then vanished behind the closing shapes of two massive galleys. More rocks flew, and splashes rose from the water beyond the great ships, but finally Roland’s sailboat darted into view, racing toward the shore.
“Come and get us, you bastards!” Karkald growled, and Tam silently repeated the prayer. He could sense the indecision in the enemy captains-the small prize of the sailboat, almost certainly doomed if the galleys turned and followed it toward the shallows. But here came the much larger prize of the caravels, the vexing little ships that so often before had darted away from the galleys rather than face the larger ships in battle.
Now the galleys were turning, oars pulsing, great hulls slicing the water as they veered toward the elven fleet.
“They’re taking the bait!” Deltan shouted, as Tamarwind called for more wind. Juliay spun her spoons with intense concentration, the wooden utensils a blur in the large, empty bowl. Somehow she managed to avoid clicking against the sides, and freshening wind surged in the sails.
The enemy galleys came at them in a line of three abreast, several giants at the ready in the prow of each vessel. Tam knew that they would have plenty of rocks on hand, ready to unleash a devastating barrage as soon as they got close enough.
“Now-make ready to shoot!” he shouted.
Immediately sails slackened on the elven ships, though the sharp bows remained pointed directly toward the advancing Crusaders.
“Remember-aim low,” Tamarwind urged, speaking quietly to Karkald as if he were worried that the enemy, still five hundred yards away, would overhear.
“I’ll remember,” said the dwarf, with a wry smile. “After all, I made the damned thing!”
Already he was squinting along the grooved sights, lining the massive barrel onto the prow of the nearest Crusader galley. Juliay slowed the stirring of her windspoons, and the Swallow settled into a gentle roll. Soon all the elven vessels bobbed gently on the placid waters while the three galleys swept closer.
Tamarwind gave the signal, a sharp downward chop of his hand. Deltan had been waiting and watching from the rigging, and at the gesture he gave a single, loud blast of his flugel horn.
Immediately Karkald pulled the release.
The caravel lurched backward as the spring whipped free to fling the silvery balls through the air. On each side another elven ship shuddered, and the air rang with the whining sounds of bending springs and swiftly flying missiles.
Karkald’s aim was good. Tamarwind saw the spreading cloud of shot streak outward, arcing high above the waves before settling back toward the water. Many of the balls struck the Crusader ship, scattering across the deck near the bow, instantly blossoming into flames. Screams of fear and pain echoed across the water as, within moments, the entire wooden vessel was engulfed by roaring fire. The wounded ship shuddered like a living thing as orange tongues of fire crackled along the hull, devouring the oars and spindly mast. Anguished cries rent the air as elves, giants, and goblins hurled themselves from the flaming deck. Some of these hapless victims were themselves ablaze, their flesh hissing as they struck the water. Quickly the hull was obscured by smoke and steam, but still came the insatiable roar of the flames and the horrible sounds of the dying ship.
To either side the other galleys were also afire, though neither had been hit so solidly as the middle vessel. Water splashed across the decks as many goblins fought the flames. Others manned the oars, slowly backing the two surviving vessels away from the caravels and the death pyre of the third ship. A column of black smoke rose into the sky as the doomed vessel was gradually consumed right down to the water line.
“Look-we’ve knocked all of them out of the fight!” cried a crewman on the Swallow.
Whoops and shouts swept from the elven ships as the fleet of caravels wheeled away. Druids cast their magic, and as wind again filled the sails it was a triumphant fleet, with pennants flying and crews cheering, that sailed back to the anchorage below the Mercury Terrace.
Z ystyl clumped across the encampment and nodded to the two guards, giants who stood outside Sir Christopher’s palisade. He couldn’t see them, of course, but their auras-of scent, sound, and vitality-clearly marked them in the Delver’s mind. The first was full of lust, he sensed, yearning for a giantess he hadn’t seen in a long time. The second was a dullard, head fogged by too much firebrew consumed the previous night.
Numerous adaptations allowed the Unmirrored commander to move about under the light of Nayve’s sun, which had at first been almost unbearably painful to all his senses. A shield of silver was now attached to his helmet, deflecting the horrible light and providing him with an area of permanent shadow. His body was cloaked in a silk of fine weave and bright white color, a covering that extended right down to his fingertips. Only his sensitive nostrils were bared-as always, those moist apertures sniffed and sucked at the air, drawing in sensations that were far deeper than mere odors.
Leaving the giants behind, Zystyl relished the cool shade of the knight’s great stone-walled house. Shrugging the silken cloak from his shoulders, he allowed the sensations of warmth and chill against his skin to locate the walls and arched doorways surrounding him. With unerring accuracy he started toward the knight’s audience room.
And then, hearing the sound of a harsh voice, he halted, listening.
“… a time when I would have had you killed… burned at the stake.” It was the knight, Sir Christopher, speaking patiently, as if to a recalcitrant child. “You should be grateful that you have lived all these years, have been granted the chance to serve me.”
Zystyl listened and smelled, ensuring that he was alone in the great hall. Soundlessly he sidled closer to the closed door of the audience chamber.
“You are a fool-a blind fool,” snapped another voice, which then dropped into a register of bleak despair. “Or perhaps it’s myself who’s the fool… laboring in your name for all these years. How do I know you don’t hold me with an empty threat?”
Christopher laughed. “The druid crone is allowed to live at my sufferance… and my sufferance depends upon your steady labors. Do not think to change our arrangement now, or I assure you that your precious Miradel will pay the price. Take a look at her villa tonight, blacksmith… look long and hard, for it is only your labors on my behalf that keeps your precious druidess alive.”
A door slammed in the distance, and the Delver knew that someone had just left the audience room by a different exit. And he knew who that person was.
After a moment Zystyl cleared his throat and stomped noisily toward the room. He heard Sir Christopher rise out of his chair when he entered. The dwarf could smell the anxiety in the man, hear the tension in the rapidity of his breathing. Beneath his gauze mask the Delver’s metal mouth twisted into a smile-he had his ally at a disadvantage, and he would make use of the opportuntity presented to him.
“Your galleys have been driven from the lake, those that survive,” said Zystyl bluntly.
“We were met by a new weapon,” snapped the human. Frustration and fury thrummed beneath the surface of his voice, and the Delver relished the knight’s agitation. “Something we have never seen before. Globes of metal flung through the air from the deck of the enemy’s caravels… they shattered, and burned like the fires of the devil on my ships.”
“I heard the springs,” Zystyl replied. “It is a mobile battery, much like the weapons that the Seers used in the First Circle. Quite deadly, I imagine, to thin-hulled wooden ships. They have a command of metal technology, in Circle at Center-it is no surprise that they are putting it to such good use.”
“These are the uses of Satan!” Sir Christopher retorted. “Not the forging of good, honest steel-in the manner God intended for His warriors of virtue.”
“Ah… the forging of metal. You continue to get many tools-all your swords and armor, yes-from the druid prisoner?”
“As I have for all these years, yes.”
“It was a fortunate thing for you that you captured the man who, among all druids, is the one who knows the forging of steel.”
“It was the will of God.”
“Then let us use that will for more constructive purposes.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“What I have suggested for years. Now, perhaps, you will listen to me?”
“You may speak. But remember, the man who shapes steel is mine… he answers to my commands, and only I know the secret of his bondage.”
