The Wolf was the first to attack, striking one of the enemy vessels amidships with canisters of Benshal Fire. Oily smoke billowed up, but the ship held its course and sent a volley of arrows in return as it swept past to bear down on the Zyria.
On Alec's left, Minal shifted nervously. "We're in for it now."
"Archers at the ready!" Klia shouted from the forecastle deck. "Shoot at will!"
Alec chose a man on the foredeck of the enemy vessel, drew the Black Radly's bowstring to his ear, and released the first shaft. Not pausing to see if it struck home, he drew one arrow after another and sent them speeding across the water. Beside him, Seregil and the archers of Urgazhi Turma did the same, each setting their own grim rhythm as the great ship closed in on them.
Enemy shafts were flying around their ears now, thudding into the deck and the wooden shields mounted on the rail. The hissing song of string and shaft was soon joined by the first cries of the wounded.
As the ship loomed ever closer, Alec spotted what appeared to be the bronze heads of some sort of monster mounted below her forecastle rail. The placement seemed too strategic to be mere decoration, but he couldn't imagine what they could be.
He was about to point them out to the others when Seregil let out a startled curse and staggered back, struck in the right shoulder by a blue-fletched Plenimaran arrow.
"How bad?" Alec demanded, pulling him to shelter against the rail.
"Not so bad," Seregil hissed through gritted teeth, yanking the shaft out with surprising ease. The thick leather strap of his quiver and the mail beneath his coat had prevented the head from piercing his shoulder, but the arrow had struck hard enough to drive the metal rings of the mail through the shirt below, leaving a bloody dent in his shoulder mere inches from his throat.
He handed the enemy shaft to Alec with a wry grimace. "Send this back to its owner for me, will you?»
Standing up, Alec nocked the shaft and raised his bow to take aim at the vessel looming over them now. Before he could draw, however, the bronze heads on the Plenimaran's port side suddenly spewed streams of liquid fire. It struck the rigging overhead and fresh screams burst out. A sailor fell to the deck, neck snapped like an oat stalk. Another hung tangled and screaming in the yards, sheathed in flame. Fire crews clambered up with buckets of sand and urine to douse smoking holes in the sails.
Aboard the Plenimaran ship, marines jeered and waved.
"What's that?" cried Alec, ducking down in alarm again.
"Bilairy's Balls!" gasped Seregil, grey eyes wide with astonish-ment. "The Fire. They've learned to pump it, the clever bastards!"
The two ships were nearly parallel now, and Alec felt a jolt go
through the deck boards as the Zyria's aft ballistas launched their loads of canister. One struck the enemy's mast; another exploded near her far rail, engulfing men in a spreading sheet of flame. Alec quickly looked away, but as the huge ship swept past he saw more men burning in her wake. Taking careful aim, he put three out of their misery before the ship carried him out of range. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in battle, he joined the other archers gathering enemy arrows to refill their quivers.
"Down, Alec!" Steb yelled, jerking him sideways just in time to avoid a strip of burning canvas. The headsail was in flames and coming to pieces as it burned. Overhead, sailors worked frantically to cut it free before the mast caught fire, while others on deck slapped flames out with wet sacking. The mingled stinks of oil, piss, and burning flesh settled over the vessel in a pall of stinging smoke.
Coughing, Alec gave the one-eyed soldier a quick nod of thanks. "You know, I believe I'd rather fight on land."
"So would I," Steb agreed.
Aboard the Wolf, Beka and the ship's captain, Yala, were having similar misgivings. The first Plenimaran ship had slipped past too easily and was heading for Klia's vessel. The Courser turned in pursuit, leaving Wolf to block the second man-of-war alone.
Standing atop the aft castle, they watched as the Plenimaran's striped sails filled the sky and heard the sharp groan of her forward catapults. A sack of quicklime struck the forward castle, bursting to engulf a knot of riders in a choking grey cloud; a second struck the mainsail, blinding several sailors and archers perched in the yards.
The screams of the maimed were terrible. Some of the archers positioned in the waist started in their direction, but Beka barked out, "Tell your riders to hold their positions, Sergeant Mercalle. Stand and shoot!"
"Stand and shoot!" Mercalle yelled, pushing men and women back into place.
But the Plenimaran ship was still coming at them bow on, presenting a limited target. The Wolfs ballistas sent jars of fire into her rigging and prow, but she still came on.
"She's got a ramming prow!" someone yelled from the shrouds.
"Hard about!" shouted Captain Yala.
The helmsmen threw themselves against the tiller, and the ship yawed, sending archers tumbling across the deck.
The enemy catapults sang again, and spiked iron balls splintered
the Wolfs forward mast and tore a gaping hole in the headsail. The ship shuddered and slowed, her fallen mast dragging over the side.
The man-of-war swept past, close enough for Beka to see the fierce, grinning faces of the black-clad marines sighting down their arrows. Mercalle's riders howled out their war cries and returned a hail of arrows, aiming skyward to arch their shafts onto the higher deck. The forward ballista crews launched more fire jars, but these missed their mark.
As the crew of the Wolf watched in horrified wonder, bronze lion heads mounted under the Plenimaran vessel's rail vomited streams of liquid fire that streaked the Wolfs torn sails with flames. From belowdecks came the screams of panicked horses and the cries of the wounded.
"By the Four!" Beka gasped. "What the hell was that, Captain?"
Before Yala could answer, a shaft buzzed past Beka's cheek and struck the woman in the eye. Clutching at it, Yala sank to the deck with an agonized groan.
"She's rounding on us, Captain," a lookout warned. "And she's running up fresh canvas!"
"Prepare—" Yala slumped slowly forward, blood flowing down her cheek. "Prepare to repel—"
Trailing smoke from one smoldering sail, the man-of-war closed on them again with a thick volley of arrows. Pinned down in the shelter of the rail shields, the remaining Skalan defenders shot back as best they could. A dozen or more bodies littered the deck, and Beka's heart sank as she counted three green tabards among them. Spotting Mercalle and Zir near the aft castle, Beka raced across the deck to them.
"Yala's dead. Have you seen the mate?"
The sergeant jerked a thumb at the forecastle. "That first load of quicklime got him."
"They're fixing to ram!" the remaining lookout shouted down to them.
"To what?" called Beka in alarm.
Everyone on deck had heard the warning, but there was little that could be done about it now. Marten and Ileah hurried over, supporting Ileah's brother Orineus between them. The young rider's tabard was stained dark around the broken arrow shaft in his chest. Beka could tell by his color that he was dying. Kallien brought up the rear.
The enemy vessel was almost upon them now, aiming straight for the Wolfs waist. Another burst of fiery liquid shot from the bronze heads as she bore down on the doomed carrack.
"Sakor's Eyes, the horses!" gasped Zir, face pale beneath his thick beard.
"Come with me," ordered Beka, starting for the main hatch.
"No time, Captain!" Mercalle warned.
The last thing Beka remembered before the whole world heaved under her feet was the muffled screams of the horses.
Searching the deck for Seregil, Alec caught sight of Thero for the first time since the battle began. Standing calmly on the forecastle deck, he raised his hands palms outward at the oncoming enemy vessel. A bright corona of light flashed around him, obscuring him from sight for a moment. Alec was still blinking when a great shout went up from the crew.
The e
nemy ship was foundering crazily off course, her fallen sails sagging over her spars and deck. Fires broke out and quickly spread, driving men overboard into the sea. The Courser swooped down to finish her off.
Alec scaled the forecastle ladder and found Thero sitting on a crate surrounded by grinning sailors.
"What did you do?" Alec asked, elbowing his way in to him.
"Turned their ropes to water," Thero said hoarsely, looking quite pleased with himself. "And relieved them of this."
At his feet lay a heavy metal rod nearly six feet in length.
"Their rudder pin!" Farren exclaimed. "Even with their rigging, they wouldn't get far without that."
But their triumph was short-lived. The Wolf was sinking.
Clambering down the ladder again, Alec joined Seregil and Klia at the starboard rail. Ahead of them, the Wolf listed in the shadow of the second man-of-war. The Plenimarans were showering the vessel with arrows and liquid fire. The carrack's sails and masts were in flames, sending a great column of smoke slanting across the water. They could all make out figures falling or leaping into the sea from the tilting deck.
"They've broken her back," Klia gasped.
"Hoist what sails we've got," Farren shouted to the mate. "Prepare the attack!"
The battle call traveled the length of the ship as the Zyria headed for the embattled craft. The Wolf "was going down fast.
"Beka's there," Alec cried, staring helplessly across at the foundering vessel. "Thero, can't you do something?"
"Quiet. He is," said Seregil. "Give him time."
Thero stood a little apart from them, eyes squeezed shut. Sweat poured down the wizard's face as he clenched his hands together in front of him. Then his thin lips curved up in a smile and he let out a small grunt of satisfaction. Without opening his eyes, he chanted softly under his breath and wove a series of symbols on the air.
"Ah, good choice, that," Seregil murmured approvingly.
"What? What is it?" demanded Alec.
Seregil pointed across to the enemy vessel. "Watch. This should be impressive."
An instant later a huge ball of fire erupted from the belly of the Plenimaran ship. Flames far fiercer than those aboard the doomed Wolf burst from every hatch, quickly engulfing everything above the waterline.
"Beautiful!" Seregil crowed, thumping Thero on the back. "You've always had a way with fire. How did you do it?"
The wizard opened his eyes and expelled a pent-up breath. "Her hold was full of Benshal Fire. I merely concentrated on that until it exploded. The rest took care of itself."
Leaving the Courser to her work, the Zyria sailed on for the Wolf. The broken carrack was rolling slowly onto its side, wallowing in the swells. Sheets of oily flame spread out from her smashed hull.
"Come on, come on!" Seregil hissed, hanging over the rail to scan the debris surrounding the wreck. Beside him, Alec did the same, praying to find Beka among the living. All too quickly, dark forms resolved into bodies, some charred beyond recognition, others fighting to stay afloat and crying out for help. A few horses—too few—churned in circles, screaming in panic.
"All boats away," the captain ordered. "Quick now, before the sharks get them."
Seregil and Alec ran for the nearest longboat being lowered over the side. When it smacked own in the water with a jolt, they took the prow seats, searching the waves while the sailors pulled the oars.
"There's someone, over there to the right," Alec called to the oarsmen, pointing the way. The boat leaped forward, closing the distance between them and a struggling Skalan sailor.
They were within ten feet of him when a huge shape broke the surface and dragged the man under. For one awful instant, Alec looked into the doomed man's wild eyes, and the shark's soulless black one. Then they were gone.
"Maker's Mercy!" he gasped, rocking back on his heels.
"Poor old Almin," someone said behind him, and the sailors rowed harder.
Leaving the dead to the sea, they rounded the Wolf's stern and found several people clinging to a broken spar.
"That's Mercalle!" Alec exclaimed.
The sergeant and two of her riders were supporting another between them. Alec recognized the sodden mass of red hair even before they had her all the way into the boat. Beka's face was white as milk except for a gash across her right temple.
"O Dalna, let her be alive," he muttered, feeling for a pulse at her throat.
"She is," Mercalle told him through chattering teeth. "She needs a healer, though, and soon."
The other riders looked only slightly better. Ileah was weeping silently, her face a mask of grief. Sitting close on either side of her in the bottom of the boat, Zir and Marten were chilled but apparently unhurt.
"It's her brother," Zir told him, putting an arm around Ileah. "He was dead before the bastards rammed us. How's the captain?" He looked anxiously at Beka.
Bent over Beka's still form, Seregil did not look up as he replied, "Too soon to tell."
Aboard the Zyria, they carried Beka below to one of the little cabins. Groans and screams came up from the hold, where the wounded sailors had been laid out. The stink of blood and Benshal Fire hung strong on the stale air.
While Alec went in search of the ship's drysian, Seregil stripped off Beka's sodden clothes. He'd done the same when she was a child, but she was a child no more. For once, he was glad of Alec's absence. Surprised at his own embarrassment, he finished as quickly as he could and wrapped her in blankets. It hadn't been only her brief nakedness that was discomforting but the number of battle scars marring her pale freckled body.
That sort of thing had never bothered him before, not even with Alec. Sitting on the floor beside Beka now, though, he rested his head in his hands, fighting down guilt and grief. He'd been the first after Micum to hold Beka in his arms at her birth; he'd carried her on his shoulders, carved toy swords and horses for her, helped teach her to ride and how to fight dirty.
And got her the commission that put her here, unconscious, scarred, and bloody, he thought dismally. Thank the Light I never had any children of my own.
The drysian arrived at last, Alec on his heels with a basin of steaming water.
"She was thrown when the enemy ship rammed hers," he said, watching as the healer set to work.
"Yes, yes, Alec's told me all about it," Lieus said impatiently, sponging blood from the ragged wound. "She took a bad knock, all right. Still, the cut didn't go deep, thank the Maker. She'll wake up in a while with quite a headache, and probably some sickness. There's nothing for it now but to clean her up, keep her warm, and let her sleep. You two clear out; you're just in my way here." He jerked a thumb at Seregil. "I'll see to your shoulder later. Arrow, was it?"
"It's nothing."
The drysian grunted, then tossed Alec a small jar. "Wash his wound and keep some of this on it until the scab dries. I've seen wounds like that go putrid a week later. You don't want to lose your sword arm, now, do you, my lord?"
On deck, they found Klia busy taking stock of the situation. The Courser had finished with the other Plenimaran vessel and now rode at anchor nearby.
"You heard him," Alec ordered, mimicking the drysian's gruff tone. "Let me see what that arrow did to you."
The cuts from the mail rings were still oozing, and the whole area was dark and swollen. Now that the excitement of the crisis was over, Seregil was surprised at how much it hurt. Alec helped him remove the mail shirt and set about dressing the wound, his touch as sure and gentle as any healer's.
Those same hands were drawing a bow not so long ago, Seregil reflected with another stab of guilt. Alec had never killed a man before they'd met, and probably never would have if he'd been left to his trapping and wandering., Life changes, he mused, and life changes us.
The soft afternoon breeze off the islands carried a sun-warmed mingling of scents he hadn't known for nearly forty years: wild mint and oregano, footcatch cedar, and fragrant powder vine. He'd last visited these islands a few months be
fore his banishment. Looking across the water to Big Turtle, he could almost see his younger self jumping across the rocks, diving fish-naked in the coves with his friends—a silly, self-involved boy who'd had no idea what immensity of pain lay just over the horizon of his short life.
Life changes us all.
Klia climbed on a nearby hatch, still wearing her filthy green battle tabard. Braknil and Mercalle's riders gathered on the deck in front of her as she began to take stock.
"Who do you have left, Sergeant Mercalle?" Seregil heard her ask.
"Five riders and my corporal, Commander," the woman replied, betraying no emotion. Behind her, Zir and the other looked bedraggled and dispirited. Most appeared unhurt, although the lute player, Urien, was cradling a bandaged hand against his chest. "We've lost most of our weapons, though, and the horses."
"Those can be replaced. Riders can't," Klia replied brusquely. "And you, Braknil?"
"No deaths, Commander, but Orandin and Adis were badly burned by those damned fire streams."
Klia sighed. "We'll leave them in Gedre if the khirnari is agreeable."
Spotting Seregil, she waved him over. "What did you make of that?"
"That they were expecting us," he told her.
Klia scowled. "And I thought we'd been so careful."
The information didn't necessarily come from Skala, he thought, but kept the thought to himself for the time being.
"Can we make Gedre without stopping for water?" she asked the captain.
"Yes, Commander. But it will be dark by the time we've run up the new sail. Plenty of time to send landing crews over to fill some casks."
Klia rubbed the back of her neck wearily. "If those ships were waiting to ambush us, then they knew why we were going to the island. They could have ambushers waiting at the spring. I've had enough surprises for one day. I say we push on to Gedre."
No one slept that night, or spoke above a whisper as they sailed on under the dark new moon. Every lantern was extinguished, and Thero stood guard on the rear castle with the captain and Klia, ready to weave whatever magic they needed to evade notice.
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