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SKELTER bounded over the waveless sea, tearing the
fog apart like rotted cheesecloth. The galley trailed them,
trying to draw nearer. Sturm held on the port rail, the wind
in his eyes, as the galley swept clear of the mist. The bronze
ram gave way to a black timber hull that cut the water in
spurts with each dip of the oars. The galley's upperworks
were daubed blood red. Movement on the deck suggested
men behind the red planking, and a hedgehog of spears
bristled in the air. Below them, blending back into the fog,
were the oars, black with water, rising and falling in time
with a muffled drum.
"Keep back from the rail, lad," the captain told Sturm.
"They may have archers."
The boy forgot his mother's request and stood with
Sergeant Soren on the port quarterdeck. The magic wind
pushed the roundship without falter for one notch of the
candle. At one notch and a half, the galley ran its oars in.
The SKELTER'S crew cheered. Sturm said, "Have we
bested them, Captain?"
"Not yet, lad, not yet."
Sturm saw dark triangles billow from the galley's masts.
Their pursuers were taking to sail, using SKELTER'S own
wind to keep up with them.
The sun burned a hole in the clouds
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