Jasper didn’t argue, knowing she could handle the knight better than he could. As the dwarf moved toward the railing, sliding in the blood, stepping over the bodies, he heard the clang of Fiona’s sword against the man’s sword and armor. There was a rhythm to it. Then the rhythm stopped, and through the crackling of the flames he heard a dull thud. Fiona coughed, her boots slapping across the deck, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The Knight of Takhisis had fallen.
Rig was on his knees, holding onto the rail, his breathing ragged and uneven. The dwarf looked about frantically for the rope ladder he’d climbed up. It was too far away, toward the rear of the ship, which now looked like one big ball of fire. “We’ll have to swim. At least you’ll have to,” the dwarf said. “I can’t. But maybe I can keep from sinking like a stone.”
The dwarf raised the Fist of E’li and battered it against the rail, breaking a section of it free and knocking it into the water. “It floats. And maybe with its help, I can float too.” The mariner raised his head, his eyes stung by smoke. “I can swim. I’ll help you.”
Not in your condition, Jasper thought. The dwarf helped Rig over the side, so that the mariner hung like a sack of flour, dangling in the air. The dwarf looked for the fishing boat. The dark gray smoke from the galley mingled with the wispy fog, and at first he could see nothing.
But through gaps in the smoke he finally spied people in the water: the slaves Feril and Usha had rescued. They were treading water and backing away from the galley. And then he saw the floating rail.
“My sword,” Rig gasped. “Got to get my sword. Can’t lose another one.”
“Fury!” the dwarf shouted, ignoring the mariner. “Blister!”
A moment later he was rewarded with the wolf’s frantic barks. “Jasper! We’re down here!” It was Blister’s voice. “We’re in the boat!” So the boat was somewhere below. It couldn’t be too far away if he could hear her this easily. Jasper thrust the Fist into the sack at his waist, making sure it was secure, then pushed Rig over the side. The dwarf took a quick look around the deck. Feril was toward the bow, cranking furiously on the anchor chain and coaxing over the last of the freed slaves. Usha gathered her skirts and jumped over the side.
Dhamon was nearby, struggling with a tall knight.
I should help him, Jasper thought. But then Rig might drown. The dwarf leaped over the side after the mariner, angling his body and praying to the departed gods that he wouldn’t sink.
Fiona had doubled over coughing. She couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her now, but she knew where to go. She heard metal striking metal. Dhamon was still fighting the tall knight. That was the only battle still going on. She peeled off pieces of her armor and staggered toward the noise.
Both men were covered with blood. The tall knight was using two weapons, parrying Dhamon’s sword with his longer blade and slashing at Dhamon’s chest with the shorter weapon.
Dhamon’s tunic was blood-soaked. She realized most of the blood was his, the tall knight’s tabard was practically pristine. She pulled off her breastplate, letting it fall to the deck, and then rushed forward, stopping just short of Dhamon.
“Unfair odds,” the tall knight hissed. “Two against one. There’s no honor in that.”
“You didn’t think the odds were unfair when you were fighting my friend!” Fiona spat.
“The black man?” the knight laughed. “Malys wants the Ergothian dead. But you,” he tipped his head toward Dhamon. “You—I want an honorable fight with you!”
“Not this time,” Dhamon retorted. He let Fiona parry the knight’s long sword, while his blade clanged against the shorter weapon. Dhamon awkwardly spun about and jabbed at the man’s side. His blade sunk in only a few inches. But the pain was enough to make the tall knight glance at his wound. Fiona stepped closer and slashed at his chest, then crouched and sliced at his legs, her blade striking black plates, clanging hollowly. The knight stepped back and wildly waved his weapons at the pair to keep them at a safe distance.
“I’ll give you your life!” Fiona called. “Drop your blades!” The knight let out a guttural cry and dashed forward. Fiona stepped up to meet him, while Dhamon slid to one side. Dhamon raised his long sword high over his head and brought it down with all the strength left in his arms. The sword bit into the man’s shoulder. Dhamon pulled it loose and struck again. The knight gasped and dropped the shorter blade, fighting only with the longer weapon now.
The Dark Knight gave Fiona a tight smile and jockeyed to the side so he could see both her and Dhamon. The smoke around him was thick, and he was gasping for air. Fiona was having trouble breathing as well, and Dhamon gestured toward the side of the ship. Go! he mouthed.
She shook her head. “Not without you!”
Dhamon, choking on smoke, moved forward clumsily now, swinging his sword in a broad, uneven arc. The knight stepped back, staying just beyond the weapon. The blackhaired warrior steadied himself, and brought his blade up. As the knight waited for an opening, Dhamon gave him the illusion of one.
The knight stepped forward, bringing his blade down. At the last possible moment, Dhamon stepped close to the man and into his swing. The long sword hit Dhamon’s shoulder, but his own sword cut at the man’s already-injured side. Dhamon pulled the sword back and slammed the blade in again, and the knight collapsed on him, pinning him to the deck.
Fiona was there, coughing, gasping for air, pulling the dead knight off Dhamon and tugging him toward the rail. “We’ve got to get off this ship! It’s listing. Can’t you feel it?”
She was right. The deck slanted toward the sea, as if the ship were taking on water. And the ship was moving toward the shore. Somehow the forward anchor must have come loose.
Dhamon leaned on Fiona for a moment, and both grabbed the rail as the galley stopped, a crunching sound that competed with the roar of the fire.
“She’s hit one of the other ships!” Fiona gasped. The galley lurched again, and the Solamnic started to fall. Dhamon caught her, leaned her over the rail where she could gulp in a bit of fresh air.
“You first,” he said, waving his arm. “I’ll follow.”
She tugged at the last few metal plates on her arms, her fingers fumbling with the fastenings, then tossed her helmet off. I should’ve left it all in the swamp, she thought. When the last piece clanged against the deck, she sheathed her sword and dove over the side.
“I’ll follow after I find Groller,” Dhamon called. He closed his eyes and imagined the deck. Then he dropped down to all fours and crawled forward, picturing the mainmast, the forward mast, and the place where he’d seen the half-ogre go down between the two. Dead or not, Dhamon intended to bring Groller with him.
Dhamon’s hands connected with body after body, none of them large enough, all in the garb of the Dark Queen’s knights. He crawled steadily over them, slipping in the blood and cutting his fingers on dropped swords. It felt as if he’d crawled for hours. His chest was on fire, water ran from his closed eyes, and he ached from a dozen wounds.
He was feeling faint, dizzy from lack of air and loss of blood, by the time he reached a large body.
It was face down and bloody. With considerable effort, Dhamon turned it over, ran his fingers over the long hair, felt about around the broad shoulders, and touched the man’s face. His hands felt Groller’s wide nose and thick brow. Dropping lower, they felt for the worn leather tunic, now cut and slick with blood.
“Be alive,” Dhamon prayed. He pressed his cheek to the half-ogre’s nose, at first feeling nothing. Then, barely detectable, he sensed a trace of shallow breath. The sensation did not cheer him. Dhamon had tended enough wounded on various battlefields to know that the half-ogre was dying.