Clearheaded enough, certainly, that he hoped to deny a monstrosity like Evendur Highcastle any semblance of a fair fight. He pushed his way far enough forward that he could come at the dead man from behind.
As he did, he belatedly discerned that it was Umara Evendur was trying to kill with sweep after sweep of his axe. Glaring defiance, an oval shield of reddish glow floating in front of her, the slender wizard struck back with darts of blue light, but Anton’s instincts told him she couldn’t withstand her attacker for much longer.
It’s all right, he silently promised her. You kept him occupied long enough. He charged with the saber poised for a stroke to the neck.
Unfortunately, despite the muddled cacophony of the battle and the rattle of the rain, Evendur heard-or in some other fashion, sensed-his would-be slayer’s approach. He spun around, parried with his boarding axe, and the two glowing weapons rang together. The dead man then started to riposte, and Anton took a retreat.
Evendur, however, didn’t follow through. Instead, he hesitated to peer at the rose and gold gleaming in Anton’s blades.
Anton grinned. “Do you like it? It’s a gift to you from Stedd.”
Though he scarcely had a face left, just eyes sunk in pulp and oozing rags, Evendur managed a recognizable sneer. “That little turd-smear of sunlight’s not enough, Marivaldi. How could it be? My deity rules these waters, and yours is just a sad little memory.”
“I don’t think so,” Anton replied, “but either way, it doesn’t matter. Because the gods aren’t standing on this deck, we are, and I was always ten times the fighter you were. Now that I finally have blades that can kill you, I recommend you jump overboard and swim away like the ridiculous fish the Bitch Queen has made of you.”
Evendur bellowed, sprang, and chopped so explosively that even though Anton had been trying to provoke him, and had the sacred light pent in the swords to sharpen his reflexes, he nearly failed to respond in time. But only nearly. He hitched backward, and the axe with its glowing green edge whizzed past short of his chest.
Before the Chosen could ready the weapon for another blow, Anton slashed low. The saber, its blade more scarlet than gold at this particular instant, sliced the side of his opponent’s knee.
To Anton’s disappointment, the weapon still didn’t take the limb off or even drop Evendur to the deck. But it made him flail and stagger, and, hoping to score again while the dead man was off balance, the Turmishan spun the saber up for a head cut.
The Chosen somehow whipped the axe high in time to block. Metal clanged, and the sword glanced away.
Evendur then took a retreat to steady himself and reestablish his guard. It seemed to Anton that he limped just a little.
The Turmishan grinned. “Fighting’s isn’t as entertaining when the other man can hurt you back, is it? At least, not as entertaining to cowards.”
“I just wanted this,” the wavelord replied. He stooped, used his off hand to snatch a cutlass from a corpse’s flaccid grip, and then advanced. The boarding axe shifted back and forth and high and low, threatening the same sort of attack it had made before. He held the short, curved blade well back as though he only expected to use it in the clinches.
But Anton read a certain coiled readiness in the hand that gripped the sword. Or perhaps it was simply because he himself customarily fought with two weapons that he sensed Evendur’s true intent. Either way, he was willing to gamble that when the dead man next attacked in earnest, the axe would feint to draw a parry, and then the cutlass would flash out to deliver the killing stroke.
Though retreating, Anton allowed his adversary to take longer steps and steal distance. Then the axe whirled at his head.
For safety’s sake, he took one more half step backward. But he didn’t block, and, not waiting to see if he would or not, Evendur charged with the cutlass extended.
Anton dropped to one knee and the attack passed over him. As Evendur was now too close for the saber to strike to best effect, the Turmishan used his own cutlass to make another cut at the dead man’s leg. The attack landed where the first one had, slicing the initial wound deeper and grating on bone.
An instant later, Evendur slammed into him. The impact jolted Anton, but the Chosen tripped right over him.
Anton whirled to find that, as he’d hoped, the wavelord lay sprawled on his belly. The Turmishan leaped to his feet and cut.
He managed four slashes before Evendur wrenched himself around and struck back with the axe. It was a clumsy blow, but one that still would have taken Anton’s leg off if he hadn’t hopped backward.
Evendur heaved himself to his feet, plainly favoring the damaged leg. Anton circled, obliging the dead man to pivot on it, feinted low, then cut to the forearm. The saber scored, but when he tried to pull it back, it stuck in the wound.
He started to pull harder, but at the same moment, Evendur dropped his cutlass. Apparently unafraid of any resulting harm to his fingers, he grabbed hold of the saber blade and jerked Anton closer. The boarding axe spun at Anton’s ribs.
Anton couldn’t parry. One sword was immobilized and the other was on the wrong side of his body. He let go of the saber hilt and dropped to the deck. The axe streaked over him then looped up for a chop straight down.
Anton rolled and fetched up against somebody’s legs. The axe crunched down beside him. He scrambled and grabbed the haft before Evendur could jerk the weapon free. Then he drove the point of his cutlass into the crook of the dead man’s elbow.
Still clutching the axe, Anton tried to drag himself closer for a cut to the groin. But with a snarl, Evendur heaved the weapon up and away, breaking his enemy’s grip, and staggered backward.
That at least gave Anton the chance to spring back to his feet. Meanwhile, Evendur dropped the saber and shifted the boarding axe to his off hand, evidence that the stab to the elbow had done some good.
Anton shouted and sprang, and the Chosen reflexively retreated away from his adversary’s fallen sword. Anton hooked it with his toe, kicked it into the air, and caught it.
He shot Evendur a grin. “That’s better.” Then he attacked in earnest, and his foe did something he’d never seen him do before, either before the end of his natural life or after. Umberlee’s Chosen gave ground steadily, one hobbling retreat and then another, fighting defensively because his wounds and Anton’s aggression left him no choice.
Perhaps recognizing that his master was losing the duel, a waveservant lunged in on Anton’s flank. The reaver twisted out of the way of a trident stab and slashed, shearing into the sea priest’s side. The waveservant’s knees buckled, and his weapon slipped from his fingers.
Unfortunately, even though the exchange had only required an instant, the need to dispose of the cleric perforce relieved the pressure on Evendur and gave him a chance to come back on the attack. As Anton pivoted back toward his true foe, he was ready to defend and accordingly surprised to find that the undead pirate had kept on retreating, opening up the distance between them.
“I win!” Evendur spat, and with that, the sea roared. A wall of water reared up over the port side, and the caravel listed to starboard.
Anton realized it no longer mattered that he’d been prevailing in the clash of blades. The dead man had lasted long enough for his magic to renew itself and was now about to capsize the ship. Evidently, he had no compunction about drowning his own followers if it would kill Anton and his allies as well.
Anton charged. The deck kept on tilting beneath him, nearly costing him his balance. Other warriors reeled in front of him, and he had to dodge around them. Meanwhile, Evendur kept backing away, although his crippled leg prevented him from moving as fast as his pursuer.