"Right!" he screamed to the man at the tiller. "Hard right, Arucuttag eat you, quickly!"

The oars kept moving. Isketerol crouched down behind the scant shelter of the tiller and helmsman, counting the seconds and trying to control the pounding of his heart.

"Four… five…"

CRACK. A hot breath passed over his back, and the helmsman cried out. Isketerol grabbed the helm as the man collapsed, pawing at a wound in his neck. He braced his feet and clamped the timber between arm and ribs, struggling to keep the galley on course as a wave lifted its hull. Bits of burning timber scattered across the waters; a quick glance rearward showed nothing left of the stricken galley but fragments, and another sinking beyond it.

"Over to the canoes," he said, and called to his signaler. "Sound retreat and rally to me," he barked.

The man began swinging his lanterns; the signals had been Will's. The tribesmen in the canoes were sitting motionless, staring open-mouthed.

"Cowards!" Isketerol called through a speaking trumpet.

"You flee, southron!" one of them cried in response.

They looked over their shoulders, fearfully conscious of the fact that nothing waited out there but the River Ocean and ships under the Tartessian's command-unlikely to help them home if they defied him. If they beached their canoes away from the Eagle People fort, they'd still be in the middle of enemy country, and hunted like hares as they tried to run east to their homes.

"These rowing boats are too big-the Eagle People can pick them out." Isketerol said. "Your canoes and hide boats are small and many. Paddle in quickly, and most of you will get through-you can swarm over them, while we follow close behind. Are you warriors, or little girls who weep with fear?"

A few canoes broke away from the pack and headed for the land that bulked dark to the south. The rest stayed, as the men shouted among themselves. Then they fanned out, heading for the firelit shapes of the Eagle People ships.

His own remaining craft gathered around them. "Hang back," he said to them in his own tongue. "Let the savages clear the path for us. If they can put those catapults out of action or occupy their crews, we can attack behind them."

One of the boat captains looked puzzled. "But most of the tribesmen will die, if we attack with our torpedoes"- the word was English-"while they are trying to board."

"So?" Isketerol grinned. "Should I weep for them? Are they kindred, townsmen of ours?"

"It'll be dangerous," the man warned.

"A man lives as long as he lives, and not a day more," Isketerol said-a saying Will had told him, and a good one. "If I'd known you were a woman, Dekendol, we could have gotten more use out of you this last winter."

The crews laughed at that; it was a little ragged, but he judged their spirit was still unbroken. "Spread out again," he said. "Lie on your oars just outside of catapult range"- the farthest those balls of fire had gone was about a quarter mile-"and then dash in if the barbarians make headway."

They turned, their formation opening like a fan, and stroked carefully to the edge of safety. "Wait for it!" he called. "Wait, and then put out all your strength!"

"On the word of command," Sandy Rapczewicz said. Fuck it. Someone got clever out there.

There were dozens of the canoes, scores of them. Impossible to hit that many, and they were nimble enough to dodge most of the fireballs. Here and there one was struck, but even then the others could dart in and rescue most of their crews from the water. The others came steadily on to a wild pounding chant of voices.

"Here's where we could use a couple of cannon, loaded with grapeshot," she muttered to herself.

That wouldn't be possible for another year or so. Evidently Walker had found the raw materials for gunpowder in greater abundance; those spar-torpedo boats waiting off at the edge of sight showed how he'd used the sulfur and saltpeter and charcoal. They were silent, in contrast to the barbarian warriors in the canoes. Closer, closer…

"Now!" she shouted.

A crewman at the rail swung a long thin barrel, crouching behind it with hands on the grips. Behind him two more pumped frantically, a dark glistening stream arching out from it. Another stretched out a burning wad of rags on the end of a long pole, and the stream of whale oil caught. Whooosh-WHUMP, and it was a long arch of dripping flame, scything back and forth through the night. Men screamed as they turned to blazing torches and threw themselves into water that had turned to a lake of flame. The edges of it lapped up against Eagle's steel hull, and the canoes that had approached her were billows in the fiery sea. The air filled with the heavy nutty scent of burning whale oil, and the stink of burned flesh as well.

Rapczewicz whipped her head back and forth. The two wooden schooners couldn't use such a weapon, not without destroying themselves; they'd anchored well away, too. They did each have hundreds of Fiernan Spear Chosen packed below their decks. As the Sun People warriors scrambled up the sides, the Earth Folk fighters came screaming up the companionways. They boiled to the sides, stabbing with spears, slamming clubs down on Sun People heads and arms and fingers.

A cry behind her. "Boarders!"

Some of the canoes had circled around and were approaching from the landward side. The Eagle's skeleton crew dashed to meet them, drawing weapons or snatching javelins from racks along the rail. Wrought-iron grapnels came upward at the ends of knotted ropes, and the warriors behind them. Armored Americans stabbed and shoved and tried to cut the grapnels free, but the ropes were wound with metal wire for several feet down from the loops that held them to the iron hooks.

Rapczewicz drew the radio with her left hand. "Rapczewicz to Pentagon Base," she said. "Report status."

"Base One here. Status is go, ma'am."

"Do it. Rapczewicz out."

Her right hand drew the Colt and thumbed back the hammer. A bearded warrior in a kilt tried to force his way through a gap. She fired at two yards' distance, and a round blue hole appeared in the man's forehead. The back of his head blew away, and he toppled backward to land on a canoe and overturn it. She blinked to let the muzzle flash that strobed across her vision die away, then aimed at another point-blank target.

Isketerol of Tartessos flung up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the flame, keeping his other braced against the gunwale. The raw wood was rough and splintery under his palm, reminding him unpleasantly of how fast it could burn.

"Dragon's breath!" his cousin said, his voice trembling.

"Dragon's shit," Isketerol said, and spat over the side. "Remember the pump?"

Miskelefol turned to him, his eyes wide and tinted red by the light. "The pump!" he said incredulously.

Walker had rigged up a piston-style pump for the Tartessian encampment, sucking through a cast-iron pipe from a deep well.

"Well, think, cousin. That's a pump there, only it's spurting out oil-fish oil, whale oil. Then they set it alight."

The terror of the supernatural faded out of the other Tartessian's eyes. "That's clever," he said. "But using it on a ship-"

"On a ship of steel," Isketerol said, peering through his binoculars. "Wait… the savages are heading around to the other side of Eagle. And they're closing in on the schooners, by the Crone. More balls than sense."

Miskelefol tensed. "If they can carry them-"

"No." Isketerol spat again, peering through the dark. "Too many fighters-more on board than I thought they could have, hidden belowdecks. May the Crone's knife cut the fatherless sheep-sucking bitch, she's clever."

As clever as you? Isketerol thought uneasily. As clever as Will?