by Barb Hendee
She shoved him against the stairwell wall, grabbed Wynn by her shift's shoulder, and nearly threw her at the young elf. Without waiting to see if they obeyed, Magiere ran down through the ship's passages. At the bottom, she followed the only narrow corridor that headed toward midship. There was a door at the end.
Magiere didn't even slow. She hit it with her shoulder at full speed, and the door crashed open, dangling in pieces from its hinges.
"Leesil!"
Water sloshed knee-deep around her legs as she slogged in. The hold was filling with seawater through a hole torn in the hull's far side. And then she heard splashing that didn't come from her own steps.
Leesil broke the water's surface, rising up, and Chap half-waded and half-paddled toward him.
Magiere struggled forward, her boots already heavy with water. She was breathing too fast and couldn't say anything as she pawed frantically at Leesil, searching for injuries.
Runnels of water left soot-smudged streaks on his face, but his expression melted in equal relief at the sight of her. His was still holding on to his one winged blade, and he grabbed her wrist with his other hand.
"I'm all right," he said and then looked down. "Your hands!"
Her gloves were charred and blackened. She hadn't even noticed the sting in her hands.
Fire around the grateless cargo hatch above filled the hold with flickering light, and seams of flame began spreading along the ceiling.
"We have to get out of here," she said.
"We won't survive onshore without our gear," Leesil argued, and headed for the shattered door.
Magiere almost grabbed him from behind, ready to throw him over her shoulder and flee-but she knew he was right. He led the way with Chap right behind as they all trudged through the water in the outer passage.
They hurried to their quarters, grabbing what they could-weapons first. Leesil found their coats, and then hesitated for breath. He took up his new winged blades, but Magiere's dagger was still missing. Sgaile had not brought it back yet.
"Forget it!" Magiere snapped, and jerked him toward the door.
They slogged back for the stairs, and then an elf they'd never seen before came through the passage's other end. He was dressed in a plain canvas tunic and breeches, and his feet were bare. He carried a large barkless root almost too heavy to hoist, smooth and round and dully pointed.
Magiere froze. The root's long tail trailing behind the man moved on its own-like the ship's tail that Wynn had spotted so many days past.
The elf stopped at the sight of Magiere, and then crouched to set down the strange squirming bulk. He glared up sternly at Magiere and then Leesil, and spoke quickly in Elvish. It sounded like a question.
Magiere could only shake her head and point toward the hatch stairs.
"We have to get off," she said. "So should you."
She had no idea if he understood.
He lowered his head, muttering in Elvish, and reached around his back to fling something toward her. The long white-metal dagger fell in the shallow water near Magiere's boot.
She reached down and picked it up. Its hilt was now thick and wrapped tightly with leather. By the time she looked up, the elf was gone, then she spotted the tail of his wooden burden whip as it slid up the hatchway stairs.
"Put it away and let's move!" Leesil growled.
Magiere shoved the blade in the back of her belt. They emerged to find the deck engulfed in flames feeding upon remnants of sails, rigging, and crumpled masts. Magiere looked about for the tall, barefooted elf.
He stood at the seaward rail-wall just below the aftcastle, the only place on that side not blocked by fire. Magiere saw no sign of the moving root he'd been carrying.
"Come on!" she shouted. "Get to a skiff!"
He never even turned around. The tall, barefoot elf just stood there. Beneath the crackle of fire and splitting wood, Magiere heard a low rolling hum, like a song without words. He slowly lifted his head, as if watching something moving in the open water.
The deck creaked beneath Magiere's feet.
Chap barked sharply as he scrambled toward the shoreward rail-wall.
Magiere had no choice but to follow him.
Sgaile's arms grew heavy in the cold water, and despair began to mount.
Where was the woman?
He swam back along the Ylladon ship's course, but through one swell after another he found nothing. And both ships had drifted onward behind him. Then he saw something swirling upon the surface.
It was too light to be kelp or debris. Then it sank again, gone from sight.
Sgaile thrashed forward. When he reached the spot where it had gone down, he dove under.
Beneath the surface, the water was so dark that all he could do was hold his breath and grasp about. His hand struck something rough and thin-a rope. He grabbed hold, winding it around his hand and wrist, and kicked for the surface.
Sgaile's head broke through. Before he even sucked in a breath, he pulled. Twice he sank under, reaching down, hand over hand along the rope. Until his grip closed on soft, cold fingers. He grabbed hold and kicked back up to the surface.
She came up, gasped for air over and over, panic-stricken.
"Float," he managed to say. "Relax yourself."
He kept an arm under the middle of her back as they both rolled over the crest of another swell. The woman tried to turn her head, blinking water from her eyes so she could see him.
"Sister," she choked. "My sister… is on the ship."
Sgaile grew even colder.
Another of his people was on that human vessel? Still holding her atop the waves, he looked back. The elven ship-the Pairvanean-was burning in the night.
By now, the hkomas would have ordered the crew into the skiffs. The Ylladon vessel had been damaged as well, and listed deeply to one side. It was so far away, how could he do anything to save this woman's sister?
A thundering crack rolled across the night swells.
The Ylladon ship rocked, and its stern shifted suddenly toward the open sea.
"No…," Sgaile moaned.
Another thundering impact filled the night. The marauder ship's prow dipped sharply into the sea and did not come up again. It was sinking.
The hkoeda had released his shavalean-the "swimmers." They would not stop pounding and ramming at the Ylladon vessel until either it sank beyond reach in the depths or they became too damaged or worn themselves.
Sgaile looked away as the woman tried to lift her head to see.
"Do not," he said.
He pulled a stiletto to sever the rope, then grasped the back of her tunic and towed her as he swam. Another crack sounded in the distance from the hull of the Ylladon ship.
All Sgaile could do now was try to reach the shore.
Chane watched helplessly as oil globes struck the elven ship and flames erupted across its deck.
"Wynn," he whispered.
He lunged across the ship, searching to slaughter whoever had flung those globes.
"Stop!" Welstiel shouted.
Chane turned, sword in hand.
Sabel came behind Welstiel, along with the other ferals, all laden with canvas and ropes and packs.
"You said they would have time to escape!" Chane rasped, and his throat turned raw.
Welstiel's lips curled angrily. He opened his mouth to spit a response, but Chane never heard it. The sound of wood smashing filled his ears.
The Ylladon ship lurched sharply, and seawater sprayed over the rail, driving debris across the deck. Welstiel clutched the mast, glancing about as half the ferals were thrown from their feet.
"Take the packs and gear from her," Welstiel said, pointing to Sabel. "Tie the canvas to your back."
Chane glared at him and did not move.
"We have to swim," Welstiel snapped, "as far north as possible before going ashore. We cannot risk Magiere or the dog sensing us."
"Swim?"
"We will be too visible if we take a skiff," Welstiel answered. He turn
ed to Sabel and the others. "Leave no one here alive, and then follow us."
Another thundering crack sent the ship spinning sideways, and the bow dipped sharply.
Chane grabbed the rail to keep from sliding. The ferals snatched at anything they could hold on to. For once they showed little eagerness for feast or slaughter. And Chane's own hate faltered under his instinct to survive.
"We all go now!" he hissed. "Any crew left would never let themselves be caught by the elves. We are hardly in danger of them revealing you!"
He pulled himself up the slanting deck and took Sabel's bundled canvas. He tried to wrap it tightly about his own pack, to protect the precious texts from the monastery, before tying the bulk across his shoulders.
Welstiel never answered him, just threw his own pack full of arcane objects over his shoulder. Without hesitation, he shouted, "Come!" to his monks and vaulted the ship's rail.
Another loud crack exploded into the hull. Chane clutched the rail, waiting for the ship to settle, and then jumped overboard.
In a brief glimpse of the burning elven ship, his thoughts filled with the image of Wynn's oval, olive-toned face. Then he sank beneath the cold, dark water.
"Sgaile!" Leesil shouted from the skiff's front, one hand gripping its upturned prow.
He searched the ocean swells with Osha crouched beside him.
Magiere and Chap sat in the back with Wynn, now wrapped in her coat, as two elven sailors pulled on the oars. At least two other skiffs headed for shore, but not this one. Leesil had turned their small vessel southward, parallel to the coast and back along the marauder vessel's course.
"He's got to be out here," Leesil said tightly. "He's too much of a pain in the ass to end up dead."
"Yes," Osha answered. "We find him."
But the young elf looked no more certain of his claim than Leesil. And Sgaile was indeed a pain in the ass.
Leesil was sick of the way the man looked at him, as if he was supposed to do something that Sgaile wouldn't actually say. All the man's superstitious nonsense about ancestors and his people's old ways did little more than complicate Leesil's life-or hint at a life he wanted no part of. Now that self-righteous, long-boned, sour-faced throat-cutter-that idiot-had thrown himself overboard to save someone he didn't even know.
But… Leesil couldn't let him die out here.
Chap barked, and Leesil's grip tightened on the prow as the skiff crested another swell.
"There!" Wynn cried.
She pointed beyond where Chap clung to the skiff's edge with one fore-paw. Out in the water, Leesil caught a flash of white.
"Sgaile!" he shouted again, and looked down to Osha. "Tell the crewmen to turn us that way!"
Before Osha finished rattling off instructions to the elves, that light spot in the water rose again.
Sgaile swam on his side as he towed the elven woman floating on her back. He looked exhausted and pale, with his wet hair flattened around his head and face.
"Here!" Leesil cried out. "Osha, get us alongside of him."
Sgaile paused, lifting his head. When he spotted the skiff, he redoubled his efforts.
Osha pressed in beside Leesil, speaking Elvish to the two oarsmen.
"We'll take the woman back here," Magiere called out, and pulled Wynn and Chap from the side. "You take Sgaile up front."
The elven crewmen turned the skiff sharply as it rolled down a swell, and then shipped their oars. Sgaile closed with two final strokes and reached for the skiff.
Magiere leaned over the side, but the woman hardly moved, unable to help herself. One elven crewman knelt to assist, and they pulled her over the edge.
Leesil grabbed Sgaile's arm as Osha took hold of his belt, and they dragged him in. He collapsed on the skiff's bottom, soaked and shivering.
"Blankets, coats!" Leesil shouted. "Get me something to cover him!"
Osha stripped off his cloak and threw it over Sgaile as Magiere dug among their belongings. She tossed Leesil his coat then spread her own over the woman. Wynn started to remove her coat.
"No," Magiere said. "All you've got is your shift under that."
The crewmen took up the oars and began rowing hard for the shore.
Leesil struggled to pull off Sgaile's soaked tunic and wrap him in the coat. He spread Osha's cloak over the top as Sgaile leaned back into the prow's cubby, still shaking uncontrollably. Sgaile snapped a long string of Elvish through chattering teeth.
Osha stared back at him, stunned motionless. Leesil couldn't follow Sgaile's words, but he understood the tone.
"It is not Osha's fault!" Wynn cried out. "And he was protecting us!"
"Yes," Osha added sharply. "We find you… jeoin."
"Don't blame him!" Leesil snapped at Sgaile. "You're the fool who jumped overboard in the middle of an assault. And he wasn't the only one who chose to come searching for your waterlogged carcass."
Sgaile struggled to sit up. His gaze slipped from the rowing crewmen to Magiere. He seemed to look her over, or look for something in her face; then he settled back, exhausted.
Leesil plopped down beside Osha, shaking his head. For an instant, he entertained the notion of tossing Sgaile back overboard.
The notion passed.
Wynn huddled with Magiere and Chap in the skiff's rear. The thundering cracks behind them had ceased as the other ship sank below the surface. But the elven vessel drifted slowly, still burning alive.
She pressed her hands over her face, trying not to cry.
When she dropped them down, the others were repeatedly glancing behind the skiff with somber eyes. She heard the hissing crackle of water meeting fire but could not look.
The elven woman lying at her feet coughed and sputtered but looked as if she would survive. She curled on her side, closed her eyes, and began to sob softly. Her tears were lost in the seawater clinging to her long triangular face.
No one spoke the rest of the way to shore.
When the crewmen shipped the oars and jumped into the surf, Wynn spotted three other skiffs on the beach. Torches had been lit and planted nearby. Leesil and Osha jumped out as well. Other elven crew came out, and they all pulled together until the skiff came to rest upon the gravelly shore.
Chap hopped out, and Wynn climbed after him.
She saw familiar faces among those present, though she knew none of the crew's names. She was relieved to see that the hkomas had survived. His left arm and one side of his face were seared, but he appeared not to notice. Two of the crew hurried in to help the rescued woman from the skiff.
One bowed his head slightly as Sgaile staggered out and Osha helped him to a dry spot on the beach.
Wynn tried to count those who had survived. Just beyond the hkomas stood the girl with the thick braid and oversized boots, whom Wynn had learned was his steward.
"Sgailsheilleache…," the hkomas said and faltered.
He gave no thanks for Sgaile's actions, nor did he commend him for his courage. Anmaglahk did not expect thanks-that much Wynn had learned from her time in Sgaile's company.
Out in the distance, lingering flames from the elven ship flickered upon the water. And then they were gone. Wynn felt the mood around her change as relief sank into mourning.
"May your ancestors take you and watch over you," the hkomas whispered, looking out over the surf and into the empty darkness.
Feeling helpless, Wynn mouthed this same Elvish epitaph for the living ship.
The hkomas's face darkened as he turned upon Magiere.
"Who were they?" he demanded. "Even Ylladon do not charge us in a reckless assault… just to kill our Pairvanean at such cost to themselves."
Magiere could not follow his Elvish, but she stood her ground, returning his glare. Sgaile climbed to his feet, wobbling as he stepped between them.
"She knows nothing more than we do," he said.
"I saw her on deck!" the hkomas growled back. "She sensed something coming… as did the majay-hi."
"Such debate will not h
elp us now," Sgaile countered. "Were you able to send a distress call?"
The hkomas's suspicious gaze stayed on Magiere. "Yes. I reached a sister vessel of my clan. She is a scant two days out of Ghoivne Ajhajhe… a long distance north."
Sgaile nodded with little relief. "She will send word at the next harbor and locate a closer ship. Our people will come."
At this, the young steward fidgeted behind her hkomas and glanced northward.
Osha stepped in, turning to the hkomas. "We must hide the skiffs and get our people off this beach… and see to our wounded. Anything else should wait until morning."
Everyone fell silent at this calm but solid counsel, and finally the hkomas nodded. Both Magiere and Leesil silently watched this exchange, and Wynn felt sudden shame in forgetting to translate for them.
"I will tell you later," she said. "Osha wants to get the boats off the beach and find shelter further inland."
Leesil scanned the waters. "He's right. Especially if any of the other crew survived… and made it to shore."
The skill of swimming came back to Chane. As a boy, his father had taught him-if "teaching" was the right word for being tossed into a cold lake, with rope around his waist to keep him from drowning.
He swam a northward course behind Welstiel several lengths ahead. Hopefully far enough not to be seen when they came ashore-and not to be sensed by Magiere or Chap. His cloak and gear made the process difficult, but neither the cold nor the lack of air concerned him. At first he held his breath, as in his living days. When he finally gasped reflexively, opening his mouth, water surged into his lungs. He choked in panic, but it was only an unpleasant sensation, no longer harmful to a dead man.
Finally, the sea floor rose into sight.
Chane followed Welstiel's lead, clawing along the bottom until there was not enough depth to bother staying submerged. They broke the surface amid the surf, and Chane's soaked cloak became a massive weight. He was halfway up the rocky beach before he stopped, bent over, and vomited salt water from his dead lungs. As he finished stripping off his pack and cloak, the ferals emerged from the water.
One by one, pale faces rose from the dark surf as they shambled from the sea to the shore. Sabel had gone over the side just before Chane, but she was last to emerge, just behind Jakeb.
