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  Omen took the sword wordlessly and turned toward the dripping sailor. The light from one of the swinging elemental orbs illuminated the stranger, and Shalonie gasped as she realized there was something truly wrong with the man. "He doesn't have legs!" she screeched, fear biting the back of her brain.

  The undulating thing wasn't a man, nor was it a ghost. While the shape initially appeared to be the torso of a drenched man, strands of seaweed in his hair, one outstretched arm holding a sword, it was instead a twisting mass of flesh — flowing, morphing, changing shape. It gripped a timeworn blade, bringing the weapon down hard against the deck. The broad blade scored a deep groove in the wooden surface.

  "Widow Maker!" Outcries of terror rose from the crew even as the sailors pushed forward to meet their enemy with knives and swords.

  The leviathan lives! She held back her own cry. And it's found us again.

  Something gargantuan and terrible wound itself around the outer hull; hundreds of swaying tentacles, lashing in the wind, twisting and writhing, reached out to grasp the vessel. It was all part of one entity — from the ocean deep, it crawled and oozed onto the deck, and wrapped itself around the Golden Voyage in a tangle of moving flesh, pulling and dragging its hideous body upward. The numerous tentacles seemed to be wielding a strange preponderance of weapons — blades of all types which it used to slash and hack at the ropes holding the ship's contents secure.

  Shalonie watched in horror as one of those blades came crashing down on a sailor, slicing him nearly in two before another twisting black rope of flesh wound around the bleeding man and lifted him away into the boiling sea.

  "Templar! Get your swords!" Omen hollered down the corridor, as he took hold of the blade Kyr had shoved into his hand. "Kyr, stay here! Don't go outside, no matter what happens!" Omen raced forward, drawing the heavy blade from its sheath, and attacked the creature with undaunted fierceness.

  Tormy took off after him, and Shalonie caught hold of Kyr as he stumbled, steadying him and herself both against the bulkhead. The boy, golden hair whipped about by blasts of wind, gripped an equally terrified Tyrin tightly to his chest, and they watched Omen and Tormy leap forward to attack one of the swaying tentacles about to pull another sailor to his death.

  Shalonie spied Kadana, also armed with a large blade, rushing to aid them. She hacked at one of the tentacles that had wound itself around the mainsail mast.

  A moment later Templar, armed with twin blades of white bone in either hand, raced past them toward the deck, leaping to join the battle. He bellowed into the wind, and a bolt of lightning whipped out from around his body, striking the tentacle on the mast, forcing it to uncoil. A forceful shudder ripped through the ship, and an ear-piercing shriek rose on the wind as some ancient, unseen mouth roared its displeasure. It's voice sounds different — wounded. Omen must have damaged it badly with that harpoon. Maybe that's why it isn't trying to sing.

  Deep in her bones, Shalonie felt a beat pulsing through the deck, the spells that protected the vessel fighting back against the terrible force wrapping like vines around its frame. Over the front hull, above the railing, a colossal swelling body rose — the forbidding entirety of the creature, grotesquely swaying shapes and tendrils with a thousand eyes squirming from the ends of long stalks of ropey feelers, and a gaping maw filled with rows of serrated teeth. A hideous oozing scar marred the side of its shape, evidence of Omen's harpoon.

  Scanning the surface of the deck with its clusters of glowing, writhing eyes, the Widow Maker aimed strikes and slashes downward with the sword-wielding tentacles at the three warriors cutting away at its flesh. While Kadana and Templar both moved with swift agility to avoid the strikes, Shalonie saw Omen brace himself for a clashing blow of blade against blade, holding back with inhuman strength a force that shook the entire ship.

  The Widow Maker is going to rip us apart long before they can do any damage to it, Shalonie realized in a grim flash of insight. The creature was too big. Their blades might cut it. But if a harpoon to the brain didn't kill it, what are swords going to do? She saw Kadana sever one of the tentacles all the way through with a well-placed blow. Templar's magic might burn it. But she knew Urgolath could take the damage, every wounded tentacle replaced by ten more. They can't stop it!

  She could feel the Golden Voyage's magic straining and pulsing as it fought back against the terrible force pulling it apart — the Ven'tarian ship would likely have defenses against such monstrosities, but it was doubtful that anyone on board knew how to activate them.

  The silver on the outer hull. Her thoughts streamed freely, connecting rivulets of ideas into a rushing river. Her plan snapped into place. I've been thinking about testing the silver hull's stabilizing spells. Why not use it as a weapon! She recalled Kyr's words from days ago. "You'll need the one for the lightning."

  "Kyr, you're a genius!" She nearly hugged the boy. "Now all I need is—"

  Kyr held up his hand, holding out the hilt of one the small knives that were housed in the kitchen. "I kept it for you." His violet eyes illuminated in the lightning cracking beyond the doorway.

  She beamed at him, taking hold of the blade. How he could have known to bring both Omen's sword and this knife for her, she didn't know, but she wasn't going to question her good fortune.

  She grabbed hold of the edge of the doorway and pulled herself outside, bracing against the swells of the sea as the deck moved up and down. She stumbled forward, her bare feet sliding against the slick surface of the water-drenched deck, not far from where Omen, Templar and Kadana were cutting away at the massive tentacles. Sailors moved about at what seemed like a turtle's pace, desperate to secure the ship while dodging the terrible grasp of the creature.

  Shalonie stifled a yelp as a man only a few feet from her was swept up by a ropey tentacle and lifted away into the darkness. She pushed on, terrified they wouldn't last much longer. If the ship sinks, we're at the mercy of both the ocean and the Widow Maker, with no chance at all of defending ourselves. We'll die.

  Reaching the center point of the deck, she dropped to her knees, shivering and numb with cold as another brackish wave washed over her, nearly sending her sliding away toward the railing. She held on, scrambling to keep the knife firmly in her fist and frantically trying to calculate the shapes and symbols she would need.

  Recall came easily to her, always had, her mind working with feverish speed as she pictured the shapes in her head. She tried to shut out the squall's racket, the terrified yawp of the sailors, the shrill of the creature trying to pull apart their floating world, the clash of swords and clamor of battle. She dug the knife blade into the surface of the deck and started carving. The forms came to her quickly, though carving accurately while the ship rose and fell violently up and down was nearly impossible.

  She scratched the first symbol, then the next, tuning all else out until she felt something cold and slimy wrap around her bare ankle, and she turned in horror to see one of those ropey tentacles twining its way up her leg. The crushing force of its grasp stopped the blood flow to her foot like a tourniquet. But before it could lift her away from the surface of the deck, an arrow pierced it, pinning it to the deck's surface. The tentacle released her at once, ripping itself away as it tore free of the arrow.

  Ankle pulsing, Shalonie looked up to see Dev standing over her, a long recurve bow in his hand, another arrow already nocked and waiting.

  "Will that help?" he shouted, motioning toward her carving with a sharp nod of his head.

  "Yes!" she returned. "It'll keep the leviathan from ripping us apart!" I hope!

  He shot another arrow into an approaching tentacle. "I'll cover you, keep going!"

  Accepting his assurance, Shalonie turned her attention back to the deck and knife, carving the next symbol as swiftly as she could. She was vaguely aware of Omen, Templar and Kadana responding to Dev's need for aid, moving to take up positions around her and allowing her to carve unhindered by the creature. At one point she became aware of th
e dripping wet form of Tormy bridging his furry body over her protectively.

  She cut symbol after symbol into the surface of the deck, grimacing as she realized that the gush of water constantly running past her over the deck's surface was now tinged red with blood. She'd need power to activate the mark — lots of power. More than she was capable of summoning. She knew magics unimagined to most people, but she herself wasn't particularly powerful.

  I need a force to match the magics of the Ven'tarians themselves. They would have used one of the most powerful elementals they could capture to power such a thing, and I have nothing like that . . . wait . . . or a force of nature! she thought as she finished the last mark and looked up in frantic anticipation. "Omen!" She caught the young man's attention as he ducked past another flailing, sword-wielding tentacle. "Help me!"

  "Go!" Kadana barked at her grandson, stepping in to take his place in the ring they'd formed around Shalonie. Templar, still lashing out with burning strands of lightning, expanded his web of spells to fill the gap around them. Dev, she could see, was now fighting with sword in hand. His bow was in the hands of Liethan Corsair who shot arrow after arrow at the gargantuan head of the Widow Maker which rose above them, maw opened as if prepared to swallow them whole. Tormy, the only steady form on the surface of the deck as he'd dug the claws of all four paws into the wood, continued to stand over Shalonie, bracing her against the elements, his ears pulled flat against his head, teeth bared as he hissed and yowled.

  She grabbed Omen by the front of his tunic. "You need to activate the mark, aim a psionic blast at the surface, as strong as you can, as much power as you can summon! Use one of the Otharian Patterns — the strongest you know."

  He looked momentarily shocked. "I'll blast a hole in the ship!"

  She couldn't guess how powerful the Daenoths' psionics actually were, though she'd seen 7 do things that defied imagination. But she knew that this time, they'd need it all — everything Omen could muster. "Not at the deck! Not at the creature!" She clenched her aching fists. "At the mark! Focus on my carving, aim for it! Trust me!"

  It spoke volumes to her that they had all accepted her decisions without question, all of them moving to defend her while she carved — not one person questioning the wisdom of it. Sheer insanity, desperation, or trust? she wondered. Without hesitation, Omen motioned her to back away.

  Shalonie caught hold of Tormy's fur and pulled herself back from the circular carving of archaic symbols she'd etched into the deck, her eyes moving frantically over each of them as she second-guessed herself, hoping her memory had not failed her, that her hands had been steady enough to carve the shapes accurately, that she'd calculated the equation properly. I'm not creating my own magic, she reminded herself. I'm just trying to activate magical defenses already present. She held her breath, imagining the defenses Ven'tarian shipwrights could have put in place. Please work. Please work.

  "Do it!" she called to Omen. Instantly, she felt a pulsing wave of power emanate from the red-haired man gazing down at the marks upon the deck. A force of nature. The reaction was immediate; the marks flared with blinding light, a shock wave of force exploding outward, knocking her back against Tormy as the magic erupted out in all directions. The woven strands of silver that ribbed the outer hull flared to light, illuminating the ocean like a midnight sun, making the water roll and boil and hiss, burning and scorching everything it touched.

  The leviathan wailed, the massive head arching back as the tentacles, wrapped in a death grip around the vessel, burned and charred. Spasms shook through the entire ship, and the tentacles whipped away, releasing them. The creature reared back, all but flinging itself into the ocean in an effort to get away from the burning light of the outer hull. It crashed down into the ocean, sending up an enormous swell of water that lifted the Golden Voyage high into the air and carried it away out across the turbulent surface. Urgolath disappeared back down into the black depths of the sea. Overhead lightning crashed, and the wind pushed them hard from the south.

  "Omen!" Kadana grabbed for her grandson as he dropped to his knees, sword falling from his grip. Shalonie reached out to steady him, realizing with some remorse that the force of the backlash of power along the Cypher Rune had rebounded upon him, knocking him out.

  Kadana caught him with one arm, sword still held in the other as she ordered, "Dev, get Omen and Shalonie down below deck!" The Machelli grabbed one of Omen's arms, slinging it over his shoulder, catching him around the waist.

  "Templar, Liethan, help me finish securing the deck. We still have to get through this storm!" Kadana motioned toward some of the sailors still trying valiantly to hold their own against the wind and the waves.

  One hand gripping tightly to Tormy's fur, Shalonie caught hold of Omen's other arm, slinging it over her shoulder as she and Dev made their way toward the interior doorway where Kyr was crouched, watching them, eyes wide. They dragged Omen to safety, while all around them the wind screamed with unbridled fury.

  Chapter 18: Recovery

  DEV

  Dev had traded off with Shalonie, watching over Omen while Templar, Liethan and Kadana had spent their time on deck, navigating through the storm, which raged on without mercy for days.

  Omen slept like the dead, seemingly unconscious. They'd moved him into a hammock to avoid the possibility of him rolling out of the more comfortable bed. Tormy slept below him in a nest of pillows that had been set up as a giant cat bed.

  To Dev's amusement, Kyr also slept on the cat bed, tucked under one of Tormy's heavy paws, the boy all but buried in the thick orange fur. Like Tormy, the boy never left Omen's side, though he appeared to draw more and more into himself as the hours progressed, tuning out the rest of them as if they didn't exist. Tyrin looked on with concern, periodically leaving the room and then running back in to give the boy updates about what was going on outside in the storm. And though Dev never heard Kyr respond, the cat blithely answered questions that were not asked, and expounded on points that were not queried. Kyr is lost without Omen.

  Nearly three days later, Omen started showing signs of consciousness. Dev sat perched on the ledge of the single port window in Omen's room, looking out at the black sky and tumultuous sea. He'd been writing an update to Avarice, telling her of the events that had transpired, using the journal she'd given to him before leaving Melia. For once Kyr was gone from the room, led away by Shalonie who had taken him and Tyrin to the galley for lunch — both the girl and the cat were concerned that Kyr was not eating and had insisted he join them. Pale and silent, the frail boy had followed them dutifully.

  "How is everyone?" Omen's voice caught Dev's attention, and he looked up from his notebook to see Omen's strange multi-colored eyes watching him. One silver, one green — Dev had noticed the oddity the moment he'd met him, and had seen it as a peculiarity of his remarkable heritage.

  "Your friends are all safe," Dev told him, guessing Omen's chief concern.

  "And the crew?" Omen asked. His voice was weak, and there was a deep furrow between his eyes like someone suffering a deeply painful headache.

  Dev quirked an eyebrow at that. This group of people — nobles all — continuously surprised him. Haven't met a lot of nobles who'd ask after the crew. "We lost four," he told him honestly. "Three in the battle, one the day after." The man in question had died early the previous morning. They'd already committed his body to the sea, Liethan Corsair offering up the prayers for the dead common on the Corsair Isles.

  Omen frowned. "The day after?" He seemed to search for something. "What was his name?"

  "Baruch," Dev said, remembering Liethan's prayer. "Your friend, Templar, tried to heal him. But Baruch had lost too much blood. He died in his sleep." That had surprised Dev; not that the sailor had died — the moment Dev had seen the major artery nicked, Dev had known Baruch was going to die. Even the healing potions Kadana stocked could not restore lost blood. Without the magic of a true healer, the man had been doomed.

  What had surp
rised Dev was that Templar had tried to heal him at all — tried his best despite not being a proper healer. The Terizkandian prince was well-versed in all sorts of magics, and had some psionic means to manipulate flesh, but true healing was a specialty that came from a god's blessing alone, something Templar lacked. And no wonder, Night Dweller that he is.

  Dev had been able to spot Night Dwellers ever since he'd learned as a child what exactly it meant to cross their path. He'd always considered the people of Terizkand mad for happily following a royal family tainted with Nightblood. Twisted, dark, unmerciful — not one of them can be trusted. He'd learned that the hard way. Befriending Night Dwellers never ended well. Though I could say the same about the Dawn Children. They're as useless as the Nightblood are evil. Worse, really. At least I know exactly what to expect from a Night Dweller.

  Except that Templar had genuinely tried to heal the man — a virtual stranger to him. And he was grieved when he failed. Dev knew the difference between fake remorse and genuine grief, and the Terizkandian had shown honest remorse at the loss of a mortal life. Which didn't square well with what Dev knew of Night Dwellers, and he didn't like the unknown. It made his skin itch, and he found himself reaching for the pulse at his neck, using the slow steady beat to calm his nerves. His hand twitched — it was a habit he been trying to break. He didn't like having predictable tells.

  Dev watched with curiosity as Omen began struggling to extract himself from the swinging hammock despite being far too weak to rise. "Did he try—" he began, only to break off and sag weakly back down into the swinging mesh. "Of course he did . . . Templar doesn't give up."

  Dev found himself biting back a stinging retort. So loyal to his friends. Surprised Avarice hasn't taken steps to correct that weakness. That she hadn't gave Dev pause. Avarice was not known for being trusting. Maybe it's his father's influence. Dev didn't know 7 well, but his one encounter with the man had left him with the understanding that there was nothing 7 wouldn't do to protect his family.