He was looking death in the face, Teldin realized. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure of Estriss, racing to his aid, but he knew the illithid would arrive much too late. His killer's sword flashed downward. With an inarticulate cry, Teldin reached out toward the descending sword arm, a futile attempt to fend off destruction.

And power flared-behind him, around him, within him. The cloak around his neck crackled with power. His skin tingled with it; his bones burned with it. The feeling was like lying naked under the noontime sun, but: infinitely magnified. He felt that the very bones of his body must be glowing with the blue-white radiance of lightning, their brilliance shining right through his skin. He flung his head back and he howled, as though the sound had been ripped out of him. He thrust his hand out-no longer to block his attacker's slash, now directly toward the big man's chest.

His howl turned to a scream of agony-or was it ecstacy? Tiny, burning lights burst from his outstretched fingers. Intense, three-pointed stars-dazzling, almost blinding- sizzled through the air, forming a curtain, a curved shield of light, between him and his adversary. Teldin could see the shock dawn in the swordsman's eyes, but it was much too late for the man to check his swing. The sword struck that hissing curtain.

There was a crack like thunder. The sword's blade stopped as suddenly as if it had hit a stone wall. For an instant it was frozen there, glowing with the same actinic radiance as the curtain itself, then it exploded into tiny fragments. The swordsman reeled back, screaming in terror. His body was covered, head to toe, with tiny nicks from the splinters of his own sword. He stared with horror and disbelief at Teldin, then he turned and fled the foredeck.

As suddenly as it had sprung into being, the sizzling curtain of light vanished. Teldin lowered his arm. The sense of power was gone; no trace of it remained. In its place, coldness and weakness washed through him. His heart pounded, and he gasped with exertion and horror.

How? How could he have done that? He knew that the power came from outside of him, from the cloak-there was no doubt about that now. But how? How was it triggered, and why? What was its purpose?

He shook his head. Now was definitely not the time. With an ultimate effort, he forced his questions, his doubt, from the forefront of his mind. Later, he told himself, if there is a later.

The balance of the battle had swung in favor of the Probe's crew, Teldin saw quickly. The majority of the attackers-human and monstrous-lay dead on the hammership's deck. Most of the remainder were actually trying to withdraw, back onto tie deathspider from the killing ground that the Probe's deck had become. There were pockets of resistance where the attackers were still holding out-mainly centered around the two surviving umber hulks-but in most other places aboard the hammership the battle had degenerated into mopping up.

There was still fighting on the Probe's foredeck. Aelfred, now assisted by Bubbo and Estriss and two other crewmen, was driving a desperate group of attackers back. There was nowhere for them to go except out onto the upper surface of the officers' saloon. From there, they'd have to clamber back onto the deathspider's grappling leg and thence to the big ship's bridge, all the while being harried by the Probe's best warriors. If they didn't make it, they'd fall into space. From his vantage point, Teldin could see a dozen bodies floating in space along the deathspider's gravity plane. They bobbed gently as though floating in water and were slowly moving outward from the ship. It was as though they were being drawn toward the margin of the air envelope that surrounded the ships. Presumably, when they reached the edge of that envelope-and the edge of the ship's gravitational effect- they'd drift in the phlogiston, free of any gravity.

Most of the remaining bodies were obviously and messily dead, but a few still moved and called feebly for help. Nobody aboard the deathspider paid them any attention, and the crew of the Probe was too busy to help them.

There was a cry from the foredeck. One of the attackers, with a sudden burst of fury, had broken through the cordon of hammership crewmen. The man was bleeding profusely from a dozen wounds, but he was still very much alive. His wild, empty eyes fixed on Teldin, and he rushed forward, swinging his notched broadsword.

Desperately, Teldin snatched up the short sword he'd dropped and brought the weapon up to block the mighty cut that would have taken his head off. The blades clashed, and Teldin cried out at the agony that shot through his wrist at the impact. He backpedaled quickly, keeping the sword out before him. Sweat blurred his vision, and the tendons of his forearm burned like fire. The light sword in his hand felt like a bar of lead. He sought within him, desperately, for the calm, the focus he'd felt earlier, but there was no response-either from the cloak or from within himself. Maybe the flare of power had drained all energy from the cloak, or perhaps in his exhausted state he was simply unable to call it forth.

If he'd ever been able to call it. Even at the best of times, the power he'd felt had never been anything he could really depend on.

He blocked another swing, deflecting his opponent's blade so that it clove the air above Teldin's head. While the man was open, Teldin tried to lunge, but his movements were slow and his enemy jumped back in plenty of time. It was all Teldin could do to get his own blade in position to parry the man's cat-quick riposte.

There was no hope that he was going to last, Teldin realized dully. The man he faced was a good swordsman, infinitely more skilled than Teldin, and the man seemed almost fresh, unaffected by the wounds that had turned his clothing burgundy. Teldin had just managed to block his preliminary attacks, but there was no way that would last. If nothing else, the man would be able to wear Teldin down until he couldn't hold his sword up anymore, then the broadsword would end his life.

He had to do something desperate. He backed away again to give himself a few precious moments. With his left hand he drew his belt knife and turned the weapon so he held it by the broad base of the blade. His enemy stepped forward again, readying for another cut.

Teldin yelled-a last-ditch attempt to distract the swordsman-and simultaneously flipped his knife out in an underarm throw. The blade flashed in the flow-light, and sank into the left side of the man's belly. He cried out with pain. Teldin lunged, but his enemy was better than that. Even distracted by the agony of the knife in his guts, he was easily able to bring his sword down and parry Teldin's thrust.

Teldin threw himself back again, barely evading his opponent's riposte. The swordsman stepped forward once more, and Teldin looked into his eyes. They were dull with pain, and with something more than pain. The man was dying; he knew it and Teldin knew it, but the swordsman also knew that he'd have more than enough time for one last kill before he collapsed. Teldin tried to yell, to scream for help, but his throat was too tight. The only sound he could make was a pitiful croak. The man raised his sword for a final strike.

Teldin heard a swish and a meaty truwk. The swordsman lurched forward, the broad head of a spear growing- magically, it seemed-out of his chest. Teldin looked for a moment into uncomprehending eyes, then the eyes closed and the man collapsed.

Teldin saw Aelfred across the forecastle. The big man was still following through after his spear cast. The spear, Teldin realized, was the one that had been buried in the forward turret wall. The warrior bad torn it out and thrown it at the last instant. Aelfred smiled grimly, then drew his sword again and rejoined the fray on the foredeck.