“Give me the helm,” said Carse, and the other stood aside, the brand showing livid on his whitened cheek.
“Make speed,” Carse ordered, “if you would live.”
And speed they made, so that the galley went with a frightening rush between the cliffs, a black and ghostly ship between the white fire of the fiord and the cold green moonlight. Carse saw the open sea ahead and steeled himself, praying.
A whining snarl echoed from the rock as the first of the great ballistas crashed. A spout of water rose by the galley’s bow and she shuddered and raced on.
Crouched over the tiller bar, his cloak streaming, his face intense and strange in the eery glow, Carse ran the gauntlet in the throat of the fiord.
Ballistas twanged and thundered. Great stones rained into the water, so that they sailed through a burning cloud of mist and spray. But it was as Carse had hoped. The defenses, invincible to frontal attack, were weak when taken in reverse. The bracketing of the channel was imperfect, the aim poor against a fleeting target. Those things and the headlong speed of the galley saved them.
They came out into open water. The last stone fell far astern and they were free. There would be quick pursuit—that he knew. But for the moment they were safe.
Carse realized then the difficulties of being a god. He wanted to sit down on the deck and take a long pull at the wine cask to get over his shakes. But instead he had to force a ringing laugh, as though it amused him to see these childish humans try to prevail against the invincible.
“Here, you who call yourself captain! Take the helm—and set a course for Sark.”
“Sark!” The unlucky man had much to contend with that night. “My Lord Rhiannon, have pity! We are proscribed convicts in Sark!”