“Of all the enemies who deserve to die,” spat Karkald, “that bastard blacksmith would be at the top of my list. If not for him, they’d have no swords, no steel heads on their spears and arrows. I suppose the scum is making himself rich on this!” It was an opinion the dwarf had expressed many times, but he still managed to work up a good measure of vehemence.
“You might be right. But I still can’t help wondering why… why he works so hard for our enemies.” Darryn Forgemaster was not the only person changed by this war, far from it. Tam remembered the changes in Belynda since she had been a captive of Sir Christopher, so long ago. The elfwoman he had known for many centuries had seemingly vanished in that instant, to be replaced by someone who was as dark and bitter in her own way as any warrior accustomed to death and destruction.
But now their attention was directed across the lake, where the long galleys of the Crusaders could be seen gliding along the shore.
“They’re up to something,” the dwarf grunted, squinting across the sun-brightened waters. “Natac’s not far away from there.”
“They’re still a mile or more from Miradel’s cove,” said Tamarwind, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt. He knew that Natac and Roland would be trapped if the galleys continued on their current course.
Deltan gestured to the ships in the harbor below, a dozen three-masted caravels currently riding at anchor. In the prow of several of the ships gleamed a silver contraption, a miniature version of the great weapon atop this tower. “Perhaps it’s time to give your nautical battery a test.”
Karkald grimaced. “You know Natac wanted to wait until we had all of the ships outfitted. To get the most out of the surprise.”
The elf nodded. “I know-but he couldn’t have foreseen this! And it’s not just the Swallow that’s ready-we can shoot from the Nighthawk and the Falcon, too! Besides, we’ll probably get out there, and the galleys’ll turn after us and we can get away without firing a shot. That’ll give the Osprey time enough to race for safety.”
“I can’t argue with that,” the dwarf agreed. Tamarwind nodded decisively.
“Ahoy-crew of the Swallow!” Deltan shouted down from the tower. “Prepare to sail-we’re coming down!”
Instantly the deck of the ship became a beehive of activity. Elven crewmen started to hoist the sails, while others cleared away the clutter of routine sail-mending and rope work, or made ready to cast off the lines. In moments the two elves and Karkald had scrambled down the stairs and were running along the dock. By the time they boarded the caravel, the ship’s druid, Juliay, had brought out her bowl and windspoons.
“Cast off!” cried Deltan, as magical wind swirled upward and began to billow the sails.
“Look.” Karkald said the word quietly, but his blood chilled as he looked across the lake. “There’s the Osprey.”
Roland Boatwright’s ship had broken from its cove, twin sails full of wind. But the big war galleys were close now, and with their prey in plain sight they wheeled majestically, turning into position for an attack.
N atac stood with his hand on the line, leaning out to add his slim weight to the digging of the sailboat’s keel. The war galley loomed huge off the port bow, and Roland was rapidly spinning the spoon in his wooden bowl, casting every bit of wind he could muster into the taut canvas.
In a rush of wake the Osprey scooted past the first of the big ships. Several giants roared and hooted, then hurled big rocks. With some trepidation Natac watched the boulders soar close, but Roland twisted the tiller at the last minute. The crushing missiles landed to either side of the racing boat, raising tall cascades beside the gunwales, showering the deck with water. Swiftly the little sailboat raced away, and the next volley of stones fell just short of the stern.
But now they saw the other two galleys, big ships waiting farther away from shore. Those vessels had been screened by the first of the Crusader vessels, and were perfectly positioned to block the Osprey’s escape either to the right or the left. Giants loomed in the prows and sterns of both galleys, while the banks of oars, powered by rowing goblins, pushed the massive hulls through the water with churning speed. Natac could hear the drumming, the cadence of pounding feet and rhythmic chants made by the laboring rowers. The pair of galleys seemed to leap forward, closing the gap with startling quickness.
Beyond the enemy ships, far away across the lake, Natac caught a glimpse of white sails and felt a momentary chagrin. The caravels had sortied! His disciplined plan, to wait until all of his ships could be outfitted with Karkald’s new weapon, had been thrown into disorder by the need to rescue him. Still, the fleet’s presence at least raised the hope of escape. The warrior turned back to Roland, ready to announce his observation..
“I see ’em,” the druid declared from his position at the tiller.
“We need to buy some time!” Natac urged, knowing the caravels would not reach them for many minutes.
“I can do a little something about that-but it’s a risk!” Roland said.
“This whole war’s a risk,” Natac replied. He held the line and watched, his heart pounding with that precious excitement raised by a contest in which the prize was survival.
Roland pulled the tiller again, adjusting the force of his magical wind so that it still roared against his boat from the stern quarter. The little craft cut a tight half circle through the water, slicing through the gentle waves, now racing directly away from the two galleys-and straight back to the shore, only a few miles away.
T amarwind stood at the helm of his ship. A stiff wind filled the sails, pushing him on a course of interception. The other caravels of the little flotilla fanned out to either side, a line of white canvas and sleek hulls. He had not ordered them to follow, but he was gratified to see that the Nayvian fleet had taken to the lake with alacrity.
Beside him, Deltan Columbine grinned, white teeth flashing. His hair streamed in the wind, and his face, bronzed by years of sun and weather, glowed with a golden sheen of vitality. Just for the joy of it, the poet-warrior raised his flugel, sent brash notes ringing across the water. Just beyond Deltan, Karkald leaned over his battery, fiddling with the sights, checking the ammunition in the compact breech. He, too, was weathered and browned, his full beard flowing to either side of his broad chest.
How much we’ve changed, reflected Tamarwind. He looked at his own hands, browned, muscular, and calloused in a manner that he never would have imagined. Years of warfare had hardened his fingers and his palms, just as those same years had hardened him all over. Life had become a constant fight to protect the city. Matters of life and death were faced every day. Tamarwind himself had made mistakes that had sent brave elves to their deaths. And yet, in a secret part of his mind, he admitted to a bizarre vitality to this life, an appreciation of each day that he had never before imagined.
For the most part, it had been Natac and Karkald who had instructed the elves in matters of defense. The human warrior had studied many ways of making war, Miradel frequently utilizing the Wool of Time to teach him more about his birth-world. And Natac had put that knowledge to good use. When the attackers sent a wave of centaurs advancing rapidly down the causeway, the Nayvians had quickly formed a barrier of giants armed with massive pikes, an array of sharpened steel that had effectively thwarted the thundering charge. Sir Christopher sent legions of bowmen to shower the giants with arrows, and Natac had overpowered them with volleys from Deltan Columbine’s deadly longbows. And when the huge war galleys had been launched, more than ten years ago, Natac had enlisted Roland Boatwright to build the caravels. The little sailing ships, while unable to significantly damage the galleys, were-with the aid of druid-cast winds-always able to escape the lumbering Crusader vessels. The contrast had resulted in a situation where each side could still send ships across the lake, but neither could attain full control.
During the same time, the Seer dwarf from the First Circle had shared many secrets of technology with the druids and elves of the Nayvian army. Karkald’s skill at stoneworking had, with the aid of goblin labor, erected the towers on the island’s shoreline. His recent discovery of a large quarry of flamestone, existing right in the city, had allowed coolfyre to be developed, and the bright lights had proven invaluable in night battles. It had been the dwarf’s knowledge of metals-since the capture of Darryn Forgemaster-that enabled the defenders to make steel weapons and armor for much of the army, as well as to craft the mighty springs that powered the newest weapon. When Karkald’s great batteries had been mounted in the towers, the galleys were at last held at bay.
Now, with the smaller versions of those weapons placed in three of the caravels, the war was entering another period of change, Tamarwind reflected. Once again, he raced toward battle, hoping for the key victory, the triumph that would change the war forever.
But then his attention was drawn to the drama on the lake before them. He gasped as the Osprey turned,
