within it. And the North ward was filled with the sound of great angelic wings.
All four of them reeled; Eneko was the first to recover. Perhaps Pierre was right; perhaps he had grown in skill! But this was no time for pride, though the confidence that the fleeting realization gave him was a bulwark under his feet.
They were now no longer within the bowels of the ship. They, and their circle, wards and all, were . . . elsewhere. Not quite out of the world, but not in it, either. It was a place of swirling darkness, green and black flame, and sickly, polluted clouds.
Moving sinuously through it, looming over them, was—something. Serpentine, but it was no serpent. Black and green, with a mouth of needle-sharp, needle-thin teeth, long as stilettos and twice as lethal, piggy little eyes, and a strange, spiny crest. It confronted them.
No. It confronted Lopez. It focused on him, and drew back to strike.
Eneko Lopez drew strength from his companions, strength from his faith, and from the Archangel of the North to strike at the thing.
Perhaps it had not expected the blow, for it did not move out of the way. Perhaps it had expected that they would be paralyzed with fear. It neither dodged, nor did it invoke shields. The blow, a sharp lance of golden light modeled on the archangel's own weapon, pierced the thing's hide. It opened its maw in a silent scream.
Then, huge, slimy and vastly strong, the creature bled and fled, and they whirled away out of that not-world and were back in the belly of the ship. There was nothing left but the faintly glowing ward-circle, the overturned chalice, four thin Ward-candles, and a puddle of blood on the floor just outside the circle. The blood was black and stank.
'Well, now we know that it is more than just a conflict between commercial rivals,' said Eneko, grimly. 'The eel-thing smelled of the far north. That is confirmed by the Archangel of the North's intervention. I perceive the hand of Chernobog.'
'But Eneko, there was more to it than that. It knew you—and feared you. The target of all these ships is nothing other than . . . you. We must pray and summon intercession,' said Francis.
'And that was no eel,' added Diego.
Eneko raised his eyebrow. 'It was human, once. But it looked like an eel to me.'
'It was a lamprey,' said Diego, with certainty. 'A hagfish.'
'But it was enormous!' said Pierre
Diego shrugged. 'It is very old. Fish don't stop growing as long as they are alive.'
'Lampreys are parasites, aren't they?' Trust Pierre's basic curiosity to get him sidetracked.
'They can be. They like to feed off living flesh.' And trust Diego to follow him down that diversion.
Francis cleared his throat. 'In all of that . . . was I the only one to hear the panpipes? Further off but still distinctly.'
'Panpipes?' mused Eneko. 'As we heard in the scrying in Rome?'
'Yes.'
Eneko shook his head. 'No, I did not hear them, but I'd guess you were right. This is another attempt to either kill us or to lead us from the course again. And that course leads to the place where there is already some old power. Elemental, crude, and which does not love us. We know now where Chernobog and his minions focus their attention: Corfu.
'Brothers,' Eneko said, carefully, 'I believe that the Lord will not be averse to the judicious use of magic in the material plane. After all, if this galley is captured or sunk—'
Pierre grinned mirthlessly. 'It will be, after all, purely in self-defense.'
'Purely,' Eneko assured him. The wards flared, as if in agreement.
Chapter 31
'Benito was right,' said Erik, up on the poop deck after a spell at the oars. 'The carracks will pass to leeward of our stern.'
'They might be in cannon-shot for a short time,' said the bombardier, 'depending on what cannon they have on board.'
'That would depend on who they are. Genovese most likely.'
Erik squinted into the distance. 'The pennant on that lead vessel is a black horse in flames.'
Eberhard of Brunswick drew a breath between his teeth. 'Emeric of Hungary! Our spies reported he was massing troops. But it was assumed that they were for his campaign against Iskander Beg. Where does he get a fleet from?'
'And where is he going with it?' asked Francesca, from where she stood under the canopy.
The old statesman narrowed his eyes and nodded. 'A good point. Helmsman.'
'Yes, milord.'
'Do you see anything that gives you any idea whose ships those are?'
The helmsman, the sort of man who looked as if he'd been at sea on the very first hollowed log, and had only come ashore briefly since, nodded. 'Aye. Not Genovese, Sir. Byzantine. You can tell by the way they rig the foresail.'
