The two ships slid into their respective firing positions, with perhaps two hundred yards separating the vessels. Caleb forced himself to wait until they’d just drawn abreast the enemy vessel’s bow. The burns on his arm throbbed, reminding him of the price he’d paid to restore less than half of his magic.

Sweat trickled down his forehead as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, he gave the order.

“Fire!”

Sienna brought her hand down, passing the signal to Quinton’s gun crew. The tall redhead jerked the firing line. A timeless moment of silence followed for perhaps a tenth of a second.

Then came a ship-jolting BOOM! as the piece went off.

Caleb watched the results intently. The twelve-pound iron ball became a pepper-black speck that receded quickly into the distance. In the span of a pair of heartbeats, it crossed the gap between the two ships.

A distant bam! echoed across the water. Even without a spyglass, he saw a ball land a hit across the frigate’s bow. The bleak death-mask face of the angel carved below the bowsprit emerged from a cloud of splinters. From cheekbone to forehead, her face had been caved in along the larboard side.

The blood-red lamp or jewel mounted in her left eye socket winked to black. It dropped into the sea with a splash. Over on the Spitfire, Quinton’s gun crew let out a raucous cheer.

“We poked her eye out!” Quinton crowed, as he and his crew pumped their fists in the air.

“That you did!” Caleb said. “Damn good shooting! Get to your next firing position!”

The crew hastily moved over to the second, rearmost cannon on the larboard side. In normal times, they’d swab out and prepare the first gun for firing again. But they’d be out of firing range by the time that happened. Or so Caleb hoped.

His Quest Window flickered to life.

New Bonus Level Mini-Quest: Cause significant material or magical damage to the enemy flagship. XP Value of the next quest completed shall be increased by 10%. STATUS: COMPLETE

He read the message quickly before brushing it aside. A quick glance through the spyglass confirmed to Caleb that despite the hit, the crew of the Stone Angel hadn’t broken out in panic. Instead, they remained calmly on deck while their gun crews made their last adjustments.

All of a sudden, the deck underneath their feet shifted as the sloop’s mainsail went slack. Donal grimly held their course dead ahead, but the Spitfire had already begun to lose speed drastically. Sienna let out a curse.

“That’s their Weathermancer at work,” she spat.

“Delacroix’s made them drop the northerly wind,” Caleb agreed. “The Lord High Captain wants us stranded in their firing zone.”

“Hope we have the momentum to carry us through.” She looked to him, hopeful but frightened all the same. “Either than, or your brilliant idea comes to something other than sunshine and wishes.”

A series of BOOMS, like a rolling cascade of thunder, rippled along the frigate’s larboard side. Flashes ran down the series of gunports from bow to stern before the view was obscured by a gray-black fogbank of gunpowder smoke. Caleb couldn’t help but stare in wonder as the Stone Angel unleashed her full broadside.

Delacroix’s gunners have some damn fine discipline. The weight of all that shot’s going to hit within a few seconds of each other.

Caleb extended a hand and called up the spell he’d kept as an ace in the hole. A pricey ace, but one he prayed would work.

Squall Burst

He pictured the gust of wind he wanted: Strong, over a broad area the size of a sail, and from the north. Hoping against hope, he tried one last thing before unleashing it.

I may not be able to use my Corsair Sub-Specialties. But there’s one more category of skills that I’m betting still works.

He reached deep inside to tap into the last remaining area of his Character Sheet.

Individual-Specific Specialty: XP Edge

Without restraint, he envisioned shoveling experience points like coal into a blast furnace. The resulting roar of the fire inside boiled up like a cauldron of steam, making his pulse race as he felt the power coalesce.

“Hold fast, everyone!” he cried.

Caleb felt the power flow through him like a burst dam as he invoked the Squall Burst. He swayed on his knees, grabbing the rail before he could fall. A second passed as the wind held its figurative breath. Caleb waited with crawling skin, waiting for the cannonade from the enemy frigate to arrive at any moment.

Suddenly, the deck planks jolted underfoot as the squall burst blew in with savage impact. The sails bellied out with such force that they seemed ready to burst. A chorus of groans echoed over the deck as every rope threatened to part, every line threatened to snap.

Donal gasped and clung to the wheel. The squall tore breath from their lungs, adding a howl and a hiss to the noise around them. Caleb didn’t mind one bit. The hiss he heard was the sloop’s bow slicing through the water, casting white-capped bow wave as they slid yards forward.

Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the squall vanished. Once again, a screen that Caleb had come to hate returned to shine its baleful red glare.

WARNING: MAGICAL STAMINA CRITICALLY LOW. YOUR ABILITY TO CAST SPELLS SHALL SOON CEASE ALTOGETHER!

The first two shots from Delacroix’s broadside screamed in. Instead of landing on target, they plunged into the sea just behind the enemy pinnace that followed close astern. Cries of alarm carried across from the smaller vessel as they were doused with the water thrown up by the splashes.

Caleb’s heart leapt into his chest, this time filled with hope.

That’s the price the Reckless pays for acting like its name, he thought. My squall burst spell moved us out of the main firing area. But the pinnace’s sail also caught that burst of wind, putting them roughly where we would have been.

The next four cannon shots smashed into the Gilarskan vessel’s stern. The hits chopped the rear half of the vessel into chunks. Aboard the Spitfire, the crew’s ears filled sound of men’s screams and the deep-throated crackle of shattering wood beams.

Three more shots landed amidships, blowing the planking aside and tearing bloody swathes through the crewmen on deck. Another three hit the bow section. One of the last cannonballs came in low, low enough to hit the ship’s powder magazine.

The air lit up with a teeth-cracking FA-DAM! What was left of the Reckless turned into a collection of charred splinters. The explosion staggered Caleb and threw Sienna to the deck.

Lir and Danu save us, Caleb thought, his stomach sinking as he realized what was to come next. That wasn’t the last of the broadside. I couldn’t get us all the way through the Stone Angel’s field of fire!

Then, finally, it was their turn to weather Delacroix’s guns. The frigate’s thirteenth shot passed harmlessly over the afterdeck. The ball passed overhead with a howl that stood Caleb’s hair on end.

But the last three finally made lethal contact.

One cannonball smashed into the rear of the quarterdeck. It cratered the larboard steps heading up to the afterdeck. A deafening roar clamped down on Caleb’s head as a burst of hot air and wooden shrapnel flung him off his feet. It slammed him down hard on the deck planks, driving the breath from his body.

His senses reeled as all sound vanished into a dull hum that filled his ears. As if in slow motion, he saw the helm’s wheel spinning free. A hand crept into his vision as Donal, his face and arms bleeding, dragged himself up to steady the helm and keep them on course.

Caleb tried to right himself, but his sense of balance had taken a temporary leave of absence. Pain lanced through his limbs. His eyes went forward to where the gun crew readied to fire their remaining gun.

Sound began to filter back through his pained eardrums. He felt as much as heard a deep thrum that ran through the deck as the last two shots from the frigate’s broadside hit home.

A crump echoed off the forecastle as a passing cannonball grazed the mainsail’s boom. A semicircular chunk of the horizontal length of wood appeared as if something invisible had taken a bite out of it. The sail trembled violently as vibrations from the hit ran up the mast.

The gun crew vanished with the metallic peal of a broken church bell. Their twelve-pounder gun flipped end over end, flinging the remnants of its shattered carriage across the deck. It landed with a crunch, bowing the deck planks underneath. Then it rolled to a stop against the steerboard rail.

What remained of the crew members staggered back from the yard-wide hole left in the timbers lining their station. Two of their number lay nearby, smashed into red paste. Two more had been turned into groaning pincushions by the flying splinters.

Jaime Quinton’s headless body lay where he’d fallen, the firing cord still in his lifeless hands.