Voyage of the Fox Rider (17 page)

“Alama—” Jinnarin turned to speak to the Mage, but he was gone.
There he is! Striding toward the bow! What in the world does he think he is—?

“Hoy, Master Alamar!” shouted Frizian.

“Let him be,” commanded Aravan.

Not turning, not deigning to notice, Alamar continued forward.

Thnn!
In the bow a ballista let fly at a closing Rover. The flaming ball arced upward and then down, falling ten yards short, splashing,
sizz
ing, in the sea.

Alamar clambered onto the foredeck.

“Stand back, old Man, out of the way,” called a Dwarf loader, placing a ball in the cup. “You are like to get hurt.”

“Listen to me, you young squat,” snarled Alamar, “if anyone around here is like to get hurt—”

“Inbound fire!” shouted the crank winder.

Alamar looked up to see a flaming ball arcing down at them. The eld Mage threw a hand up and shouted
“Crepa!”
and the fireball detonated, flaming chunks and sparks showered down upon them, and immediately two Dwarves scooped up the largest burning fragments in flat shovels and pitched them overboard, while others cast sand on the smaller bits.

“All right,” shouted Alamar, shaking a fist at the Rover ship. “Now you’ve asked for it!”

He turned to the ballista crew. “Lob another at the skuts. We’ll show them what’s what.”

The crew turned to Bokar.

“Do as he says,” growled the armsmaster.

Aiming the ballista and lighting the missile—
Thnn!
—another fireball was loosed. Alamar watched its arc.
“Longius,”
he whispered, and the trajectory appeared to flatten out and carry farther, to burst upon the mainmast, the sail and spar igniting.

Hai!
cried the ballista crew, jeering at the foe afire.

“I told you we’d show you,” shouted Alamar. “Jump us, would you, ha!”

“Sir.”

Alamar felt a tug on his sleeve and turned. An armed Dwarf stood at his elbow.

“Sir,” said the Dwarf respectfully, then pointing, “a pair on the larboard bow.”

Alamar looked. Two maroon-sailed Rovers drew nigh.

“How fast can you load?” the Mage snapped at the Dwarf.

“Ten heartbeats, sir.”

“Good! We’ll get them both.”

“But sir, one is but barely in range, the other farther still.”

“Don’t be a fool, Dwarf. Trust me, we’ll get them both. Now fire at the first.”

Bokar grunted in agreement, and the crew aimed and loosed.

Thnn!
—the fireball arced up and over the waters, Alamar watching it fly. He whispered nought as the missile arced down to crash into the poop deck of the foe, setting the tiller aflame, the ship falling away on the wind. “Good shooting,” he said querulously, as if somewhat disappointed. It is doubtful that the cheering ballista crew heard him or the annoyance in his voice.

Ten heartbeats later—
Thnn!
—another fireball was loosed.
“Longius,”
whispered Alamar, then,
“Ad laevam.”

The missile arced far out over the waters, veering left as it flew, and it burst upon the aft sail of the enemy ship, fire whooshing up. Again a mighty cheer shouted out from the decks of the Elvenship, while aboard the foe bedlam reigned.

Sailing far aflank of the
Eroean
, Rovers strove to overtake the ship, but fell behind instead. Even so, they cast their fires, the missiles falling short, though one or two came close.

Alamar merely watched, gauging the trajectories, saying nought.

“Ahead starboard,” called a Dwarf.

Alamar turned about. “Stand by,” he said.

But ere the
Eroean
fired, the Rover cast first, and once again the missile flew true.
“Crepa!”
called the Mage, the fireball exploding in the sky, flaming chunks arcing down to
pssst
in the sea.

“Ready, sir,” said the starboard ballista crew leader, the Dwarf aiming the missile caster.

“Whenever,” murmured Alamar.

Thnn!
—the fireball arced upward through the zenith and then over.
“Brevius,”
whispered the Mage, the arc steepening, angling downward, the ball slamming into the enemy ballista crew and blasting apart, fire exploding outward.

Horrid screams sounded from afar, Men aflame leaping overboard, others running amok.

On the
Eroean
the cheering fell subdued.

“Dead ahead,” called Bokar.

Alamar turned his gaze toward this Rover. “Ready the ballistas.” He sounded weary.

But the sailors on the Elvenship foredeck began cheering lustily, shouting. “She’s turning tail! Turning tail! Running!” and in the distance the Rover ship sails
were haled about and her tiller pressed hard over as she heeled on the wind to flee.

And as the dhow sailed off abeam, the
Eroean
sliced swiftly onward through the waters and past the shattered gauntlet, past the broken line of Kistanian Rovers, her cerulean sails embracing the wind and holding it, the Elvenship driving away from the collapsed ambush and toward the horizon afar, leaving the freebooters nought to grasp but her churning ephemeral wake.

The forward ballista crews gathered ‘round Alamar, shouting in acclamation, and they would have hoisted him onto their shoulders but he stopped them short, the Mage pale and trembling. And as a flame quenched by an onslaught of water, the cheering voices chopped shut. “Help me back to my quarters,” he said hoarsely. Dwarves leapt forward to aid him, and as one took hold of each arm, his knees gave way completely, and he collapsed, the Dwarves lowering him gently to the deck.

“Fager!” shouted Bokar. “Fager, to me, to me!”

The ship’s chirurgeon made his way to the foredeck and bent over the Mage. “He’s fainted,” said Fager after a bit. “Bear him up and to his quarters.”

Rux came scrabbling up the steps, Jinnarin on his back. The Pysk hurled herself from the fox and darted to Alamar’s side, crying anxiously, “Is he wounded? Is he bleeding? Will he be all right?”

Fager stood and scratched his head. “No wound or blood, Lady Jinnarin. But as to whether he’ll be all right…if he were Human, then I’d say yes. But he’s a Wizard, and so I just don’t know.”

Men bearing a litter arrived, and they gently lifted the Mage to the canvas. Two sturdy Dwarves took grip on the handles and hoisted the elder.

In that moment, Alamar opened his eyes. “Brandy,” he croaked.

“What happened, Alamar?”

Mage and Pysk were in the captain’s salon along with Fager, Bokar, and Aravan.

“Another, please,” requested Alamar, holding out his glass. Aravan glanced at Fager, and at a nod refilled the elder’s crystal.

Jinnarin repeated her question: “What happened, Alamar?”

Alamar sipped the drink—
“Ahhh”
—and smacked his lips, then leaned back in his chair. He glanced at Jinnarin kneeling on the table before him. “Too much too fast,” he said.

“Too much brandy?” Jinnarin looked at his glass.

Alamar clutched his glass protectively. “No, no. Too much…casting.”

“Oh.”

Aravan sat down opposite the Mage. “Regardless, Alamar, thou didst much to protect this ship and crew, as well as break the blockade.”

“Hai, warrior Mage!”
cried Bokar, slamming a clenched fist to the table. “I will war at your side against your enemies whenever you call, Friend.”

A look of shock flashed upon Alamar’s face. “No, no,” he protested. “Mages are forbidden to fight except in the defense of themselves or others.”

A scowl fell upon Bokar. “Forbidden? Who would do such?”

Alamar paused, sipping his brandy. “Why, we do. The Mages I mean. Heed, for us to war against others would lead to”—he glanced at Jinnarin—“to evil. Our power is to be used wisely—not to gain advantage for our own satisfaction.”

Bokar tugged on his beard. “Tell me, Alamar, if not to gain advantage, what do you call what you just did against the Kistanee?”

Alamar’s jaw jutted out. “I call it protecting this ship, Dwarf. That’s what!” He tossed the last of the brandy down his throat and slammed the glass to the table.

Aravan leaned back in his chair and smiled, his tilted Elven eyes glittering, watching these two fiery-tempered allies go at one another.

Bokar ground his teeth. “Guiding our fireballs is protecting this ship?”

“In the long run,” shot back Alamar.

Fager held up his hands. “Hear, hear, gentleme—gentle beings. No need to argue ‘mongst ourselves. Besides, Alamar needs rest, not debate.”

After glaring a moment, Bokar stalked out from the lounge, heading back to the deck, grumbling to himself.

“I suggest you lie down and rest, Master Alamar,” said Fager. “Take your ease. Recover from your ordeal.”

Aravan stood and placed the brandy decanter back in the cabinet, Alamar watching with some disappointment.

“Let’s go, Alamar,” said Jinnarin, turning, leaping down from table to chair to floor. “Heed the chirurgeon.”

The Mage shuffled down the corridor and to his cabin, Jinnarin at his side. When they entered, the Pysk stepped into her under-bunk quarters and set aside her bow and quiver. Returning, she found Alamar reclining on his own bunk, sighing wearily.

“Are you all right?”

Alamar rolled on his side and looked at her. “Just remembering, Pysk. Just remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“Why, when I was not old and frail, as I now find myself, I could have tossed those fireballs right back at them. Better yet, I could have made them spin and circle in the air as would a jongleur tossing colorful balls while singing humorous ditties.”

Jinnarin laughed at the mental picture. Of a sudden she sobered. “How do you do it, Alamar?”

Alamar yawned. “Do what?”

“Do your—your, uh, castings.”

Alamar blinked slowly at Jinnarin. “More secrets, eh, Pysk?”

Jinnarin sighed. “Well, if it’s a secret…”

Alamar pursed his lips. “Look, Pysk, everything has a—an astral fire within, be it alive or dead, animal, mineral, vegetable, or aught else. This astral fire has five pure forms—fire, water, earth, air, aethyr—or can be an amalgam or admixture or alloy of such. My Folk can
see
this astral fire, with a vision which goes beyond that of the eyes. And, with much training, we can cause the flame to flow this way or that, changing it, controlling what it does, and that in turn controls whatever is housing that fire, whatever it may be—all things alive or dead or never alive—”

“Even people?” interjected Jinnarin.

Alamar grunted. “Even people.”

Jinnarin sat cross-legged on the floor, her chin resting on one fist. Long did she sit this way, lost in deep
thought. At last she glanced up at Alamar, a question on her lips. But she did not ask it, for the Mage was fast asleep.

Two more days did the
Eroean
fare through the long Kistanian Straits, but no more pirates did she come across, the waters free of maroon sails. At last the Elvenship cleared the narrows, though she was yet in the waters of the Avagon Sea, the Weston Ocean lying some hundred leagues ahead.

Westerly she ran another day, in the wide gap between Tugal to the north and Hyree to the south, the wind yet abaft though more gentle.

And at noon on the following day, with a bright Sun overhead, just as the
Eroean
came upon the marge between the two oceans—“Castaway!” called the foremast lookout. “Castaway, on the starboard bow!”