Carse leaped to the ladder. “Come on, you scum, you rabble!” he shouted. “Here’s your chance!”
And they were after him like one man, roaring the beast roar of creatures hungry for vengeance and blood. Up the ladder they poured, swinging their chains, and those that were still held to the benches worked like madmen to be free.
They had the brief advantage of surprise, for the attack had come so quickly on the heels of the alarm that swords were still half drawn, bows still unstrung. But it wouldn’t last long. Carse knew well how short a time it would last.
“Strike! Strike hard while you can!”
With belaying pins, with their shackles, and with their fists, the galley slaves charged in and the soldiers met them. Carse with his whip and his knife, Jaxart howling the word Khondor like a battle-cry, naked bodies against mail, desperation against discipline. The Swimmers slipped like brown shadows through the fray and the slave with the broken wings had somehow possessed himself of a sword. Seamen reinforced the soldiers but still the wolves came up out of the pit.
From the forecastle and the steersman’s platform bowmen began to take their toll but the fight became so closely locked that they had to stop for fear of killing their own men. The salt-sweet smell of blood rose on the air. The decks were slippery with it. Carse saw that the slaves were being driven back and the number of the dead was growing.
In a furious surge he broke through to the cabin. The Sarks must have thought it strange that Ywain and Scyld had not appeared but they had had little time to do anything about it. Carse pounded on the cabin door, shouting Boghaz’ name.
The Valkisian drew the bar, and Carse burst in.
“Carry the wench up to the steersman’s platform,” he panted. “I’ll cut your way.”
He snatched up the sword of Rhiannon and went out again with Boghaz behind him, bearing Ywain in his arms.