"Stop!" the Skir Master commanded.

Argoth froze, the barrel only inches away, the pain of his blackening and blistering fingers shrieking up his arm.

The Skir Master strode toward Argoth, displeasure on his face.

Horror overtook Argoth: what had he done? How could he have betrayed his Master? He almost fell to his knees. But there was one small part of him that wanted something else.

"Nettle," he said.

"Down!" ordered the Skir Master.

Argoth faltered, but then he mustered his strength. "Nettle," he said. And suddenly the Skir Master's command seemed less important than it had. His son's sacrifice would not be wasted.

"Nettle," he said more forcefully. This was for him and for Grace, Serenity, and Joy. For Serah. A battle cry rose within him, and he shouted his son's name. "Nettle!"

For one brief moment his mind cleared, and he thrust his burning fingers into the black liquid waiting in the barrel.

A blue-green fire raced over the surface.

Argoth almost faltered from the pain, but he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand back and wrapped it in his tunic, wiping off both flame and skin.

The seafire in the barrel spit, flashed, then, with a cracking thunder, flames exploded upwards. Thick smoke poured forth and rolled along the ceiling.

The Skir Master took a step back.

Argoth retrieved the hatchet he'd stowed between the barrels earlier. He brought it up and swung it against the rope binding the barrel, splitting it cleanly.

"No!" the Skir Master said.

"Yes," Argoth replied.

Leaf was on his knees, violently trying to wipe the seafire from his face with his tunic. The Skir Master leapt over him.

But Argoth grabbed the lip of the burning barrel with the head of the hatchet and pulled with all his weight. The barrel toppled over, splashing the burning seafire over the deck. The remaining contents of the barrel spilled forth washing over and around the Master's boots, circling the man.

The blue flame raced over the surface of the widening pool.

Argoth backed away.

The Skir Master looked down at the spreading fire. Then the pool of seafire burst into flame and choked the pa.s.sageway with smoke.

Clasping the hatchet, Argoth turned and ran. Men shouted from the stern. The cook stepped out holding a long knife, probably the very knife that had hacked up the rat that had gone into his soup, and looked up the pa.s.sageway. Argoth swung the flat of the hatchet and struck the man in the face.

The cook fell back, and Argoth raced past him up the stairs to the main deck. Thick brown and yellow smoke billowed out of the hatches, the Skir wind carrying it forward over the deck into the sailors who had recently been dancing. An officer shouted for a team to descend with barrels of sand.

Argoth leapt up the stairs to the aftercastle and raced to the stern. A dreadman stood by the helmsman. "The Skir Master," Argoth shouted. "Help me get the ship's boat in the water!"

The dreadman hesitated, then joined Argoth. He ran to the rope and pulleys of one of the davits, Argoth the other. But Argoth had no time for an easy lowering. He hacked trough the ropes and his end of the boat swung down and out.

The unexpected weight caught the dreadman off guard. The rope raced through his hands, burning them. He stumbled forward, cursed, and looked at Argoth with anger.

The boat had fallen, but not all the way. It dragged behind the ship, half of it still out of the water.

Argoth raced to the dreadman's side. He acted as if he were going to hack through the tangle. Instead, he buried his hatchet in the man's leg.

The dreadman yelled out.

Argoth yanked the hatchet out and kicked the man in the head, knocking him overboard.

Men raced up the stairs to the aftercastle.

Then an explosion rocked the ship, sending the men on the stairs sprawling.

Argoth brought the hatchet down with all his might, cutting the rope, and the boat fell to rest of the distance to the water.

A man shouted blood-curdling intent behind him.

Argoth turned and saw a dreadman charging him, sword held high. A large eye had been tattooed on his bare chest.

Argoth brought up his hatchet and parried the blow, but the force of the blow knocked the hatchet out of Argoth's hand.

The dreadman brought his sword back.

Argoth was in not state to fight him, so he scuttled backward and flung himself over the edge of the stern. Then he was falling, watching the Ardent pull away with the dreadman looking on.

Argoth pulled his broken arm to his chest to protect it, bracing himself, thinking he was going to land on the boat.

But he did not land on the boat. He crashed heels over head into a shock of the cold water. He gasped in a lungful of water, rolled, then came to the surface in a choke and turned to look for the boat. A wave lifted him, showing him the boat only a few yards away. He side-stoked towards it with all his might, holding his useless arm at his chest.

The dreadman who'd come at him on deck flashed down in the corner of his eye and splashed into the water.

At the crest of the next swell, he looked back. The dreadman was swimming after him hard, gaining on him.

Argoth swam with all his might. Two, four, eight strokes.

He looked back. The dreadman was only a few yards behind.

Another stroke and he touched the boat. Argoth reached up with his good hand, grasped the top wale, and swung his leg up, and then it was over the wale and onto one of the thwarts.

He looked frantically about for a weapon. There was nothing but the length of rope that had attached the boat to the davit.

The dreadman's hand grasped the wale behind him.

Argoth lunged for the rope lying under one of the thwarts.

The dreadman pulled himself up.

Argoth spun around, lunged at the man and slipped a make-shift noose over the dreadman's neck. Then he looped the rope about his body and heaved back. The rope tightened about the dreadman's neck and pulled him into the boat. But Argoth knew that wouldn't be enough. He turned, and before the dreadman could gain leverage to pull Argoth to him, Argoth took one bounding step and jumped off the side of the boat opposite of the dreadman and into the water.

He attempted to swim under the boat, but he could not get the leverage he needed and realized it wasn't going to work. He grabbed the rope higher and pulled with all his might, expecting the dreadman to haul back on it. But no tug came, and Argoth burst to the surface. He tread water, fearing what would come, but nothing moved on the boat.

Men cried over the waves. They would see this boat, and those that knew how to swim would come after it. Surely the dreadman was waiting for him, but Argoth saw no other choice. He steeled himself then stroked back to the boat, reached up, and pulled himself in.

The dreadman lay across the thwarts, his neck broken, the water from his clothing dripping into the bilge.

Argoth looked at the man. Strong, clearly someone who had seen many battles. A good soldier gone to waste.

He unlooped the rope, pushed the body aside, then began to tie the tiller. He would not have enough time to erect the ship's small mast and rig the sail. However, if he tied the tiller, he might, with one oar, row in a straight line away from the burning Ardent and her men.

He finished tying the tiller and looked back at the ship. Her sails had caught fire-yards and yards of fire billowing up into the evening sky.

Then an enormous explosion cracked like thunder, shuddering the ship, throwing men, wood, and great gouts of fire up into the rigging and out to sea. One of the thrown men, his entire body aflame, snagged in the rigging and writhed there.

Moments later a rain of fire began to fall to the sea. It fell in great infernos and small drops, all of it streaking through the sky to burn atop the darkening water.

Another explosion tore the air. The force of the blast, even from this distance, almost knocked Argoth into the thwarts. It rent the ship, and she began to list.

Argoth retrieved an oar, fitted it, and sat on the thwart. He was about to turn the boat to row directly away from the Ardent when a fierce wind kicked up about him, sending sea spray to sting his eyes.

The skir wind.

He crouched low in the boat, the wind whipping about him. Moments later a violent gust slammed into the boat, knocking him into the wale. And then, as quickly as it had come, it departed with one final line a spray that receded away toward the Ardent.

Argoth's fingers throbbed with pain. They were black, and where the outer charred skin had sloughed off, a bright pink. They didn't hurt as much as he would have suspected, but that only meant the fire had burned all of his nerves. He suspected he might never feel in those fingers again.

The splint about his broken arm hung loosely. He tightened it up as best he could with his burned hand. Then he set his one ore, sat upon a thwart, and began to row, the red and green eye of the paddle dipping in and out of the water.

He hadn't gone very far when he heard the Master's command in his mind. "Come to me."

"Nettle," he replied. "Serah. Serenity. Grace. Joy."

"Come to me!"

But Argoth repeated the names of his family members again like some murmured prayer.

The Skir Master shouted again in the back of his mind.

But Argoth rowed on muttering. "Nettle, Grace, Joy, Serenity, Serah. Nettle, Grace, Joy."

The ship burned brightly. Any ship within miles would be able to see it. His only hope was that the others were nowhere nearby. Or, at least, too far out to make it here before the Skir Master died.

When he did die, Argoth would feel it, for a thrall only had power when the Master was alive. When he died, so did the bond. Of course, he had read that the bond worked through a man like roots in the soil. So although the bond might die, the roots would remain, and it would take some time before all traces of the thrall were gone.

Argoth wondered how many thralls the Master had. Dozens? A hundred? Surely, the inlay by the pulpit was some type of thrall, which made Argoth question how many of the master's thralls were skir. Certainly Shegom was one of them.

He looked up and found that the sky was clear. The first evening stars shone in the heavens. He took a moment to get his bearings by them and considered trying to rig the sail.

A wind buffeted him, then another.

At first he thought it a normal gust, but it did not abate.

The sound of sea spray hasted towards his boat. Argoth turned and saw the Skir wind racing toward him. Shegom was coming. He had heard of Skir Masters summoning whirlwinds to the field of battle, of men being picked up and carried away.

Argoth released the oar and immediately wriggled underneath the thwarts, wedging himself as best he could.

Moments later the wind knocked the boat lifting one side and pushed it sideways. Then the pitch of the wind rose, screeching over the wales.

The oar jerked violently in its lock. It jerked the other way then broke free with a wrench and flew up and away. The pitch of the wind screamed over the wales rose until it howled like a hurricane. The boat tipped precariously on its side and scudded over a wave.

The dead dreadman tumbled out of the boat and into the water.

Sea spray kicked up, driving into Argoth's face like needles. He shut his eyes against it and turned his face into the side of the boat as the wind picked at him.

The boat lurched, twisted, was tossed about like a leaf. And then it was airborne. He began to slip and braced himself. Then the boat slapped down on the water in the midst of heat, fire, salt spray. And then as quickly as it had come, the wind abated.

Argoth opened his eyes and saw the sky full of smoke. He listened for the wind, but it was gone, so he wriggled halfway out from under the thwarts and surveyed the scene. All about him pieces of flotsam burned, smoke piling into the sky.

Someone shouted.

A hand grasped the wale.

Argoth kicked at the man's head as he came over. He bent over to untie another oar so that he might use it as a weapon. But the boat rocked.

Argoth turned, oar in hand.

Leaf stood before him, water running from his clothes into the boat. The skin about his eye was blackened and cracked from the burn. Raw pink and red flesh shone where much of his eye tattoo had been.

Argoth drew back to strike, but Leaf simply s.n.a.t.c.hed the oar out of his hand and kicked him into the prow. Argoth's head smacked against the side of the boat.

He tried to get up, but couldn't seem to get his balance.

Another dreadman entered the boat.

Then Leaf reached over the side and pulled the Master up. Clutched to his breast was the weave that had been inlaid into the deck of the ship by the bowl-Shegom's thrall.

The Master wore no boots. The legs of his pants were scorched. The flesh underneath blistered.

A normal sailor tried to climb into the boat.

"What are you doing?" said the Master and kicked the man in the face, sending him back into the water.

Then he stepped over the thwarts to where Argoth lay and looked down upon him. "You should have drowned yourself, Clansman. You should have tied a stone to your neck and jumped into the sea. For now you will taste the fury of the Glory of Mokad."

Leaf eyed Argoth malevolently.

The Skir Master looked out over the waves. "Dreadmen!" he shouted. "To me!"