"Yes, yes, I know," the prince replied. "But I just can't escape the feeling that-"
He stopped short as he realized that his breath was streaming out of his mouth in the form of a short, white, vapor trail. The temperature had dropped so quickly that neither he nor Traax had noticed at first, but now it was so bitterly cold that both of them had begun to shiver. Then the Savage Scar lost all of her forward momentum.
Fearing the worst, Tristan looked up to the sails. They had all gone completely limp, their lower hems nearly touching the decks. Turning, he desperately looked out over the sea and was horrified to find that its surface had become as smooth as glass. His flagship and every other vessel in the Minion fleet were dead in the water.
By now Shailiha, Abbey, and Wigg had come running, and the decks were awash with sword-wielding warriors, all shouting to one another and wanting desperately to help, but not knowing what to do.
From out of nowhere, Tristan was suddenly reminded of something Tyranny had said to him during their first meeting together, that day in her private quarters aboard The People's Revenge. As he replayed it in his mind, his blood ran cold.
Speed is the one thing that keeps us alive out here.
Tristan turned to Traax. The expression on the warrior's face had become as hard as granite.
"What is it?" the prince breathed. "What is happening?"
"It is the Necrophagians, my lord," Traax answered sternly. "The Eaters of the Dead. They have somehow found us. And nothing I know of can stop them."
Then another cold realization shot through the prince-the Necrophagians had never been known to venture this far west! Wasting no time, he reached out and grabbed Traax by both shoulders. As he did, he could see that a strange, dark gray fog had already begun to form. It was snaking its way up from the sea to surround his fleet. Soon the enemy would be here, he realized. And they would be more than just the Eaters of the Dead.
"Order all of the sails furled!" he shouted. "And signal all of the other ships in the fleet to do the same!"
"But my lord!" Traax exclaimed in a rare display of protest. "That will do no good! It would be a waste of precious time! With no wind, it does not matter!"
"Don't argue with me!" Tristan shouted angrily. "Just do it! And have K'jarr found and brought to me immediately!"
Traax snapped to attention. After going to bark out the orders, he returned to stand resolutely at his master's side, his dreggan drawn.
"What is it?" Wigg called urgently. "What's going on?"
But before Tristan could answer, the fog began to coalesce into hundreds of pairs of huge, gnarled hands that came rising up out of the sea. As he watched in horror, they began to cut their way silently through the smooth, still ocean, positioning themselves in pairs near each of the Minion vessels. Then the hands reached out and grasped the bows and sterns of the ships, holding them helplessly in place. Sections of gunwale and railing began to crack apart under the immense pressure.
Tristan felt his heart sink. He looked up urgently to the masts and spars to see the Minion crewmen trying to furl the sails as fast as they could. Some were done already.
Suddenly, the sea all around them seemed to come alive. As it began to burble and roil, he looked over the side and saw the horrible faces of the Eaters of the Dead surfacing. Then he saw the first of the maelstroms.
From beyond the Eaters of the Dead, dozens of glowing waterspouts rose from the sea, turning with a speed so fast he found it dizzying. Their great heights soon dwarfed his ships. The maelstroms flattened out at their tops, then dissolved into thousands of individual, flying creatures. There could be no mistaking them.
Screechlings.
And then Tristan gasped as he saw the first of Wulfgar's demonslavers. The white-skinned monsters had seemingly materialized out of thin air to land crouching on the decks of his ships, their swords and tridents at the ready. Screaming wildly, they began hacking into the surprised Minion warriors with suicidal fury.
Tristan tried to shout orders out to Wigg and Traax, but each of them was already locked in individual combat. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, Tristan raised it just in time to ward off a blow from a demonslaver that appeared from nowhere. Then he slipped to the right and slashed his dreggan low, tearing the flesh of the monster's left thigh with the point of his double-edged blade. As the slaver bent over in agony, Tristan raised his blade again and took the thing's head off with a single blow.
Using a few precious seconds, Tristan turned desperately to look for Shailiha. When his eyes finally fell on her, he saw that she had drawn her sword and was fighting off a slaver. But the monster was gaining ground on her, pushing her backward across the already bloody deck. Reaching behind his shoulder, Tristan grasped the first of his throwing knives and sent it spinning end over end. The dirk buried itself into the slaver's neck and the monster fell over.
Across the deck, Wigg was throwing azure bolt after azure bolt against the demonslavers, killing as many of them as possible the moment they materialized. Then there seemed to be a short lull in the fighting, and for a wonderful, fleeting moment Tristan almost believed they might somehow survive the carnage. But he had forgotten the screechlings.
The thousands of large, three-winged, brightly colored flying fish descended on the Minion fleet all at once. Deftly avoiding the demonslavers, they soared over the decks, and tore into sails, spars, and Minions alike with their razor-sharp teeth. Many of the warriors took to the air and tried to hack the deadly things from the sky. But it soon became clear that they were outnumbered.
Spars and rigging came crashing down, and whatever sails had not already been furled were systematically shredded. Minion warriors by the dozens were being viciously torn apart by the screechlings and then hoisted ruthlessly over the side, to be consumed by the wailing, ravenous Eaters of the Dead. Despite all of the screaming, clanging sword blades, and mayhem, the sickening tearing of Minion flesh could be heard rising from waters that were quickly turning red with the crimson stains of death.
Traax and K'jarr reached Tristan's side, and the three of them slashed violently with their dreggans. Tristan was about to shout to Traax, when he saw the warrior's face suddenly fall-a rare sight indeed, even in combat. Whirling around, Tristan looked to see what had so stunned his second-in-command. As he did, his mouth fell open.
All around them, the warships of Wulfgar's fleet were materializing. There must have been hundreds of them, Tristan realized, and they had clearly been the launching points of the demonslaver attacks. As endless swarms of demonslavers continued to use swinging lines and gangplanks to land on his decks, Tristan saw that his troops were not only hopelessly outnumbered, but completely surrounded, as well.
The prince's heart fell at the thought of how easily they had been led into the trap. Wulfgar must also be here, he thought as he struggled with a screaming slaver, pausing only to raise his dreggan to slash a screechling out of the air. But if Wulfgar was there, then why hadn't Wigg detected his blood?
There was only one thing to do now. It had only a small chance of success, and if it was ever to happen it would have to be soon, for the odds against their survival were climbing by the second. The prince shouted out his orders to Traax and K'jarr.
"Traax, I want you to find Wigg, Abbey, and Shailiha and get them safely into one of the litters! Leave the other litter empty! Tell them it is time, and they will understand! I will join you soon!"
With a nod, Traax was gone. Reaching down into the top of his right knee boot, Tristan withdrew a small oilskin pouch and carefully handed it to K'jarr.
"Do you remember your orders?" he shouted to the Minion.