"Kennit is dead." Vivacia spoke the harsh words softly. "You are alive. Wintrow Vestrit, it is up to you. Save us both."

"How? I don't know how." He looked around again. He had to act and swiftly. The crew believed in him. They had answered his every command willingly, and now he stood paralyzed as death closed in on them. Kennit would have known what to do.

"Stop that." She spoke in his heart as well as aloud. "You are not Kennit. You cannot command as he did. You must command as Wintrow Vestrit. You say you fear to fail. What have you told Etta, so often it rings in my bones? When you fear to fail, you fear something that has not happened yet. You predict your own failure, and by inaction, lock yourself into it. Was not that what you told her?"

"A hundred times," he returned, almost smiling. "In the days when she would not even try to read. And other times."

"And?"

He took a breath and centered himself. He scanned the battle again. His oldest training came suddenly to the fore. He drew another deep breath. When he let it out, he sent doubt with the spent air. He suddenly saw the battle as if it were one of Etta's game boards. "In conflict, there is weakness. That is where we will break through." He pointed toward the Marietta and the Motley, already locked in a struggle with the Jamaillian ships. Several others were moving to join the battle.

"There?" Vivacia asked, suddenly doubtful.

"There. And we do our best to free them with us." He lifted his voice in sudden command. "Jola! Bring us about. Archers to the ready. We're leaving!"

It was not what they expected, but once he had realized he could not forsake his friends, the decision was simple. Vivacia answered the helm readily and for a blessing, the wind was with them. Paragon followed without hesitation. He had a glimpse of Trell at the liveship's helm. That simple act of confidence restored Wintrow's faith in himself. "Do not hesitate!" he urged the ship. "We'll make them give way before us."

A Jamaillian ship veered in to flank her. It was a smaller vessel, fleet and nimble, her railing lined with archers. At the cries of his hostages, the bowmen faltered, but an instant later they let fly. Wintrow flung himself flat to avoid two shafts aimed at him. Another struck Vivacia's shoulder, but rebounded harmlessly. She shrieked her outrage, a cry as shrill as a serpent's. Wizardwood need fear no ordinary arrow. Pitchpots and flames would be another matter, but Wintrow judged correctly that they would fear to use them in such crowded circumstance. The lively wind would be very ready to carry scraps of flaming canvas from one vessel to another. Vivacia's archers returned the volley, with far greater accuracy. The smaller boat veered off. Wintrow hoped the news of their hostages would spread.

Just as he thought they had escaped unscathed, a man fell from the rigging. The arrow had pierced his throat; Gankis had died soundlessly. The old man had been one of Kennit's original crew. As his body struck the deck, Vivacia screamed. It was not a woman's cry, but the rising shriek of an outraged dragon. The anger that surged up from her invaded Wintrow as well. An answering roar came from Paragon, echoed by a shrill trumpeting from the white serpent.

A large ship was moving steadily into their path. No doubt, her captain sought to force Vivacia back into the thick of the fleet. Wintrow gauged their chances. "Cut it as fine as you can, my lady," he bade her. "Cry the steersman as you wish." He gripped the forerail and hoped he was not leading them all to their deaths. Canvas full and billowing, it became a race of nerves between the two ships. At the last possible moment the other captain slacked his sails and broke away. Vivacia raced past virtually under his bow. Wintrow became aware that the white serpent had moved up to pace them when it roared and sprayed the ship in passing.

Now the embattled Motley was right before them. One of her brightly-colored sails was down and drooping uselessly. The crew had cleared most of her deck of boarders, but the two ships were still both grappled and tangled. Vivacia bore down on them, screaming like a dragon, archers ready. The Marietta moved off to allow them room. Sorcor's supply of both arrows and shot were probably nearly spent.

"Look at that!" Wintrow exclaimed suddenly. The white serpent had surfaced by the Jamaillian ship that was locked with the Motley. As if it knew their plans, it roared, and then opened wide its jaws to spray the deck with venom. Men screamed. The serpent was too close for their catapult to be of any use. Their volley of arrows rattled off him harmlessly. He disappeared beneath the waves, then surfaced again off the ship's bow. He sprayed the ship again, then bent his great head to press his brow against the wood of the hull. He pushed furiously, lashing the sea to cream with his efforts. Wintrow heard the groan of wood. The great timbers, smoking with the serpent's venom, actually bent with the pressure. On board the Motley, men struggled to push their ship clear. Overhead, tangled rigging resisted, but sailors with axes were swarming aloft. They cut themselves free with reckless abandon. With a lurch, the ships suddenly parted.

As the pirates on the Motley gave an uneven cheer, the serpent rose once more to spray the other ship with venom. A lone archer, screaming with the pain of his scalds, let fly a single arrow. It struck the white serpent, just behind the angle of his jaw. The shaft plunged out of sight and the serpent screamed in agony. It whipped its head about wildly as if it sought to dislodge the arrow. In horror, Wintrow saw a sudden wound open on the serpent's neck. It ran blood and steaming white toxins. Its own venom was eating away at its flesh. Vivacia gave a cry of fury and horror.

Paragon suddenly swept past them. With complete disregard for the figurehead, the ship rammed the Jamaillian craft. As his bow caught the other vessel amidships, Paragon screamed in wordless fury. He seized the ship's railing and tore it loose.

Wintrow had never thought to gauge the strength of a liveship's figurehead. Before his eyes, an enraged Paragon used the ship's railing as a club to batter at the hapless vessel. Splinters flew at every blow. Men fled, seeking shelter from the flying pieces of wood. When the railing gave way, he snatched the war axe from his belt. He wielded it two-handed. With every crushing stroke, Paragon roared. Deck planks gave way, and then he reached overhead to tear at canvas and rigging. With his axe and his hands, he reduced the ship to wreckage before Wintrow's disbelieving eyes. On Paragon's deck, his own crew darted for cover, shouting with terror.

THE OTHER JAMAILLIAN SHIPS HAD MOVED BACK DEFENSIVELY. PARAGON continued to throw chunks of wreckage at them. An anchor trailing a length of chain crashed into the rigging of one ship. A ship's boat, flung with wild strength, cleared half the deck of another. In their haste to be out of his range, one Jamaillian ship rammed another. They drifted in a circle, rigging tangled. Paragon's wild attack had broken an opening for them. Small good it would do them, but Althea watched as the Marietta swept through it, followed by the limping Motley. They at least would escape.

"Paragon! Paragon!" From the helm, Brashen yelled the ship's name hoarsely. It did no good. The rage of a dragon burned in him, and with every wild blow, he roared it. Vivacia swept through the gap in the circle. "Follow, follow!" she cried to Paragon as she escaped, but he appeared not to hear. His sails strained to push him on, but he caught hold of the Jamaillian ship with one hand and kept punishing it with the other. The two vessels groaned against one another. A stone thudded against their stern, reminding Althea that the Jamaillian ships were still attacking. Another stone hit the afterdeck and took out a piece of Paragon's railing. If they smashed his rudder, they were doomed. Another stone struck. Death reached for them.