"Sarikali," Thero murmured. "What do you remember of it?"

Seregil leaned his arms on the rail. Though his gaze was on the passing islands, Alec could tell that his friend was seeing another place and time.

"It's a strange, beautiful place. I used to hear music there, just coming out of the air. When it was over I couldn't remember the tunes. Sometimes people hear voices, too."

"Ghosts?" asked Alec.

Seregil shrugged. "We call them Bash 'wax, the Ancients. Those who claim to have seen them always describe them as tall, with black hair and eyes, and skin the color of strong tea."

"I've heard there are dragons there, too," said Thero.

"Just fingerlings, mostly, but they're common as lizards. The

larger ones keep to the mountains. A lucky thing, too. They can be dangerous."

"Is it true that they're magical from the start, but that they don't develop speech and intelligence until they're quite large?"

"That's right, which means you're more likely to be killed by one the size of a hound than those bigger than houses. Only a few of the fingerlings survive and they move up into the mountains as they grow. If you do happen to meet one of any size, always treat it with respect."

"Then there's the khtir'bai —" Alec began, but was interrupted by another warning cry from the lookout.

"Enemy vessels off the port bow!"

Jumping to their feet, they spotted two sets of striped sails rounding a point of land no more than a mile ahead. Alec's hands tightened around his bow; the sight of those sails brought back ugly memories.

"Something tells me they knew we were coming," Seregil muttered.

"Are they showing the battle flag?" Farren called up to the lookout.

"No, Captain, but they've got fires lit."

"Run up the battle standards!"

Sleek and fast as lion hounds, the great ships cleared the point and wheeled in their direction. Plumes of black smoke trailed in their wakes.

"Too late for tricks," said Thero, halfway to the castle ladder already.

"At least we outnumber them," said Alec.

Seregil shook his head. "They're bigger, faster, and more heavily armed than our ships. And probably crawling with marines."

"Marines?" Alec's mouth set in a hard line. Dodging through the throng of sailors and soldiers scrambling to their posts, he led the way to the port rail and joined the line of archers already positioned.

Sailors struck the mizzen, slowing the Zyria to allow the other ships to engage the enemy first. As the Wolf sailed past, Alec saw Beka among those hurrying around the deck with weapons and jars of Benshal Fire. Busy shouting orders, she didn't see the luck sign he made in her direction.

The Wolf was the first to attack, striking one of the enemy vessels amidships with canisters of Benshal Fire. Oily smoke billowed up, but the ship held its course and sent a volley of arrows in return as it swept past to bear down on the Zyria.

On Alec's left, Minal shifted nervously. "We're in for it now."

"Archers at the ready!" Klia shouted from the forecastle deck. "Shoot at will!"

Alec chose a man on the foredeck of the enemy vessel, drew the Black Radly's bowstring to his ear, and released the first shaft. Not pausing to see if it struck home, he drew one arrow after another and sent them speeding across the water. Beside him, Seregil and the archers of Urgazhi Turma did the same, each setting their own grim rhythm as the great ship closed in on them.

Enemy shafts were flying around their ears now, thudding into the deck and the wooden shields mounted on the rail. The hissing song of string and shaft was soon joined by the first cries of the wounded.

As the ship loomed ever closer, Alec spotted what appeared to be the bronze heads of some sort of monster mounted below her forecastle rail. The placement seemed too strategic to be mere decoration, but he couldn't imagine what they could be.

He was about to point them out to the others when Seregil let out a startled curse and staggered back, struck in the right shoulder by a blue-fletched Plenimaran arrow.

"How bad?" Alec demanded, pulling him to shelter against the rail.

"Not so bad," Seregil hissed through gritted teeth, yanking the shaft out with surprising ease. The thick leather strap of his quiver and the mail beneath his coat had prevented the head from piercing his shoulder, but the arrow had struck hard enough to drive the metal rings of the mail through the shirt below, leaving a bloody dent in his shoulder mere inches from his throat.

He handed the enemy shaft to Alec with a wry grimace. "Send this back to its owner for me, will you?»

Standing up, Alec nocked the shaft and raised his bow to take aim at the vessel looming over them now. Before he could draw, however, the bronze heads on the Plenimaran's port side suddenly spewed streams of liquid fire. It struck the rigging overhead and fresh screams burst out. A sailor fell to the deck, neck snapped like an oat stalk. Another hung tangled and screaming in the yards, sheathed in flame. Fire crews clambered up with buckets of sand and urine to douse smoking holes in the sails.

Aboard the Plenimaran ship, marines jeered and waved.

"What's that?" cried Alec, ducking down in alarm again.

"Bilairy's Balls!" gasped Seregil, grey eyes wide with astonish-ment. "The Fire. They've learned to pump it, the clever bastards!"

The two ships were nearly parallel now, and Alec felt a jolt go

through the deck boards as the Zyria's aft ballistas launched their loads of canister. One struck the enemy's mast; another exploded near her far rail, engulfing men in a spreading sheet of flame. Alec quickly looked away, but as the huge ship swept past he saw more men burning in her wake. Taking careful aim, he put three out of their misery before the ship carried him out of range. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in battle, he joined the other archers gathering enemy arrows to refill their quivers.

"Down, Alec!" Steb yelled, jerking him sideways just in time to avoid a strip of burning canvas. The headsail was in flames and coming to pieces as it burned. Overhead, sailors worked frantically to cut it free before the mast caught fire, while others on deck slapped flames out with wet sacking. The mingled stinks of oil, piss, and burning flesh settled over the vessel in a pall of stinging smoke.

Coughing, Alec gave the one-eyed soldier a quick nod of thanks. "You know, I believe I'd rather fight on land."

"So would I," Steb agreed.

Aboard the Wolf, Beka and the ship's captain, Yala, were having similar misgivings. The first Plenimaran ship had slipped past too easily and was heading for Klia's vessel. The Courser turned in pursuit, leaving Wolf to block the second man-of-war alone.

Standing atop the aft castle, they watched as the Plenimaran's striped sails filled the sky and heard the sharp groan of her forward catapults. A sack of quicklime struck the forward castle, bursting to engulf a knot of riders in a choking grey cloud; a second struck the mainsail, blinding several sailors and archers perched in the yards.

The screams of the maimed were terrible. Some of the archers positioned in the waist started in their direction, but Beka barked out, "Tell your riders to hold their positions, Sergeant Mercalle. Stand and shoot!"

"Stand and shoot!" Mercalle yelled, pushing men and women back into place.

But the Plenimaran ship was still coming at them bow on, presenting a limited target. The Wolfs ballistas sent jars of fire into her rigging and prow, but she still came on.

"She's got a ramming prow!" someone yelled from the shrouds.

"Hard about!" shouted Captain Yala.

The helmsmen threw themselves against the tiller, and the ship yawed, sending archers tumbling across the deck.