The immediate pursuers grew from four to five, and then to seven. Carse remembered the old adage that a stern chase is a long one but it seemed that this one could not go on much longer.
There came another time of flat hot calm. The rowers drooped and sweated at the oars driven only by their fear of the Khonds and try as they would there was no bite in the stroke.
Carse stood by the after rail, watching, his face lined and grim. The game was up. The lean longships were putting on a burst of speed, closing in for the kill.
Suddenly, sharply, there came a hail from the masthead.
“Sail ho!”
Carse whirled, following the line of the lookout’s pointing arm.
“Sark ships!”
He saw them ahead, racing up under a fast beat, three tall war-galleys of the patrol. Leaping to the edge of the rowers’ pit, he shouted to the men.
“Pull, you dogs! Lay into it! There’s help on the way!”
They found their last reserves of energy. The galley made a desperate lurching run. Ywain came to Carse’s side.