A roar went up, both sides cheering so loudly that for a moment they lacked the breath to fight. Off to starboard, two ships were approaching, one minotaur, the other a large, swift sea barbarian craft. For moments the second vessel was bow-on, impossible to identify.
Then it swung hard about, and another roar went up, as the humans recognized Jemar’s Windsword. The decks were bare; every fit man must be at the oars. The ship flung itself back on its own tracks, at the minotaur ship. The minotaur ship backed its oars, trying to present its own ram-armed bow to this attack.
Instead, Jemar’s ship pulled in its own near side oars down the side of its enemy. Rather than sundering timbers, her ram and bow shattered every oar on the minotaurs’ port side. Eskaia closed her eyes to shut out the picture of weighted oars flailing about belowdecks, dealing blows fit to crack even a minotaur’s skull.
Windsword spun about in a tight circle, only one side’s oars beating until it was completely turned around. Then both flailed blue ocean to white foam, as Windsword flung itself like a giant shatang at the minotaur vessel’s crippled side.
Eskaia did not need imagination to hear the bellows of pain and terror as Windsword’s ram drove into the enemy’s side. She did not need imagination to see the blood spreading in the water as Jemar’s ship backed away from the gaping wound it had made. Eskaia turned away as the minotaur vessel began to list to port.
The battle roar was dying now as the minotaurs began their retreat. Few of Golden Cup’s crew were disposed to risk their own lives to interfere with that retreat. Heavy splashes came, as un wounded minotaurs leaped over the side and thrashed to their ship. Wounded minotaurs crawled or staggered, then struggled down the ropes, sometimes losing their grips and also ending with splashes. Most of the wounded who fell into the water did not come up again.
Eskaia turned from the spectacle of the minotaurs’ retreat as another splash sounded behind her. She first saw Jemar’s victim listing even more sharply, its deck black with minotaurs as unwounded rowers struggled up for a slim chance of safety. Axes gleamed; some wise heads were chopping up boats and ship’s gear, to make planks that swimmers could cling to.
The splash sounded again, louder and closer. A vast minotaur head loomed in the gangway, one eye closed, blood streaming from the left cheek and the right ear, hands clutching with blind, desperate strength at the bulwarks.
A timber cracked like a twig. Eskaia realized that the minotaur was at the end of his strength, but might be sworn to use that last strength to take one more enemy with him. All she had to do to prevent that was lay her dagger across his knuckles, or jab him in the nose.…
She stepped forward, bare-handed, and gripped the minotaur by one hand and a horn. He had been delicately balanced; a slight push would have sent him over the side to drown. An equally slight pull was enough to bring him lurching aboard. He knocked another section of bulwark to splinters, then fell.
His good eye was upward as he fell, and Eskaia thought it was regarding her with bemusement. “It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “You have all the honor any six minotaurs can use. Just feel your wounds.” She’d counted seven or eight more besides the ones to his head, and he had to feel as if he’d been wrestling dragons.
“Urrrmmm,” the minotaur said. At least she thought he’d intended to speak, but then his eye drifted closed. She pressed a hand against his chest, and was obscurely relieved to feel it still rising and falling.
She could not have found enough dressings for so many wounds if she’d stripped herself to the skin. However, her gown served for the worst, then somebody brought more dressings that covered the others, and finally somebody she thought was Tarothin stood beside her and laid the end of a staff (or it might have been a boarding pike) on the minotaur’s chest and chanted (or possibly muttered) something.
Whoever had done what, it seemed to ease the minotaur’s breathing. It certainly eased hers. She managed to stand, with only a little help from some sailor and then from a splintered section of railing. She saw that she was only a pace from falling over the side, but right now that hardly mattered.
Then footsteps were behind her and hands on her shoulders. She let herself be turned around, then stared into the eyes of Jemar the Fair.
She gaped until she knew that he was really here, and that she was not imagining him as she might have imagined Tarothin healing the minotaur. For a moment, she felt as if she too were being healed, simply by Jemar’s touch and presence-yes, and those huge, dark eyes, which seemed to caress not just her eyes and face, but all the rest of her body, even intimate places.
She wondered just how much was left of her clothes. Then all thought ceased, as her senses departed and she fell forward into Jemar’s arms.
Chapter 19
Darkness had long since spread across the ocean, following on the heels of thick clouds. A fresh breeze was ruffling the long swells, but the sailors said there was no storm smell on the wind.
Habbakuk’s Gift sailed sentry around Golden Cup and Windsword. Jemar’s other three ships kept a discreet watch on the homeward-bound minotaurs, honor amply regained but the survivors of three crews crammed like salted fish into the one remaining ship.
Lady Eskaia thanked Habbakuk for all his favors, large and small. She knew she should be more grateful for her being alive, Golden Cup’s being afloat and safe, and the minotaurs’ being homeward bound, but exhaustion made that much gratitude or any other strong feeling beyond her powers. She now knew how Tarothin must feel, after healing all day and half the night, and she lacked even the consolation that she had wearied herself saving lives.
At least it was still in her power to be a gracious hostess, even if she yawned between every fifth word and her muscles felt as if giant ogres had played a game of toss-ball with her. Golden Cup was not yet short of rations or wine, though that day was close at hand. Kurulus said that it might already be at hand if they wished to make port without dry throats or empty bellies.
One of the three boys who’d survived the day fit to stand and serve brought another jug of wine. Eskaia posed it over the cups. Jemar held his up, Kurulus put a hand over his, and Tarothin merely stared blankly at her as if she were performing some ritual from a cult he did not know.
The decision as to what came next lay in their hands. Kurulus now commanded the ship in deed and, if the wounded captain did not take the deck in two days, in law. Tarothin might not have another spell in him for weeks, but what he knew about magic might still save them all without that. And Jemar-
Jemar was as he had seemed, and he had seemed the stuff of champions almost from the first day Eskaia had known him. There was also a grace and even gentleness about him, which stories seldom attributed to champions and still less often to sea barbarians.
“We are safe enough from minotaurs,” Jemar said, spearing a sausage out of the bowl in the middle of the table. Eskaia’s cabin stores had provided the sausage, but the rest of the meal was dried potatoes and vegetables and a tart made with jam and flour that had to be used before the weevils carried them off. At least the wine was strong; Eskaia was sure she had drunk no more than two cups, but her head buzzed as if it was half again that much.
Best drink no more, at least until we have decided what next, she decided, or rather, until I can persuade the others that what I wish is what shall be done.
Kurulus grunted. He seemed to be too exhausted to use words, but his grunt was eloquent of doubt.