With bare fists, Gerrard attacked one of the warriors. With a quick punch to the temple, he sent the man to the ground. The warrior rolled, groaning. Gerrard smashed him in the jaw, knocking him out. He yanked up the warrior's spear and tossed it back toward Hanna. "You think you can make use of this?"

"Sure," she said, grasping the haft of the weapon. "I've wielded slightly more sophisticated artifacts in my time."

"Good," Gerrard said, grinning. "I'll go get me one."

As he dashed off, Hanna advanced on another warrior. His back was to her. Oddly, he was kneeling next to the ship's hull, placing his palms flat against the ground. In the distance, Hanna glimpsed several of the other attackers making the same mysterious gesture.

"That's my ship!" she growled, and rushed at the man.

The ground rocked. Hanna was thrown from her feet. Dirt and pebbles stung her face. The soil sank. Cold wetness rushed in around her. Water rose, lapping at Weatherlight's hull. Hanna splashed, struggling to keep her face above water.

Figures teemed through the sudden flood. In moments they grasped and bore away the man Gerrard had knocked unconscious. The pool widened and deepened.

Hanna cried out as a hand grasped her leg and pulled her under. Lashing out with the spear, she bashed her attacker and swam to the surface, spluttering and coughing. The edge of the widening pool was twenty feet away. She struck out, swimming vigorously, kicking off her sandals and fighting the weight of her sodden clothing. Nearby, she could see the bobbing heads of several fellow crewmen.

Hanna swam harder, but the shore receded continuously. For some moments, all was shouting blackness and cold struggle. Then she threw both arms over the edge of the pool and pulled herself onto the bank. Staggering up the slope, she turned to look behind her.

Weatherlight was floating on the small pond that had somehow been created by the attackers. Its damage made it list heavily to one side. The repair crews had done a partial job of patching the rent in the ship's side, but Hanna suspected the vessel was taking on water. She wondered how long it would be before the water reached the engine room.

All around Weatherlight surged canoes and swimmers and gliders. They cast lines about the hapless craft and began hauling it toward the river. The waters boiled with the struggles of crewmen caught in the sudden collapse of solid ground. Hanna reached out to help her companions to shore.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Sisay's dark face, almost invisible against the backdrop of night.

"Who are they? What are they after?" shouted the young woman. Her voice was trembling.

Frantically, Hanna scanned the scene for some sign of Gerrard. At last she saw him. He was wrestling with one of the attackers, whom he had evidently captured and pinned to the ground. Just as she spotted him, he reared back and, with a great blow, laid his opponent senseless.

"They're taking the ship!" she shouted to him.

Looking up, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, Gerrard rose and rushed toward her.

Already, Weatherlight was in the clutch of the river, which had reversed its course. It flowed away from the cottage, almost due west into the blackness of the plains. The ship was drawn along with the current.

"Run," Gerrard said. "It's speeding up!"

"We'll never catch it now," Hanna said as she fell into step beside him.

"We might! Look!"

The massive ship seemed to hang up on something, as if caught on a sandbar. Streaming water piled up behind it, but Weatherlight stalled for a moment in the flood. Something glimmered in the moonlit waters at the prow-a shiny boulder? No. It had eyes. Its mouth opened, and an almighty roar of exertion bellowed across the waves.

"Bless you, Karn," Hanna said, darting across the dark grasses toward the spot.

It was too much for the silver golem. The weight of the ship drove him down into the muck. His fingers scraped uselessly along the keel. Weatherlight won free and shivered away atop the receding flood.

"No!" Gerrard shouted. He ran futilely onward. "No!"

Panting, Hanna stomped to a halt. She gazed hopelessly toward the disappearing vessel. Her heart stood still as she spotted a small, turbaned figure clutching the rail and shouting.

It was Orim. She had remained on the ship with her two charges.

Gerrard had seen her as well. With a shout that rose to the skies, he pursued the ship. It moved all the faster now, swiftly vanishing from him. The river dried up as swiftly as it had swelled. Pools and rivulets of water splashed beneath his feet, and his face was stained with mud. All was in vain.

Weatherlight was gone.

In her trips aboard Weatherlight, Orim had experienced many un-pleasantries but nothing quite this bad. The ship creaked and groaned as it raced along the river. The bed was narrow, and Weatherlight lurched from side to side, occasionally blundering into the banks. Each impact jolted the ship and almost hurled the healer from her precarious perch at the rail.

Short and scrappy, Orim clung on. Her turban had padded her head against the worst knocks. The pockets in her healer's cloak helped absorb some of the body blows-and promised her salves and poultices aplenty when this all was done. She only wished her knee-high calfskin boots would have better footing on the rolling deck. Orim desperately wanted to get below and check on her patients.

She could see nothing behind her but the foaming water of the river, which receded as the ship passed. She turned to look ahead and was rewarded with nothing more than an onrush of blackness. Over the top of the pilothouse she could see dim forms moving about the ship's deck- attackers. The ones who abducted her patients, her ship, herself.

Orim struggled toward them along the rail. One figure- more surefooted than she-ascended the stairs and clung to the siding before her. He was tall and slender. Dark hair flew before his face. Hundreds of coins were braided into the long strands. The man's eyebrows drew tightly together. His eyes glinted like onyx in the night. He wore white robes that draped his shoulders and his waist but left his muscular chest bare.

The man spoke in a language she had never before heard.

She shook her head. "What do you want? Where are you taking me?"

He grabbed her elbow and hauled her to the hatch leading below decks. At the bottom of the ladder she could see him more clearly. His hands were glowing strangely-a silvery light that flooded the familiar passage. He urged her on toward the infirmary.

She entered and found two other strangers already occupying the cramped space, standing guard over Klaars and Drianan. Klaars was suffering acutely the effects of having been pitched from side to side in his bunk. In the crash, the thin young sailor had suffered a concussion. A large black knot hovered beneath his shock of auburn hair. In addition, his arm had been broken just below the elbow, and it was bound with a splint. In all the sloshing mayhem, the sling had fallen off, and the splint had been battered to pieces.

Drianan was in worse shape. His spinal injury had been severe, and despite Orim's neck splint, the man lolled back and forth on his bunk as if already dead.

Orim tried to remember some god to pray to.

From outside, over the noise of the ship, she could hear shouts from the others above decks. From time to time men climbed into the small room to consult with the coin-haired man, evidently the leader of the raiders. He answered them perfunctorily, all the time keeping his unwavering eyes on Orim as she moved between the two patients, trying to minister to them. He did his best to help, holding on to Drianan while Orim tended Klaars, and vice versa. Even that aid soon was unneeded. Drianan was dead before midnight.