The Blunt Reaper

By the time Mara reached the docks, nearly every vessel in the Last Anchorage had entered the inlet.

Ferrymen pushed away from the stone piers in rapid succession. Workers threw ropes aboard, released moorings and dragged abandoned carts from the ramps before the changing water carried them away. Travelers climbed into whatever boats had agreed to take them, some still fastening packs or securing weapons while the current pulled at the hulls.

The sheltered water had already darkened.

Streams poured from the channels cutting through the island, meeting beneath the docks before flowing toward the narrow opening between the cliffs. The sea beyond no longer moved in slow, uncertain swells. A broad section of the Red Tide travelled east, carrying everything caught within it.

Their ferryman jumped into the boat and seized his pole.

"Get in."

Rook stepped aboard first. Mara followed, nearly slipping when another vessel struck the side of the dock and sent water washing across the stone. The ferryman pushed away before she had properly seated herself.

Behind them, someone shouted for a departing boat to wait. The captain did not turn. A worker ran alongside it until the dock ended, then stopped and watched the vessel join the others pouring through the inlet.

Missing this current might leave him trapped upon the island for several months.

Mara understood why no one waited.

Their boat passed between the cliffs and entered the Red Tide.

The current caught them immediately.

The ferryman pulled his pole from the water and used it only to steer. There was no need to push. The sea carried the boat faster than he could have moved it himself, drawing them east through the fog with the rest of the vessels leaving the Anchorage.

Mara had expected the crossing to resemble the one that brought them to the island. One small boat moving through an empty sea, surrounded by darkness and the constant possibility of something rising beneath it.

Instead, the Red Tide was crowded.

Dozens of vessels moved within sight of one another. Fishing boats with narrow hulls travelled beside broad ferries carrying entire groups of Reapers. Merchant vessels sat low in the water beneath sealed crates, preserved bodies and cargo wrapped in oiled cloth. Some boats had been constructed from dark Underworld timber. Others were assembled from bone, stone or materials Mara could not identify.

No vessel travelled in formation. Nothing marked them as a fleet beyond their shared desperation to catch the same current.

Even so, they moved together.

The current provided a road wide enough for all of them, and every ferryman understood the danger of straying beyond it. Boats maintained their distance using covered lanterns and quiet hand signals. Crews raised colored strips of cloth to warn those behind them when the water changed. Ropes were passed between vessels when one began drifting too close to another.

No bells rang.

No captain shouted orders.

Even the largest crews communicated in whispers.

The silence of so many people felt more unnatural than their earlier isolation.

Near the center of the current travelled a vessel larger than everything surrounding it. Three decks rose above the water, and plates of dark metal covered its hull from bow to stern. The sections overlapped like scales, protecting even the lower windows behind narrow iron shutters. Heavy chains crossed the deck, securing crates large enough to contain smaller boats.

Two dozen figures stood along its rails. Most wore the coats and Brands of Reapers, while others carried long spears tipped with hooked blades.

Mara looked across the water at it. "That one looks safer."

The ferryman did not turn. "It only looks more expensive to eat."

"Metal is harder to tear apart."

"Which means whatever tears it apart will be larger."

Rook sat against the coffin with his one-handed scythe resting across his knees. "It’s also too heavy for this current."

"It appears to be moving faster than us."

"It is," the ferryman said. "That’s the problem."

Mara watched the armored vessel pass between several smaller boats. The current carried it with tremendous force, and each attempt to adjust its direction required several crew members to pull upon a steering mechanism near the stern. The metal protected the hull, but its weight gave the ferryman very little control once the sea decided where it was going.

The vessels spread out after leaving the island behind. Fog swallowed the cliffs and lanterns of the Last Anchorage until Mara could no longer distinguish them from the blue flames moving across the water.

The current remained broad enough for the boats to travel without crowding one another. Dark water flowed east beneath them, carrying long veins of red that twisted through the deeper purple of the sea.

Mara kept one hand near the compartment of Rook’s coffin containing the repelling powder. She watched the spaces between boats, searching for the pale swell of a body beneath the surface or turquoise eyes following from the fog.

For a while, nothing happened.

The silence gradually became less tense. People remained careful, but shoulders lowered and weapons returned to their sheaths. Someone aboard a nearby ferry sat against the mast and closed their eyes. A Reaper farther ahead unwrapped a strip of manifested meat and began eating while keeping his head beneath the rail.

Then the current shifted.

It was not a dramatic change. The sea altered direction by only a few degrees, but every vessel reacted at once. Ferrymen lowered their poles. Crews adjusted ropes and steering oars. Smaller boats turned with the water, their narrow hulls easily following the new path.

The armored vessel could not.

Its ferryman fought the steering mechanism while the current pushed against the plated hull. Several Reapers rushed to help him, pulling at chains attached to the broad rudder. The bow began turning, but too slowly.

A dull impact passed through the sea.

Mara felt it through the floor of their boat.

The armored vessel shuddered. Everyone standing along its left side staggered, and one Reaper fell against the railing hard enough to nearly tumble over it.

The vessel stopped.

Its bow remained fixed while the current continued driving against its side. Metal groaned beneath the pressure. Smaller boats behind it immediately changed direction, slipping past before their own hulls were carried into the obstruction.

For several seconds, no one aboard the vessel made a sound.

The ferryman watched it with both hands tightened around his pole.

"What did they hit?" Mara whispered.

"Something that didn’t move."

Rook looked toward the water gathering against the armored hull. "They should leave it there."

The crew had already begun doing the opposite.

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