“Don’t be daft. They’d never let you.”
“Maddy, listen.” Matthieu was in an agony of impatience. “We’ll just wait till they’re gone, take our horses and follow them. They’ll never know we’re there.”
Madeleine was shaking her head before he was halfway done.
“Matthieu, stop right now. No. The answer is no. This isn’t players fooling at fighting—it’s real. It’s dangerous. We’d be in the way and—oh, I’m not even going to argue it. It’s just ridiculous.”
Matthieu’s face darkened and his jaw jutted out. She hadn’t dissuaded him; she had goaded him on.
“You’re afraid,” he said. “You’re afraid of everything now! You won’t even risk getting your gown dirty. But I’m going, with or without you. I won’t get in the way—I’m just going to find a safe place away from the battle and watch my dad and Tristan kick those pirates into the ocean.
You
can stay home and be a little lady and never have an adventure ever again, for all I care.”
He jumped up from the table, scattering the chiggers pieces, and leaned his face close to her. “And if you rat on me, Maddy, I swear by the dark gods—I will never trust you or be your friend again!” And with that he headed for the door.
Madeleine watched him go, trying to pull The Right Thing
to Do from the confused tangle of thoughts in her head. She couldn’t let Matthieu go riding off into the night alone; that was clear. He probably wouldn’t even remember the way. She would have to tell Justine and stop him.
And never have an adventure again
. The words hit her like a slap. It was the little fear that whispered to her sometimes at night—that under the pretty clothes and elegant dinners, adult life was essentially dull. And in spite of herself, she imagined the thrill of what Matthieu had proposed—the two of them, riding down a dark road together, witnessing the triumphant defense of the Verdeau Coast.
“Matthieu, wait,” she said.
D
RESSED IN HIS CUSTOMARY BLACK
, Turga had little fear of being spotted as he eased himself out of the fighting and began to climb the hill overlooking the beach. Only the gold gleaming at his neck and wrist might betray him in the moonlight. He had affected his dark attire, so at odds with the taste of most of his countrymen, to stand out from the common rank and file and proclaim his authority. Tonight, though, he was content to blend in.
The slope was sandy, crumbling under his boots, and he was compelled to sheath his sword and grasp with both hands at the tough clumps of sedge and dune-vetch to pull himself up.
The climb was hardly worth the bother. Turga had hoped that from a high vantage he would have a better sense of the momentum of battle. But although the moon lit up the open ocean like a beacon, it only glanced at the riotous struggle beyond the hill in stingy fitful glimpses. Impossible to say who had the upper hand.
He had, perhaps, grown a little too bold, venturing so close to Blanchette. Still, it had been a free ride up to now and only a matter of time before even these soft Krylians mounted some kind of defense. A spirited defense, he had to admit, both swifter and more ferocious than he could have predicted.
Well, it was good for his men to face trained warriors for a change—kept them sharp. He would let them fight a while longer, and then move them back to the ship before too many were lost. When victory was in doubt, it was always better to retreat in strength. In a rout, they would be slaughtered trying to launch the dinghies.
He allowed his eyes to roam over the battle one last time before turning to make his way down. He did not intend to be cut off from his own ship. In fact, he would walk along the ridge of hill a little farther, descend well away from the melee and sound the retreat from the water’s edge.
A rustle, nearly at his left hand, brought him to a halt. Keen eyes narrowed to slits swept the dark landscape before resting on the large clump of shrubbery before him. One tawny hand slid to his sword-hilt while the other drifted out to finger a thorny spray of foliage.
Doubtless it was just some night creature, made restless by his presence. But Turga had not become warlord of land and sea by turning his back on potential enemies. He pulled his sword and thrust aside an armful of prickly branches.
I
T WAS HER
dream all over again. As Matthieu shrank back against her, Madeleine stared, frozen, at the pirate towering over her. Backlit by the moon, he was a dark silhouette—all but the flash of teeth as he grinned at the two children huddled behind the furze bush.
But his teeth aren’t rotten, she thought, her mind looping into nonsense. His teeth aren’t rotten, so this can’t be a dream!
Matthieu gave a sudden heave and was on his feet, groping at
his side for his hunting knife. “C’mon, Madeleine, he’s not that big!” he shouted. “We can—”
The man was not so big, perhaps, but he had the speed and power of a mountain cat. Matthieu was disarmed, pinned against the pirate’s side and a hair away from disembowelment before Madeleine was fully standing.
“Leave him alone!” She shrieked at the man in fear and rage, but at the sharp gesture of his sword she fell silent. He nodded approvingly, stepped back a pace and stared at her. The white teeth flashed again, and he spoke now, a deep bass voice pitched quiet and calm, the words a blur of meaningless sound.
The gestures were clear enough. He backed Matthieu up against his sister at sword point, rummaged in his coat and produced a length of rope. The smell of tar rose to Madeleine’s nostrils as rough sticky fibers bit into her wrist. He trussed their hands together, Matthieu’s behind his back, Madeleine’s in front, and Madeleine understood that any struggle on her part would wrench cruelly at her brother’s arm sockets. Then the pirate’s fingers closed like a smith’s vice around Madeleine’s upper arm. A gleaming sword tip came to rest, first under her chin and then under Matthieu’s. They didn’t need to understand the man’s muttered words to understand the threat.
And then they were dragged off, across the ridge of the hill and down toward the beach. They had to scurry crablike to make it down the hill with their hands joined, and the pirate gave them no time to place their feet but simply hauled them along, yanking them upright when they stumbled, the hard fingers biting into Madeleine’s arm if she faltered.
He hustled them through the soft sandy soil at the foot of the
hill toward the sea, and for a while Madeleine was in such shock she could not think ahead to their destination. But when her feet hit the hard-packed ridges of sand that marked the high-tide line, her head snapped up and she saw the great hulk of ship looming against the silvery sky.
A cry of fear escaped her, and she dug in her heels and heaved back against the hard grip of the man’s hand. If they were taken on that ship, there would be no going back.
But resistance was futile, even had he not been so strong. The sword swept up against Matthieu’s neck and pressed until Matthieu was forced back against her. The pirate pressed his face into Madeleine’s ear and spoke to her with quiet menace. No bluster, only cold threat, and she knew beyond certainty that if she cried out again Matthieu would be dead.
Minutes later they came upon the dinghies studded on the wet sand.
T
HE TARZINES WERE
no cowards, despite their preference for helpless prey. They fought with a fierce gusto bordering on glee, and they moved faster than any humans Féolan had encountered. Still, the garrison at Blanchette was large and well trained, and he had little doubt the pirates would soon be driven back
He was never sure what made him glance down the beach. The air was full of shouting and screams, groans and roared curses. Even his Elf-ears could not have picked out one young voice. Yet something carried enough to prick at him—perhaps just the hint of a sound in the wrong register for fighting men. Perhaps a drifting wisp of the children’s fear.
Precious seconds ticked by as Féolan fought his way clear of
the worst press of battle. But once he gained the sidelines, the night swallowed him. Slipping behind a twisted little pine tree, he scanned the beach, his vague sense of “wrongness” swelling suddenly to sharp alarm.
There was a figure among the dinghies, he saw. Even in the dark, his sharp eyes noted the strange, hunched shape, the clumsy way it moved. A man with a large burden, perhaps, or...
The moon sailed free of the shredded clouds and, as though drawn to its own likeness, flooded down onto Madeleine’s hair, turning her golden curls into a gleaming beacon. She sat with Matthieu in a dinghy, her round, frightened face a pale moon on earth.
Féolan was running before his mind had taken in what he had seen. Someone, somehow, had Dominic’s children.
A dark figured heaved the dinghy into the water, hopping over the gunnel as he pushed off. The Elf’s long legs flew over the sandy ground. Even if the pirate made ship, he would be aboard without a crew. Féolan could have the children safely away while the battle ashore yet raged. He would swim to the god-blighted ship and haul himself up the anchor rope if need be.
M
ATTHIEU’S ARMS HURT
so badly the pain almost blotted out his fright. Being hauled down the hill and across the beach had been worst for him, with his arms bound behind him. Every mis-step and stumble had yanked his shoulders backward from their sockets. Clambering into the little boat had been worse. Now, relieved at least to be sitting down, he pulled his left leg over the seat to straddle it sideways and take the strain off his shoulders. He wished he could look at Maddy. He wondered if she was
crying. His own face was a mess of dribbling tears and snot—and no way to wipe it.
Now the tears threatened again and along with them a liquid shaft of fear that made his legs watery and weak. The shore was receding fast, lurching away over the shoulder of the pirate in creaking oar-thrusts, and the thought that it might be his last sight of home brought a great choking sob out of his throat. He felt Madeleine squirm closer behind him, her cold hands groping for and then closing over his. Matthieu stared at the beach as though he could hold it still in his gaze. In that moment he saw it: a tall slight figure, indistinct against the dark shore but racing like the very wind, racing so fast it took only moments to realize who it was.
“Féolan,” Matthieu breathed. He snapped his face away, afraid to look in case the pirate noticed his flare of hope. They would be rescued. He would go home...
G
ODS OF THE DEEP
, he would have to swim after all. If he was seen giving chase in a dinghy, all the pirate had to do was hold the children’s lives hostage. He could neither risk a bow shot nor continue the pursuit. Secrecy was his only ally here.
Stripping off his tall boots and his coat, Féolan plunged silently into the sea. “Grant me stealth and secrecy now,” he prayed, wishing he could black his face. He did not follow directly after the dinghy, but set out for the ship’s stern, hoping to angle away from the man’s line of vision.
He was twenty feet out, no more, when he heard the whistle shrilling through the night air. The pirate was standing in the dinghy, facing the shore where his men still fought. He blew
three, long piercing blasts, half-deafening to Féolan from where he treaded water, and then a long series of staccato trills. Carried and amplified by the water, the whistle had an instant effect on the Tarzine men.
Casting stealth aside, Féolan put his head down and swam with everything he had.
T
HE 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.
F
éOLAN 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.