CHAPTER NINE
THE WHISTLE SHRILLED THROUGH the dark air. A retreat? Dominic fervently hoped so—it was about time these poxy thugs were served their own poison. He wrenched his sword, locked against a young pirate’s blade, in an abrupt half-circle to free it, drew back for the lunge—and gaped in astonishment. His opponent had sprung backward a good three paces and taken to his heels. All around him, Tarzine men were sprinting for the water.
It was not a retreat to Dominic’s mind, so much as a headlong rout. Basin soldiers were drilled in the importance of an orderly retreat, with a rearguard keeping the opposing forces at bay. To allow an entire army to rush pell-mell from the field was to invite devastating losses.
The Tarzines were not, however, an entire army but a compact strike force, and Dominic soon saw the logic of their sudden flight. Yes, a few men fell to a hastily thrown spear or lucky sword-thrust in the back, but most gained the beach well ahead of the pursuing soldiers. They had to, or they would have no time to launch their boats. These had obviously been pre-assigned; without breaking stride, four or five men grabbed onto each boat and with one great heave had it afloat. With a man on each of the four oars, the little dinghies flew over the water.
Some of Tristan’s men lunged into the sea after them, but the horns soon called them back. They were ill-equipped to fight in chest-high water. Besides, their job here was defense—not slaughter.
FéOLAN GLANCED OVER his shoulder. The boats would soon be upon him. The crews’ attention, though, was fixed shoreward. With luck, he might still remain undetected and broach the ship. What more he might do, on a vessel swarming with enemies, he did not try to guess.
He was tiring too. The ocean was colder and choppier than the lakes he was used to, and his breath was already short from battle and his long sprint. As the first boat to pass close by him drew near, he pulled air deep into his lungs and sank into the black water.
He managed to stay under the surface until that dinghy passed and to rise unnoticed. Time only to suck in a few gasps of air until two more boats overtook him. This time, his chest burned with the need to breathe as he counted ten slow oar strokes. A few sweet breaths, barely time for the gasping to settle into a less urgent rhythm, and he was down in the cold arms of the ocean again.
But his luck failed. Though he escaped detection, the inky underwater darkness blinded him. He did not see the oars cutting through the water, did not know that on a call from the bow lookout one boat veered sharply to correct its course.
As Féolan floated unseen in the dark, an oar blade, pulled with all the brawn and will of a fleeing seaman, struck the back of his head. The world dissolved into a tumbled black void, without up or down or any other clear direction. Without land. Without air. He floundered for the surface—and found nothing.
Eight dinghies clustered around the great ship. Chains rattled and creaked as the boats were hauled, four to a side, onto the deck. A whistle shrilled, and with a great flapping tumult the huge triangular sails were unfurled, raked back on an angle like a stooping falcon. From the long thrusting bowsprit a last sail grew up to the night sky—then, like a dream that fleets through sleep and is lost, the ship was gone.
TRISTAN PACED THE water’s edge, restless with the jangly energy that always remained with him after a battle. The small bundle he happened upon barely caught his interest—just some pirate castoffs, lost in the retreat. He prodded at it with his foot, spreading open the soggy cloth to reveal tall leather boots, supple and soft-soled.
“Dark gods, take me.” What were Féolan’s boots doing here? Tristan looked wildly around, hoping to catch sight of his brother-in-law. He hadn’t seen him since...His heart sank. He couldn’t remember seeing Féolan since midway through the battle.
Sharp with worry, he collared the nearest handful of men and sent them searching. But his mind nagged at him. Boots, stashed at the water’s edge...They could not, as he first feared, have been left by pirates who stole them from Féolan’s body. The Tarzines had had no time, in that breakneck retreat, for looting. No, Féolan had done this himself, and that meant...
Tristan set off again along the surf line, jogging now, his eyes scanning the dark waves. Once again the moon, beloved of Elven folk, was kind. Its silvered rays danced over a dark shape bobbing gently in the tide swell.
Dominic found his brother in time to see him struggling back to shore, his arms clasped around a limp body.
“It’s Féolan.”
Together they dragged Féolan out of the water and laid him gently in the sand. Fear tightened Tristan’s voice.
“Dom, I think he’s drowned.”
IT WAS A RECENT recruit to the Blanchette garrison, the son of a fisherman, who pressed the water from Féolan’s lungs and brought him, coughing and retching, back to them. The young man stepped back, overawed by his brush with royalty.
“He should be all right now, sire...sires.” The poor fellow blushed and bobbed his head, and Tristan pulled his attention away from his friend long enough to rescue him. He got to his feet and clapped the soldier on his shoulder.
“My most hearty thanks to you. What is your name, my man?”
“Barnaby, sir. Sire.”
“Barnaby, I will see that the garrison commander knows of your quick action. You have saved my friend’s life. But you’d best report back to your unit now.”
“Yes, sire. I will.” And the shy fellow escaped at the speed of a retreating Tarzine pirate.
By the time Tristan turned back to his friend, Féolan was breathing more comfortably, and Dominic was fingering the back of his head.
“Tris, he’s been wounded. See if you can get a torch over here—it’s too dark to see.”
Féolan’s hand waved off the suggestion. “Never mind that.” His voice was surprisingly strong. He planted a hand in the sand, pushed himself to sitting and turned to Dominic.
“It’s your children. They’ve been taken. I tried to save them, but I was too late. From the depths of my heart, I am sorry.”