“Wondrous isn’t the word,” Ethan addressed the minister. “Significant would be better. Among other things, it shows that your new confederation isn’t as far-fetched as we first thought, because all Tran once lived within a far stronger union.”
“A union repeatedly scattered by weather stranger than I can believe, or so go the rumors our shipwrights have told me,” Mirmib replied.
As it developed, the feast of the night extended in various incarnations for several days, during which time the crew enjoyed the hospitality of Moulokin. Their tales engendered considerable, lively speculation and discussion among the townspeople. Some of the stories lined up neatly with local religions, which grew at once stronger for the confirmation and weaker for the reality of it.
When it was adjudged time for the Slanderscree to embark on its circuitous return to Arsudun, the Moulokinese finally abandoned their casual reserve. They took leave of their work to crowd around the harbor and voice enthusiastic, spontaneous wishes for the safe journey and good wind of their new friends and allies. With the last shouts of the watch patrolling the outer gate adding to the wind pouring down the canyon, the icerigger raced out onto the frozen sea.
Instead of paralleling the cliffs, Ta-hoding set a course northward. They would cross the endless pressure ridge of ice at a different point, to avoid possible confrontation with any lingering Poyolavomaar forces that might be guarding their first passageway through that broken, jumbled barrier.
Ethan stood on the helmdeck, watching the canyon that concealed Moulokin recede behind them. Ta-hoding animatedly waddled around the great wheel, happy as a pup. His steersmen also looked pleased at nothing in particular.
When asked to explain his beatific expression, the captain replied, “Why should we not be happy, friend Ethan? We sail with smooth, clean ice beneath us instead of unpredictable rock and dirt. I know now that if I order the mastmen to port a spar one jahn, the Slanderscree will react precisely so,” and he outlined air with a sweeping motion of one long arm.
“No longer need we guess at the results of our maneuvers. No more must I…”
“Below the deck!” came a shout from the mainmast lookout. “Sail five kijat to port!”
“Must be a merchantman, headed for the city.” Ta-hoding strained to look in the indicated direction. The horizon remained uninterrupted.
“Below the deck!” A note of urgency in the lookout’s yell sent idle sailors chivaning to the rail. “Four sails more traveling with the first… no, five! More still!”
“Do you suppose, friend Ethan…” A worried Ta-hoding let the sentence trail off. His jovial manner had faded.
Dan spread wide, Hunnar came shooting onto the helmdeck via one of the ice ramps leading up from the main deck. He dropped his arms and dan, lost speed, and braked in a shower of ice, then skated impatiently to join the captain and Ethan.
“Turn about, Captain.” His tone was grim. “They could be an unusually large group of merchants traveling together for protection, but we’d best not take chances.”
As if to confirm their worst suspicions, the lookout sounded again. “Eight, nine… I count at least fifteen sails, possibly more!”
“Must be the Poyolavomaar fleet. So they haven’t given up. They’ve waited all this time, hoping we’d return. Damn!”
“The girl Teeliam was right.” Hunnar’s gaze was fixed on the portside horizon. “Who should better know a madman’s desires than one who was subject to them? Turn about, Captain.”
But Ta-hoding had already begun unleashing a river of commands to all within earshot. When he concluded, he returned to stare in the same direction as Hunnar and Ethan.
“’Tis difficult to say what may happen.” The plump captain looked concerned. “We cannot swing to starboard, for it would take us into the cliffs. To make headway against the canyon winds, we need the westwind behind us. Yet they are already positioned to make use of it themselves. We have no choice but to swing toward them, catch the westwind on our starboard side, and swing back to Moulokin.” He stared up at Hunnar. “We may run into their point rafts before we can swing ’round to the west again.”
“Take care of your ship, captain friend. I will take care of other considerations.” Hunnar raised his arm and slid back toward the main deck, already organizing in his mind ways to repel potential boarders.
Off-watch crew came pouring onto the deck. Some of the sailors were buckling on swords and armor while double eyelids blinked away sleep.
Ethan continued to stare, looking forward as the prow of the icerigger began to come around and point directly at the onrushing Poyo rafts. By then the opposition had drawn close enough for the lookouts aloft to distinguish markings and pennants. The faint hope that the vessels might constitute part of some huge merchant fleet vanished.
A stocky, wizened Tran had mounted the helmdeck, stood alongside Ethan. Balavere Longax, Sofold’s most respected senior warrior, gestured to their left with a clawed finger. The claw was pitted and dull, a fragment of worn feldspar set on the tip of a gray branch.
“Infantry,” he grunted. “Slower than rafts but more maneuverable. They seek to cut us off before we can gather the westwind behind us.” He fingered the sword slung at his waist, a weapon far younger than himself. Turning, he shouted toward the main deck. “Ware bowmen! Keep to your shields, men and women of Sofold!”
Arbalesters, carrying the crossbows devised by Milliken Williams to aid in the defense of Sofold against the assault of Sagyanak the Death and the Horde over a year ago, took up positions high in the Slanderscree’s rigging.
Balavere studied the rush of infantry, now curving slightly toward the raft, “We must pass through them, but they will not stop us.” He glanced back at Ethan, grinned unexpectedly. “Their archers will concentrate their fire here, my friend, to try and pick off our wheelmen. Best you get yourself below.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay right here.” His own confidence shocked him. Little more than a year on this harsh world had transformed him considerably. Contact with the Commonwealth would surely change the Tran. Contact with the Tran had already changed at least one human. He patted the sword slung at his side. It felt familiar, comfortable there. But it was the hand beamer he raised and checked.
“Charge is way down,” he told Balavere, squinting to read a tiny gauge through mask and ice goggles. “I expect Skua’s and Milliken’s are low also. But the first bowman who comes too close is going to get a strong dose of modern technology.”
“I had forgotten about your knives that fight with the long light,” the general said. “Good. Remain then and help protect our mobility.” He walked over to talk with Ta-hoding.
“I worry not overmuch about their arrows,” Ethan heard the general tell the captain. “They could do worse, if this Rakossa has good advice. Himself I think incapable of much tactical subtlety. Their rafts sail with discipline, so keep the wind and try not to cut us off overfast. They may try to jam the steer runner with cables.”
“Think you I’ve not been in battle before?” Anxious and concerned as he was, Ta-hoding wasn’t about to let Balavere or anyone else tell him how to handle his ship. “Keep any cables out from our stem and I will deliver all safely to the harbor.” He muttered a Trannish curse. “Had we but a few hours longer, we could have outrun them. Only a—”
He was interrupted once more by a cry from the mainmast. “Ten ships, eighteen kijat to port!”
By then the icerigger had swung around to where westwind was beginning to fill her sails. She picked up speed, but the sailors of the main Poyo body were visible on the decks of their rafts. A new threat.