The priest had never felt he had a chance, once he saw the worm come, and he was very, very angry. To have come through so much, only to be dragged down by a hideous, mindless thing like this! But he was trained to battle, and the first rule was never to give up.
He had taken a turn with the sheet to a rude wooden cleat, and as the horror struck down at him, he in turn stood up, the tiller-oar held between his knees. At the same time, he thrust stoutly into the yard-wide, sucker mouth above him. He used the butt end of one of the spare oars, snatched off the boat’s bottom, and he drove it home down the foul gullet as strongly as he could.
There was a shock which threw him to his knees, but he never lost control of the steering oar and he saw the great worm fling back its head in agony at the hard morsel so suddenly jammed in its throat. The wash of its recoil helped drive the boat forward a trifle faster. As he watched in fascination, the monster churned the water to foam in its efforts to expel the unwanted tidbit. Soon it was out of sight in the murk, but he dared not relax his vigil. There were assuredly many more of the things, and he could not always count on such luck. Besides, he was fast approaching exhaustion. The strain of the two recent combats and the necessity of keeping a constant watch on the mental airwaves had worn him down to a shred of his normal vitality. He had not had anything like a rest since his capture and he was not sure how much longer he could go on.
The island had long since been lost to view, and the now increasing gleams of the moon’s rays on the dancing wave tops showed nothing but empty water as far as the eye could reach.
Tired as he was, Hiero decided it was time to try and get more information. He had no belief in the powers of good triumphing so easily. S’duna’s rage alone had come clearly to his mind as he was leaving the harbor, and the other adepts could hardly be less furious. S’duna had said himself that no one had ever yet escaped the Dead Isle. Pursuit would be coming, and the sooner Hiero contacted his friends the better.
It was then that he called Gorm. If Luchare could have known his thought when he broke the mental contact with her, she would have slept with a smile on her face. Slowly, reluctantly, the priest was finding that her dark face and dancing, corkscrew ringlets were somehow always coming between him and any other work or thought, even in times of crisis. Almost physically, he shook off such feelings. If he got out of this mess…
His brain was now tuned to the island behind him again, and using his new wavelength, he was able to separate several sets of minds from what must be the main group back at the fortress. Using his newfound powers, he was able to locate no less than three separate “groups” of mind pulses, apart from the central one which had to be Manoon itself. These three pulse groups were stronger than the other, and that meant closer! They lay, physically, that is, in an arc, between the island and himself. The pursuit could thus be pinpointed as being in three vessels, all more or less on his track. The Unclean lords had quickly guessed which course he would take, that was obvious. Now, how far away was the mainland?
The priest strained his eyes, staring ahead through the night, but the fleeting moon gleams, though they came at closer intervals, revealed nothing but more of the great freshwater sea. He turned his mental energies to the subband again, God Almighty, the shore could not be too far distant, from the strength of the signals he had caught from his own friends. He must have come five miles at least since leaving the Dead Isle. On and on he sailed, up one wave and down the next, the wind steadily from the quarter, the little boat’s best point of sailing. But she was not designed with speed in mind, and behind him, the three clumps of mental force which he knew represented three enemy craft grew remorselessly more powerful. He knew too that they were seeking his mind and not finding it, which was his sole consolation.
As the night drew on, the light grew better. The clouds began to thin out and the moon and stars appeared in greater and greater frequency. This was bad, but there was nothing the priest could do except hold his course and pray.
What was that? A dark line ahead, glimpsed in the waning moonlight? There, it came again, and yet again as he rose to a wave top. It was land, a little to the left of his bearing. He trimmed the small sail and the boat bore up, while his heart pounded. Once again there was a chance, and he was going to take it. Now once more he reached out for the bear’s mind.
Wake up, break camp, and wait! Be ready and don’t answer, or you’ll be detected. Three times Hiero sent this on his new low-level wavelength and then ceased. He had done all he could.
The wind still drove him on with the same strength. But the clouds were almost gone now, and even his small sail must be visible for some distance in the moonlight, he knew. He sought the enemy minds and marveled at how close their “images” were. Yet when he looked back, he could not see them.
He could begin to make out details of the land now, but to his disappointment saw nothing but a line of light-colored beach and dark scrub and whiter dunes behind it. No island such as Luchare had described appeared, indeed no islands of any sort. Had he overshot them? No matter; getting ashore was the first step, away from those pursuing boats. He aimed directly for the nearest stretch of beach, now no more than a half mile away.
As he did, he sensed the sudden surge of emotion in the minds of his nearest foes as they glimpsed him for the first time. Alerted, he looked back and saw them. Two dark triangles rose from the shining waters, rose and fell back, then rose again. The sails of the pursuing vessel were about the same distance from Hiero that he himself was from the beach and safety. It would be a close race. But he had been lucky and he knew it. He had struck the westernmost boat, the one at the left end of the line of three, and it was not one with an engine. But he could feel the thrilling of the communication bands as the Unclean sent out word that he was in sight, and sure enough, he felt the other two mind “clumps” begin to close up toward his position. He readied the long knife in his lap, this time for himself. He would receive no second chance to escape, he knew, and the enemy was going to get no live prisoner this time. He looked back, calculating his chances, estimating the speed of the two-masted vessel. It was gaining on him fast, and he could see the black outline of its hull now and even a twinkle of light as some edged weapon caught the moon.
But the beach was also very close. He heard the breakers rolling ashore and could make out the black outlines of individual palm trees behind the sandy margin, etched in chiaroscuro by the moon.
There was a “zzzup” sound and then another. Round holes magically appeared in his sail, but the tough cloth from which it had been woven did not fray or tear. With a sharp thud, a heavy bolt of some kind, probably from a crossbow, he thought in a remote corner of his mind, buried itself in the gunwale a span away from his hand. There was nothing he could do and he did not even bother to look back, but drove on straight for the creaming surf. Shooting at one small boat from another at night and in a wind was as much luck as a matter of skill and hence not worth thinking about.
Now his boat was rearing up in the first breaker, and he hastily dropped the sail and steered her in. He had no time to raise the dropped leeboard, but he managed to loosen it so that it at least swung free on its pintle.