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Only Captain Graff and Sargo, the aged helmsman, were
calm.
"Sergeant, my mother wishes to speak to you," Sturm
said.
"I honor your noble mother, but I regret I cannot leave
the deck just now," Soren said. "The enemy, it enemy they
be, is near."
"Where? Where?"
"Treading on our heels."
Sturm strained to see. The oars pounded ceaselessly. ...
"Ship on the port stem!" sang out a man in the rigging.
Out of the white murk came a massive object wrought in
bronze. To Sturm it looked like the head of a mace.
"The galley's ram," Soren told him.
"Hard a-starboard!" cried the captain. Sargo put the
tiller over, but the becalmed SKELTER scarcely noticed.
Graff ordered the helm kept over. He held the wind cord
aloft and undid the knot he'd worked so hard to loosen.
"Elementals of the air, I release you!" he exclaimed.
The sail snapped out with a crack, and the deck dropped
from under Sturm's feet. SKELTER heeled sharply to
starboard just as the phantom galley charged through the
dead water where the roundship once plodded.
Wind freed from the cord sang in the rigging. "How
long will it last?" Soren asked the captain. Graff rubbed his
ears and shrugged, a confession of total ignorance
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