dismay.
The first attack came as, standing at the rails, we saw a white puff of smoke sweep up from the side of the nearest red ship. We heard a whirring whoosh like an entire flock of swans whistling through the air overhead. There sounded a sharp report from across the water. Crack! In the self-same instant, the mast was struck as by an unseen hand, shaking the tall timber to the keel beam, whereupon the topmost tip sprouted bright red-blue flames. The Sea Wolves gaped in disbelief at this dire wonder, and asked one another what it could mean. The Greeks, however, knew all too well, and threw up their hands in horror.
I became aware of someone shouting in Arabic. 'Get down!' he called, and I turned to see Faysal clambering over the empty rowing benches in an effort to reach me. 'Aidan!' he cried. 'Tell them-tell everyone to get down!'
As he was speaking, a cry went up from those at the rail: another white cloud of smoke puffed out, followed by the strange whirring noise, and suddenly the sea gushed up over the hull to rain over everyone. I dashed seawater from my eyes and when I looked again, behold! the sea was burning with bright red-blue flames.
'It is Greek fire,' Faysal told me. 'The Byzantines use it against our ships in war. It is a liquid fire that burns everything it touches, and can only be extinguished with sand.'
The sea hissed and sizzled where the strange flames danced, before sinking abruptly and throwing up a thick white cloud of steam. 'We have no sand-what can we do?' I wondered, seeing no way to prevent the raiders from throwing the stuff. They seemed able to hurl it from a distance with startling ease and impunity.
'Let godly men pray to God,' Faysal declared. 'There is no deliverance apart from Allah!'
Harald Bull-Roar was once more master of his own ships and soul, however, and threw himself into their defence with breathtaking zeal. His stentorian call rising above the cries of the men, he commanded our small fleet to split, each ship to go its separate way; this strategy forced the raiders to confine their attack to individual vessels and choose their marks more carefully.
Thus, we were driven back to the rowing benches, in an effort to move the ships. In less time than it takes to tell, the Sea Wolf pack was scattering in four different directions, and the red raiders were struggling to turn around without losing their wind advantage.
Two Viking ships succeeded in crossing safely behind the raiders, leaving only Harald's dragonship and the remaining longship in harm's way. Thorkel skillfully guided us onto a glancing course, turning the unprotected hull away from the attacker, thereby reducing our presentation many times over-the efficacy of which was amply demonstrated with the next attack. For, as we swung onto our new heading, the nearest red ship spewed forth another flaming missile.
This time, upon seeing the tell-tale puff of smoke, I was able to follow the progress of the hissing object as it hurtled through the sky to strike the water a scant few paces from the rail. The next attempt cast up spray the same distance from the opposite rail, which brought a taunting clamour from the Danes as they mocked their attacker's lack of skill. They did not, I noticed, slacken the pace of their rowing, however, but continued with renewed dedication.
Seeing the dragonship had slipped their grasp, the red ship turned its attention to the longship nearest us, and with devastating result.
White smoke belched out from the hull near the prow and I heard a whir in the air, and then a splintering crash. Flames appeared on the hull of our sister vessel, leaping and licking in long reddish-blue tongues, running wildly along the rail, spilling into the ship and into the water.
Sea Wolves stripped off their siarcs and commenced beating at the flames with their clothes, which only served to spread the fire the more. The ship itself began to burn, throwing up an oily black smoke.
Harald, standing at the sternpost, called for his pilot to turn our ship, and, heedless of our own safety, we rowed to the aid of our companions.
Two more fiery missiles sank harmlessly into the sea before a fourth struck the sail of the burning longship, spilling a brilliant torrent over the surface of the sail and raining down fiery droplets onto those below.
We lowered our heads and hunched our backs, driving the dragonship forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a figure leaping to the rail; in the same motion a line snaked out across the distance between the two ships. I looked and saw Jarl Harald tugging mightily on the hook-ended rope, which was now firmly attached to the burning longship. He roared for his men, and three Sea Wolves ran to help him drag the two ships together.
Within moments, the rowers on the near side of the ship were pulling in their oars and standing to help our comrades into our boat. One after another they fled the fire; several sailors were singed, but none were badly burned. And no sooner had all been taken aboard, than it was up oars and shove the burning vessel away before the flames could spread.
Harald commanded everyone to return to their rowing, calling a cadence for speed. I thought we would try to escape now, keeping the flaming longship between us and our attackers. But the Sea King was dauntless and bold, choosing to counter the raiders' attack and gain, if possible, victory. In this, he showed his true mettle.
Instead of turning tail and fleeing, Harald ordered Thorkel to bring the dragonprow sharply around behind the burning craft-a perilous scheme since the vessel was now almost completely engulfed in flames: the square sail was a vast, shimmering curtain of fire; smoke rolled thick and black from the blazing hull.
Slowly the dragonship turned, passing alongside the doomed vessel prow to stern-so close that the flame- roar drowned out all other sound, so close I could feel the heat-blast on my face.
One gust of the fitful wind and our own ship would be caught up in the blaze. Crouching low, I rowed as best I could, keeping one eye on the sail overhead and hoping against hope the wind did not shift. Not so Harald Bull- Roar; he lashed the grapple rope to the sternpost and called Thorkel to make for the red ships.
Cursing his sorry fate, Thorkel laboured over the steering oar, working it this way and that, fighting to keep the line smooth and clean so as not to waste a single stroke of the rowers' blades-a chore made much the more difficult since we were now towing a burning wreck.
'Faster!' roared Harald, his voice booming out in exhortation to his oarsmen. 'Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!' he grunted his encouragement.
Aided by the rescued seamen, we plied the oars and the doughty pilot brought the dragonprow around sharply, driving straight for the nearest red raider. As the further red ship swung away, the raider in our path prepared to loose his fiery projectiles.
Twice I heard the whirring whistle of the missiles as they passed-so near that I smelled the acrid oily pitch scent as they sped by. The third time we were not so lucky.
Closing on the red ship-we could see the enemy now, and see also the bronze tube at the prow by which, through unknown means, the Greek fire vomited forth-the distance decreasing with every juddering thump of my heart, I saw the white smoke belch from the brazen tube, heard the whiz of the weapon and saw it soar straight towards the open hull.
Brave Dugal saw it, too, and up he jumped, holding out his hands as if to catch the thing.
'Dugal!' I shouted with all my might. 'No!'
Down and down it came, plummeting from heaven with the speed of a falling rock. Up Dugal reached, straining for his catch. The projectile sailed over his head. Dugal leaped, hands high. He must have got a hand to the missile, for it appeared to bounce from his fingertips and up into the lower part of the sail, which arrested its flight. The thing slid from the sail and fell into the bottom of the ship.
I saw then that the missile was nothing more than a rounded earthen jar, made to shatter and spill out its vile liquid. But this particular jar did not burst. Perhaps in diverting the jar into the sail, Dugal kept it from breaking. Certainly, he saved us, for even as it landed with a hollow thump on the hull timbers, Dugal scooped it up and dived for the prow.
As Dugal ran, a portion of the Greek fire spilled down the side of the pot and splattered onto the handle of an oar. Blue-red flames instantly started up where the stuff touched, setting the wood alight. The startled Sea Wolf stood up and flung the oar into the sea before it could do any damage.
Meanwhile, Dugal scrambled with the terrible jar to the dragonhead prow, took aim, and hurled it back at the red ship.
It was an act of valour worthy of a hero, and had we been but a few hundred paces closer, it would have been magnificent. As it was, the jar simply plunged into the water and sank with a bubbling hiss.
Still, the Sea Wolves, greatly inspired by this display of courage, cheered him as heartily as if he had driven the enemy ship under the waves with a mighty clout.
