The fleet sailed on through the darkness. Just before dawn the orange flames gushed up again, this time on the starboard wing. Another ship gone in minutes, another hundred men swallowed up by the crystal seas. This time it took more than signaling to get the fleet back in order. At least two ships had to be boarded and their captains arrested.
The two disobedient captains were hanged from the yardarms of their own ships later that day, while the fleet drifted, watching the spectacle. Stipors was obviously determined to have discipline and order in the fleet, whatever the cost. It was hard to tell whether his gruesome demonstration succeeded or not. Certainly the fleet kept good order all that day and during the following night. But the Fishmen didn't launch any more attacks, either. One scout boat far out on the starboard end of the scouting line reported seeing one of the yulon-drawn chariots and driving it off with stones from a catapult. But that was all.
If the absence of the enemy helped keep the fleet in order, it didn't help the mood of the sailors and soldiers aboard. Even the wildest optimists couldn't help wondering if the Fishmen had really abandoned the struggle, or were just lying in wait. After all, it made good sense for them to let the fleet sail as far from its home waters as possible. Then they could more easily strike with their full strength-and destroy the fleet more easily. Mentioning this idea out loud in so many words was of course discouraged. But that didn't keep it from being the major topic of conversation whenever a few men got together in private.
«They're out there somewhere,» said Nezdorn. He waved one large hand toward the dark sea as they both stood the midwatch aboard the flagship. «They've got their eyes on us every minute. We're not going to get much farther without a battle.»
But incredibly, the fleet did. The sun rose over a calm, empty sea. Not a breath of wind was stirring. Every ship in the fleet sat in the water as though she had been glued in place. Occasionally there would be a shout as a school of fish or one of the great shark-like trinzan fishes broke the surface. But no sign of the Fishmen.
Stipors hoisted the signal for a council of war aboard the flagship. The flags dropped limply from the signal halyards as scurrying small boats brought over admirals and generals from the various lesser flagships. Stipors and his subordinates vanished behind the great bronze-hinged doors of the flagship's aft cabin. The fleet drifted aimlessly, the lookouts scanning the water for any signs of the enemy.
Half the men on board each ship were on deck by order, and most of the rest stayed on deck by choice. It was stiflingly hot below decks, and everyone felt (although no one admitted) the fear of being trapped below decks.
Blade lifted his helmet and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat collecting on his forehead. If the fleet stayed here much longer, the heat and the fear were going to snap the men's nerves.
He looked over the side, deep down into the crystal water. Here it was even clearer than usual. The bottom was clearly visible, even the ripples passing through the purple and red masses of weeds that blotched the white or silvery sand. At least if the Fishmen attacked, they would find it hard to attack by surprise.
More weary hours passed. Blade began to wonder if the council of war and the fleet would both sit until every man aboard sweated away or died of strain and boredom.
Eventually the Guard commander came aft and called the men around him.
«Brothers,» he said. «The council of war has chosen to strike. A thousand picked underwater fighters will be loaded aboard the light vessels. These will proceed with their sweeps to the nearest area of Fishman settlements. They will destroy those settlements, utterly and without mercy, avenging our dead, asserting the supremacy and honor of the Sea Cities of Talgar.»
Blade suspected that the cheers which followed were more from relief than from any positive enthusiasm for the idea.
Chapter EIGHT
Blade let go of the ladder and dropped backward, down into the crystal seas. The water closed over him almost without a splash. He straightened out, shoved himself away from the ship's bottom with its faint mustache of weed, and swam down.
He had been under the crystal seas many times now and often with full war gear. This was the first time he had plunged down into the blue-greenness knowing that somewhere not too far away might lurk enemies. For a moment he stopped and drifted downward, head first, searching the bottom as far as he could see it. The weeds rippled gently, but nothing else moved. Blade raised himself back to the vertical again with gentle movements of his fins.
One by one the rest of the ship's raiding company dropped into the water and drifted down to float around Blade. Finally came Nezdorn, commanding the company. With quick hand signals he formed the forty men into three lines, one above the other. Then he pointed his short-sword away to the east, and the company moved out.
On land Blade held the leadership of a sesg (like a platoon) and the rank of armsmaster to Nezdorn's company. But under the crystal seas he was only an ordinary fighter of the Guards. He was willing to leave things that way for a time, until he learned all the complicated tactics and the even more complex code of signals the Talgarans had devised for fighting under the sea.
Blade was in the second, or middle, line. Like the other men armed with short-swords and spears, he was close to the center of the line. There he could swim rapidly to either flank to reinforce the archers. And from where he was, he could defend the spare weapons and masks and the men who towed the floater nets containing the firepots that would be dropped into Fishmen dwellings.
They swam on through the crystal seas. Far out to the left, Blade could see the dimly moving shapes of another company of raiders from another ship. The bottom was beginning to rise toward them, showing purple-blue masses of coral and patches of sand with a golden tint. Nezdorn dove down to sample the sand. He came back up quickly, making the hand signals that meant, «Approaching reefs.» He had no need to make the signal «Stay alert!»
A school of slate-gray trinzans glided past between the company and the surface. They had the sleek outlines of Home Dimension sharks, and from what Blade had heard, the same nasty dispositions. But they seldom attacked large groups of men, unless they had been driven to a frenzy by blood in the water. That, however, could easily happen before the end of this day. Blade reached down to make sure that both his swords were still held in their scabbards by their quick-release clips.
The trinzans were barely out of sight when Nezdorn suddenly tipped headfirst and stared toward the bottom. The eyes of his men followed him. On the bottom sixty feet below was a conical pile of coral blocks with a hole in the top. Sitting around the hole were four bluish-white human shapes. They wore no airmasks.
The Fishmen must have been watching the trinzans also. They saw Nezdorn's approaching raiders at the same moment Nezdorn saw them, but they reacted faster. One of the Fishmen plunged down through the hole in the top of the cone. The other three sprang upward, finned feet churning the water. They arrowed away toward the east, legs moving so fast that they seemed mere flickering ghosts.
Nezdorn spun completely around in the water. One hand shot down toward the Fishmen sentry house, and four raiders from the left flank shot down, carrying a firepot. He spun farther, and his other hand shot out toward the sentries who were fleeing to give the alarm. Blade and five others from the right went arrowing away after them.