-up. "The Maker made all things. Those who follow other paths are simply sheep who haven't yet found their way home."
Evan kept his expression respectful. "A generous reading. Nestorian sect, if I had to guess?"
Mason looked at him with renewed interest. "You know the Nestorian traditions?"
"A little. I spend most of my time on magical theory rather than theology — but one picks things up." Evan met his eyes without hesitation. Truth, exactly as far as it went, and no further.