The Fishmen had a head start and the desperate need to give the alarm to their comrades. But Blade and his companions had an equally desperate need to keep that alarm from being given. Both parties plunged through the water faster than Blade had ever believed anything human could swim. But then the Fishmen lived in the sea, and the diving warriors of Talgar were much at home in it.

Soon Blade and his comrades were overtaking the Fishmen. One of the enemy had a bow, but they were still outside underwater bowshot, barely fifty feet. Not for long, however. Suddenly the Fishmen made a dive for the bottom, heading for a rearing mass of pasty-white coral that loomed on the sea bottom like a crumbling mansion out of a ghost story. Blade could see holes in the mass easily large enough to admit a man. If the three Fishmen got in there, finding them in time would be impossible.

So Blade poured out his strength, plunging furiously after the three fugitives. He remembered not to draw his swords until the last moment, so that he could use both hands for swimming. He remembered to keep head-on to the enemy, presenting the smallest target to their archer. He passed into bowshot, saw the archer raise his spring-loaded crossbow and saw something flash out from it. A rippling in the water, and the bolt was sailing away into the sea. A moment later Blade was up with the three Fishmen.

Suddenly he was unable to remember that he had no real quarrel with the Fishmen. As always, he accepted the laws of a battle-kill or be killed. And Blade was always firmly determined to be as hard to kill as possible.

So his short-swords leaped from their scabbards and darted out toward the Fishmen. Underwater fighting was almost all thrusting, with weapons that presented the smallest resistance to the water moving along the straightest and shortest line to their target. A man trying to wave a long sword around underwater would be skewered six times over by one armed with a short-sword.

The first Fishman jerked his leg out of the path of Blade's first thrust and replied with a thrust of his own at Blade's left arm. Blade had to twist and spin in turn to get the arm clear. But that left him in a better position to make a quick high thrust for the second Fishman's chest. The sword went in deep, almost jamming between the ribs. Blade barely had time to pull it free and plunge downward. A thrust from the first Fishman drove through the water where his back had been.

Blade did a complete somersault in the water and came up facing his opponents, his back to the nearest hole in the white coral. The dying merman was drifting, trailing smoky blood from his wide-gaping mouth and punctured chest. The second came at Blade. The third broke away and headed for open water. Blade could only hope that the other raiders would catch that one. Then he had to turn his full attention to his present opponent.

This one was good. He must know that he had only a few minutes of life remaining, but he fought as though he would be carrying Blade's head home in triumph at the end of the battle. He matched Blade thrust for thrust and parry for parry. Blade's strongest strokes clanged into the circular guards of swords that seemed to be everywhere at once.

But Blade was half a head taller than the Fishman and must have outweighed him by a good forty pounds. He rammed one sword directly into the guard of one of his opponent's weapons, hooking and immobilizing it. Slowly he forced the other's arm back, until it was hopelessly out of position. The Fishman kicked at Blade, but only succeeded in twisting himself further out of position. Slowly the two cartwheeled in the water, as Blade forced the Fishmen's guard wider and wider open. He was waiting for a moment when the Fishman was not thrusting with his free sword.

That moment came. Blade's own sword slashed down, a blow that traveled barely six inches, offering little chance for the water to grip and slow it. With all the strength of Blade's right arm and shoulder behind it, the sword bit into the Fishman's left wrist. His left hand opened and the sword spun out of it. Before the Fishman could draw back an inch, Blade drove home a conventional thrust. The Fishman stared at Blade for a moment, his mouth seeming to open in a smile as though he were acknowledging his defeat. Then the eyes glazed over, and the mouth twisted out of shape and began gushing blood. The dying Fishman twisted himself off Blade's sword and went on twisting slowly down to the bottom. Thirty feet below, he caught on an outcropping of coral and came to rest there, draped over it like a length of seaweed.

Blade did not wait around after that. He sprang up to rejoin the other five raiders, who gathered around him and clapped him on the back and shoulders. He managed to smile, then made the signal inquiring, «Did you get the third?»

There were bleak looks and headshakes from all five. Blade shrugged and joined them as they swam up to join the company. He suspected there would be an even bleaker look from Nezdorn when he heard the news.

There was. But like Blade, the captain recognized there was nothing to be done now. Nothing except to move forward as fast as possible in the greatest strength possible, to do as much damage with the least danger in whatever time remained before the Fishmen brought up superior strength. He signaled the company to re-form. The usual underwater ballet swirled and twisted and the men darted into position.

As the three lines started off again, there was the unmistakable thump and ear-squeezing pressure wave of an underwater explosion behind them. Blade looked inquiringly at Nezdorn. The captain ginned, and signaled that a firepot had just gone off in the Fishmen sentrypost.

(«Get any?»)

(«Three more.»)

So the first clash had cost the Fishmen five warriors and a sentry post, without so much as one man among the raiders scratched. There could be worse beginnings to a battle-Blade had to admit that. And it was obvious that the company thought so too. They looked proud and confident of beating anything they met, as they swam on through the crystal seas, deeper into the territory of the Fishmen.

The messenger swam in through the hole in the ceiling. The Lady Alanyra rose from her chair and looked at him.

«Well?»

«The Air-Gulpers still continue to advance. They destroy or kill all in their path.»

«That is their way. We cannot hope to change it in this one battle.»

The messenger looked bewildered. «Noble Lady?»

Alanyra shrugged. «Never mind. Have their raiding parties showed any signs of uniting yet?»

«No.»

«Then we will not move out yet. The whole force of our Clan is not to be wasted on one or two parties of the Air-Gulpers. We will wait until we can net five hundred or more at a time, like a great school of the lyknon. And the Stranger will be among them. Yes, the Stranger will be among them.» There was a note of passionate belief in her voice as she said that. The messenger looked at her, still bewildered. She noticed his expression and her mouth curved in a smile. «Go to the steward and ask him to give you food and drink before you return to the battle. You look weary.»

«Noble Lady.» The messenger bent his body double, then straightened and darted out through the hole.

Alanyra stretched her superb body, testing each muscle. Good. She would be as strong and fast in the battle that was coming as she had ever been. Not only her Clan but she herself would emerge with honor from this battle.

She looked at the great wall map of woven byssus fiber that rippled gently on the wall and noticed that the Clan's Orderer of Battles was also looking at the map. She turned to the grizzled old warrior and smiled again.

«You think I am putting too much hope in the Stranger, Oknyr?»