She felt her spell start to close around the whale’s mind like a hand, then something-the original enchantment impelling the animal, no doubt-slapped that notional hand away hard enough to break its fingers. The resistance spiked pain between her eyes. She was still reeling from it when the finback rammed the ship.
The jolt hurled her sideways, and for a panicked instant, she imagined she was about to tumble into the sea. Then the rail caught her.
She took a ragged breath and looked around. Clutching crossbows and javelins, sailors peered over the sides waiting for the whale to make another pass at the ship.
Maybe Shinthala should let them try to kill it, blameless though it was. But if she did mean to try again to calm the finback with magic, it would be counterproductive for her allies to cause it pain.
She cast about and her eyes fell on Thieron Astorio, the other druid onboard, a small barefoot man whose armor of dyed leather scales was fashioned to make it look like he was wearing a coat of leaves. His staff in one hand, Thieron clung to a forestay with the other, an indication that he hadn’t found his sea legs any better than she had.
Still, he looked calm and was an initiate of the Circle of Air, far advanced in the mysteries, and that helped Shinthala make her decision.
“Don’t attack the whale!” she bellowed to the crew at large. “Give me another chance to send it away!” She looked at Thieron. “Druid! I need you!”
Weaving a little, he ran to her.
“We’re going to control the whale together,” Shinthala told him. “I’ll destroy the magic that’s making it attack us. When you sense that giving way, cast a spell of friendship.”
“I understand,” Thieron replied.
They peered at the sea but for a moment couldn’t find the whale. Then, perhaps realizing they’d lost track of the finback, a sailor shouted, “It’s to starboard!”
Dodging around a ballista and the artilleryman waiting to shoot it, the two druids hurried to that side of the bow. The fin whale was turning for another run at the caravel. This time, it meant to ram her amidships.
Shinthala shouted words of negation and swept her sickle back and forth while once again, holly grew around her. She imagined the cruel power driving the whale to batter the ship without regard for its own well-being as a chain. Her counterspell was rust, pitting the links and crumbling them away.
This time, she was ready for the waveservants’ magic to fight back. Still, it nearly slapped her away. But then she felt the power of Ashenford, Shadowmoon, and the other druids in the House of Silvanus streaming like a river in the sky. She seized it, melded it with her own, and stabbed with the result.
The magic slithering inside the whale’s head withered away. And, as Shinthala briefly sensed, somewhere aboard one of the pirate ships, a priest of Umberlee screamed in pain and blood gushed from his nostrils.
But despite its liberation, the finback, likely angry and confused, was still coming. Thieron recited the spell of friendship, and it emerged as a nasal moan unlike anything Shinthala had ever heard.
But strange as it sounded to her, the finback understood it. Instead of ramming the caravel, the animal dived and passed underneath.
Sailors cheered, and Shinthala was happy enough to contribute to their morale. But she suspected they might not be so exuberant if they realized just how difficult it had been for two allegedly mighty druids to counter Umberlant magic here at sea with the will of the Bitch Queen’s Chosen reinforcing it.
This whale had been Evendur Highcastle’s opening move, a way to soften up the Turmishan fleet before it and his own armada even came together. He likely had worse in store. But Shinthala could only counter threats and smite targets as they presented themselves. She looked around and spied a ship to port under attack by some sort of marine hydra swimming alongside it. Half a dozen heads atop serpentine necks struck at the men on deck with a motion that reminded her of hands picking berries.
She tried to free it of the coercion that controlled it. Another man died while she chanted, and this time, the Umberlant enchantment proved too strong to break.
She needed to try something else, quickly, while there were still living crewmen left aboard the beleaguered ship. She thought of using her affinity with lightning, but she’d already decided to hold that power in reserve. Instead, with a single murmured word, she invoked another of the Oakfather’s gifts, a bond as close as kinship with the elemental spirits.
Flapping the sails behind her, a whirlwind howled into existence above the sea. A water spirit might have served her needs even better, but she feared the Chosen of Umberlee could turn such an entity against her.
The living whirlwind rushed at the hydra, buffeting but not quite capsizing the ship it was attacking in the process. The wind engulfed the beast in its murky spin and lifted it out of the water. The reptile roared and thrashed for a moment, and then the forces at work in the vortex tore it apart and flung the heads and other pieces in all directions.
Shinthala grinned and looked around to determine where to send the spirit next.
Cursing, Anton peered at the ships around him. Even for a veteran sea warrior like himself it was difficult to locate his quarry amid the chaos of an engagement being fought over miles of water in the gloom of the overcast and the rain.
He could see a great deal. In some places, whales, sea serpents, and krakens still assailed the Turmishan fleet. In others, Turmishan and Umberlant vessels hurled flaming catapult shot, volleys of crossbow bolts, and shimmering bursts of magic at one another. Two ships had already come together, the deck of one of them packed with combatants. Every few moments, a body fell over the side.
But Anton couldn’t figure out which ship Evendur was aboard, and hadn’t been able to determine the Chosen’s location previously because the Octopus had only joined the pirate armada at the start of the day.
As far as he’d been able to tell, none of the reavers had regarded the ship’s tardy arrival as cause for concern. Why should they? They recognized Mourmyd Jacerryl’s vessel as one of their own, and they knew contrary winds and other hindrances could prolong any journey over water.
Anton hoped the familiar sight of the ship would fool Evendur just as effectively, and that would allow those aboard the Octopus to attack him by surprise. Because that was the only way to sneak up on him. Umara’s wizardry couldn’t veil something as big as a caravel.
Nor, Anton reflected, did it seem to be good for much else at the moment, even though she muttered and gestured away, her index finger writing runes in crimson glow on the air, her telltale red garb put aside for nondescript mannish garments of brown and gray. “Anything?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“If anyone had told me that a Red Wizard of Thay couldn’t locate something as stuffed full of magic as the Chosen of a god …”
“The problem,” Umara growled, “is too much magic. Druids or waveservants on every ship, all praying at once … I’m doing the best I can.”
Anton found a smile for her. “I know. Sorry.”
“Turmishan galley off the port bow!” a man in the rigging bellowed.
Anton pivoted in that direction and saw that, indeed, a ship much like the one the Thayans had abandoned off Gulthandor was heading toward them. Worse, the oars were speeding it along fast enough that the Octopus couldn’t evade it. The wind had been blowing erratically as spellcasters on both sides struggled to bend it to their purposes, and at the moment, only a feeble breeze pushed at the caravel’s sails.
Anton didn’t want to fight Turmishans but had no way of convincing them that the crew aboard the Octopus was anything other than the motley band of corsairs they appeared to be. He turned to Umara. “Can you hold them back without hurting them?” he asked.