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The thing stirred in a final fit of torment, then cut through the water to the
east. Its stroke was uneven, conveying grave injury. He followed it until it
disappeared, toward the Isle of Keys. For a time he kept surveillance, but saw
no sign of the two partners, nor even a fragment of their boat. His vision had
become blurry and his head ached, functions of that rap on the head below
decks. Concussion was just one more worry, less immediate than his others; he
dismissed it.
Leaving the rail, drained, he dragged himself amidships, where wavelets lapped
at his half-finished raft. He noticed dazedly that Osprey had drifted nearer
the shore of Vegan. Perhaps he wouldn t need the raft after all; he sat down
listlessly, watching the shore with arms clamped around knees, to wait and
see. The barque didn t seem to be taking on any more water. Minute after
minute the current dragged her closer to the Crescent Lands.
A roaring penetrated his fog. He knew he d heard it before. With electric
fear, he recalled where. Looking up suddenly, he fell to the deck. Cloud Ruler
was speeding toward Osprey on pillars of demon-fire. Insight came; Acre-Fin
had in fact returned to the man who d called it up. Yardiff Bey had seen the
creature was wounded by his own sword, Dirge. He d known who was out here on
the ocean. He d come.
Gil charged across the deck to the hatch cover. Slight hope, it was better
than the unfinished raft. He heaved the edge up, got a shoulder under, and
crouched beneath. Cloud Ruler circled in; he felt its scorching heat even at
this distance, bringing steam off the water.
He lunged, biting his lip, lifting. His vision darkened with the exertion, the
pounding lump on his head threatening blindness. In an effort of animal
survival, he got the hatch cover up and overboard.
He was seen. The demon-ship swept through a snapping turn, the ocean boiling
beneath it. Gil flung himself back, one arm to his face to ward off
superheated vapor. Coughing, eyes tearing, he lurched at the opposite rail, to
swim or die. Bey s craft came around, blocking that route too with fire and
steam. He pushed himself away, tripping backward on the slick deck. The
demon-ship hovered, unavoidable.
From a bay on its underbelly, weighted nets fell, covering Osprey s small
remaining deck. He clapped his hand to Dunstan s sword, but they hit first,
carrying him to his knees, enmeshing him. He started sawing strands with his
knife.
Vibrations traveled down the netting. Shapes rapelled quickly down landing
ropes carrying swords, clubs and catch-poles. He had two strands cut when the
first Southwastelander touched down on Osprey.
A tall, burly Occhlon, the man pounced on him. Three others hit the deck and
did the same. More came after. He thrust with knife; his wrist was caught and
wrenched around. There was no room to get out Dunstan s sword. Nightmare
fight, its single mercy was brevity. Battered, disarmed, immobilized, he came
into the dire captivity of the Hand of Shardishku-Salam.
Chapter Twenty-One
My soul, the seas are rough, and thou a stranger . . .
Francis Quarles, Emblems
Page 100
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Sails clewed up, the masts of the anchored fleet rested untenanted, fewer now,
with Osprey and Stormy Petrel consigned to the uncaring ocean. In the distant
southeast, the Isle of Keys was sunlit by a break in the clouds, as if
blessed.
Landlorn had transferred his flag to Wind Gatherer, a three-masted
square-rigger, precursor to Osprey. He d already envisioned his next vessel, a
lean, swift clipper, all a sailing ship should be. His drawing table was
stacked with preliminary plans, where frame lines, waterlines and buttocks
curved and intersected sweetly. Now they lay aside, until a time of peace.
The Prince Who Sails Forever returned his attention to matters in question.
Seated in his cabin were allies who were to help conquer the Isle of Keys. The
Trustee of Glyffa and her son Andre were there, with Lord Blacktarget of
Vegan and Angorman, of the Order of the Axe. Swan, the Glyffan Constable,
attended too, as did Landlorn s wife Serene, who d nearly recovered from the
injury to her back taken when Acre-Fin had struck.
The tents of an armed camp covered the hills above the shore of Vegan.
Hundreds of banners and war pennants had been set side by side along the
beach, to let the Southwastelanders on the Isle know that the fighting wasn t
done yet. Galvanized by the Trailingsword, the allied armies had fought their
way to the end of the Crescent Lands, breaking their enemies last stand
within view of the sea.
Ready to go on to the Isle, the Crescent Landers had found no boat, not even a
cockle shell, along the entire shore. Landlorn s forces had been there weeks
before, destroying every craft they could find to deny Southwastelanders the
sea. With no way to negotiate the turbulent Strait, the allies had sat for
days weighing various plans. More than half their strength was, by then, of
commoners, free vassals and yeomen.
We know Yardiff Bey is on the Isle, the Trustee was saying, gnarled fingers
holding the Crook of her office. We did not see the summoning of Acre-Fin. I
sensed sorcery, but could not interfere at such a distance. The thing returned
to Bey, and I could perceive only that it was wounded or dying. It no longer
swims these waters, though I cannot say whether or not it survived. I doubt
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