“I haven’t the time or the power to force anyone. I’ve been summoned to attend upon the new emperor, and I want to reach Daltigoth in two days. Any ship and crew that wishes to take advantage of my offer is welcome. The rest may go and consider themselves absolved of their oath to the Blood Fleet.”

Fifty captains left immediately. The remaining one hundred fifty-eight argued loudly among themselves about the merits of Tol’s plan.

Stepping back to let them hammer it out, Tol said, “What do you say, Faerlac?”

The bosun sheathed his cutlass. “I go where this ship goes,” he said firmly.

The half-elf captain stepped forward, and the rest quieted. “My lord,” he said, “what about our property? What will become of it?”

Their loot, he meant. Tol had no time to dispute every coin and trinket the pirates had purloined. He said as much, and most of the remaining captains looked relieved.

“And the galley slaves?” the half-elf asked.

The wretched captives chained to the oars of the pirate ships were not criminals or prisoners of war, but unfortunates taken on the high seas by the Blood Fleet, even as Tol’s party had been. That he could not countenance.

“All slaves must be freed,” Tol stated flatly. “If you accept the emperor’s charge and become officers in his navy, new rowers will be supplied from the prisons of Ergoth.”

On this point he would not bend, and another thirty-odd captains departed. More disputations on various points saw another two dozen pirates leave Thunderer.

To the one hundred or so remaining, Tol declared, “Welcome captains! You’ve made a wise decision.”

They would make landfall at Thorngoth just before dawn. Tol thanked the loyal masters and dismissed them-all but the half-elf.

The half-elf pirate was called to the sterncastle. He had a thin mustache and his black hair was cut short. Light gray eyes watched Tol warily. Tol asked his name.

“Wandervere, my lord, of the galleot Quarrel.”

After questioning the captain further about Quarrel’s capabilities, Tol revealed he wanted to ascend the Greenthorn River at Thorngoth and proceed inland via the canal that joined the river to the capital. A journey over water would be far swifter than galloping on horseback the thirty-eight leagues from the coast to Daltigoth. Amused by Tol’s bold suggestion, Wandervere agreed.

Thunderer got under way again, oars rising and dipping in time to the great drumbeat. Before turning in for the night, Tol went below for the first time and addressed the rowers. As soon as they reached imperial territory, he told them, all slaves would be freed. Hundreds of gaunt, haggard faces stared at him without reaction, unable to believe his words. The rhythm of rowing was lost, and the galley wallowed to a stop. Tol repeated his promise.

From a rear bench a hoarse voice cried, “May the gods bless Lord Tolandruth!” A surprisingly strong cheer rose from the exhausted slaves.

Tol ordered water and extra rations for the slaves and returned to the deck. On the stair, he met Wandervere.

“You’re not just a good man with a sword, I see,” the half-elf commented, and there was no mockery in his gray eyes. “You know how to lead men. Those rowers will need no lash to spur them tonight. They’re rowing to freedom.”

The last of the loyal captains departed. From Thunderer’s stern windows Tol watched the lamps on the bows of the pirate ships turn away. He passed the night alone in Xanka’s broad bed. Dralie and Inika slept in the outer cabin with his comrades.

Some of the captains had a change of heart during the night. By the next morning, only sixty-six ships still followed in Thunderer’s wake.

Before dawn, squalls of rain lashed the bay. The heavy elevener pitched and rolled in the shallow waters off Thorngoth’s guardian fortress. Makeshift imperial banners whipped from the masthead, but in the swirling rain, Tol wasn’t sure anyone on shore could see them.

Thunderer crept ahead. The rest of the pirate fleet trailed behind in a wedge formation. High and dark, the stone walls of the fortress were forbidding in the grayish light.

“Steady,” Tol said. “Let them see our flags.”

“Oarmaster, eight beats!” Faerlac called out. The tempo of the rowing slowed.

The thin sound of a brass trumpet carried across the water-the call to assemble for battle.

“ ’Ware off!” Tol said, voice taut.

Even as he spoke, there was a thump, and a flaming missile arced up from the dark battlements. Frez scoffed. No catapult in the world could reach them this far.

A blazing javelin two paces long hit the water amidships and sizzled out, putting the lie to Frez’s confidence.

“They can’t see our colors,” Tol said. “I’ll have to go ashore. Prepare a small boat.”

“In this weather, my lord?” Darpo protested, holding a rail to keep his balance.

“No one need go with me.”

“Someone has to man the boat,” Faerlac said. “I’ll go.”

Stung by the bosun’s courage, Darpo and Frez volunteered immediately. Fortunately, the Dom-shu sisters were still sleeping; Tol knew they would have volunteered to go as well, and there wasn’t room for everyone.

As a yawl was prepared, more catapult shots whizzed toward them. Tol ordered the fleet to draw off out of range and await his signal, once he’d apprised the garrison of the true situation.

No sooner had Darpo and Faerlac raised the yawl’s single sail than a torrent of rain lashed over them. The small boat drove away from the towering side of Thunderer, and the galley was quickly obscured by mist and rain.

“Make for the quay below the sally port!” Tol shouted to Faerlac, at the tiller. Eyes slitted against the driving rain, the bosun nodded.

The wind shifted several times, buffeting the small craft mercilessly. The yawl was pushed toward the sandbar that shielded the mouth of the river then driven back out to sea again.

“Crazy wind!” Frez exclaimed.

Faerlac and Darpo, who both knew the sea, agreed. Could it be more of the evil magic that was stalking Tol? Nervously, he touched the concealed millstone.

Although Faerlac worked the tiller back and forth like an oar, trying to hold a course for shore, they could make no headway. The yawl spun, throwing everyone to the sides. Like a leaf in a whirlpool, the small boat flew out of control.

With a loud crack, the mast snapped and fell across the port side. The canvas sheet and lines closed over Frez. Trailing in the foaming sea, the sail dragged the boat to a stop. Water began pouring in over the side.

Darpo and Tol attacked the snarl of lines with their knives. In the stern, Faerlac held on grimly to the tiller, trying in vain to counteract the drag of the fallen mast. Frez flailed beneath the sail.

The yawl lurched suddenly, starboard side rising. Darpo lost his footing and pitched headfirst into the sea. Tol was tossed over the boat’s ribs into the tangle of sail and rigging. A strong wave hit the high side of the yawl and rolled it completely over. The last thing Tol saw before they capsized was Faerlac, now lifted high above his head and still clinging to the tiller.

All was green-black seawater and rushing bubbles. Tol’s right hand and foot were caught in the battered rigging. As the boat settled, he could feel himself being dragged down. He still had his dagger, so he hacked at the clinging lines.

He managed to free his hand, but his ankle was still trapped. Flickers of lightning briefly highlighted his underwater struggle, then even that light was lost as he continued to sink. Heart hammering, lungs burning, he felt the water grow colder and colder. His numb fingers lost their grip on the dagger. The ornate blade, gift of Crown Prince Amaltar, vanished into the depths. Hope seemed to drain away with the sinking weapon. The darkness was absolute.