“Get behind me!” he commanded the Satrap, and pushed him roughly back. Kennit braced his hand on the ship’s house to keep from toppling over. His body shielded the cowering Magnadon. With his free hand, Kennit tore his cloak loose. The oncoming men didn’t pause. He foiled the first man’s thrust by flinging his cloak around the blade as it came in and shoving it aside. He tried to grab for it, risking that he could wrench it loose from its owner’s grip, but it slipped out from the folds of heavy cloak.

The second man was a big beefy fellow, more blacksmith than swordsman. Without finesse or pretense, he stepped up and thrust his heavy blade through Kennit and into the Satrap. The blade pinned them together. “Got ‘em both!” he exclaimed in satisfaction. His killer’s striped shirt was stained with grease, Kennit noted in shock. The man wrenched the blade back out of them and turned to face the boarding parties. Kennit and the Satrap fell together.

Even as he fell, Kennit did not believe it. This could not be happening, not to him. A shrill screaming, like a cornered rabbit, rose right behind him. The screaming ran down and became pain. It ruptured inside him and spread through his entire body. The pain was white, unbearably white, and so intense there was no need to scream. A long time later it seemed, the deck stopped his fall. Both his hands clutched at his middle. Blood poured out between his fingers. A moment later, he tasted blood, his own blood, salt and sweet in his mouth. He’d tasted blood before; Igrot had loved to backhand him. The taste of blood in his mouth, always the forerunner to worse pain.

“Paragon,” he heard himself call breathlessly, as he had always called when the pain was too intense to bear. “I’m hurt, ship. I’m hurt.”

“Keep breathing, Kennit.” The tiny voice from his wrist was urgent, almost panicked. “Hang on. They’re almost here. Keep breathing.”

Stupid charm. He was breathing. Wasn’t he? Unhappily he turned his eyes down. With every heavy breath, he spattered blood from his lips. His fine white shirt was ruined. Etta would make him a new one. He tasted blood, he smelled it. Where was Paragon? Why didn’t he take this pain? He tried to summon him by speaking his ship’s old words for him. “Keep still, boy,” he whispered to himself, as Paragon had always done. “Keep still. I’ll take it for you. Give it all to me. Just worry about yourself.”

“He’s alive!” someone cried out. He rolled his eyes up to the speaker, praying for deliverance. But the face that looked down at him was Jamaillian. “You jerk, Flad! You didn’t even kill him.” Efficiently, this man stabbed his slender blade into Kennit’s chest and dragged it out. “Got him that time!” The satisfaction in the voice followed Kennit down into the darkness.

THEY WERE TOO LATE. WINTROW SHOUTED HIS AGONY AND KILLED THE MAN who had just killed his captain. He did it without thought, let alone remorse. The crew who had followed him from the Vivacia cut them a space on the crowded deck. Etta flung herself past Wintrow to land on her knees by Kennit. She touched his face, his breast. “He breathes, he breathes!” she cried in stricken joy. “Help me, Wintrow, help me! We have to get him back to Vivacia! We can still save him.”

He knew she was wrong. There was far too much blood, dark thick blood, and it still spilled from Kennit as they spoke. They couldn’t save him. The best they could do was to take him home to die, and they would have to act swiftly to do that. He stooped and took his captain’s arm across his shoulders. Etta got on the other side of Kennit, crooning to him all the while. That he did not cry out with pain as they lifted him proved to Wintrow that he was nearly gone. They had to hurry. The Jamaillians had been beaten back, but not for long.

The Satrap was underneath Kennit. As they lifted him off, the Satrap spasmed into life, screaming and rolling himself into a ball. “No, no, no, don’t kill me, don’t kill me!” he babbled. With the voluminous red cloak, he looked like a child hiding under his blankets.

“What a nuisance,” Wintrow muttered to himself, and then bit his tongue, scarcely believing he had uttered such words. As they started back to the ship with Kennit, he shouted to his crew, “Somebody bring the Satrap.”

Jek bounded past him from the edge of the group. Stooping, she picked the Satrap up in her arms, then shifted him over her shoulder. “Let’s go!” she proclaimed, ignoring the Satrap’s cries. Althea, at her side, menaced the closing Jamaillian warriors with a sword, guarding Jek’s back. Wintrow caught one flash from her dark and angry eyes. He tried not to care. He had to bring Kennit back to his own deck. He wished she could understand that despite what Kennit had done to her, there was still a bond between Kennit and him. He wished he could understand it himself. They crossed the deck at a half-run. Kennit’s leg and peg dragged behind them, leaving a scrawl of his blood in their wake. Someone caught his legs up as they went over the railings and helped them. “Cast off!” he shouted to Jola as soon as Althea and the others had regained the deck of the Vivacia. They turned to slash at Jamaillians, who sought to board them, intent on reclaiming the Satrap or at least his body. The ships began to move apart. A Jamaillian made a furious leap and fell into the widening gap. Their ship was wallowing now. Whatever the serpent had done to their rudder was flooding their holds. The same serpent watched their ship avidly, positioned just beneath the boat they were trying to get off. Wintrow tore his eyes away.