The patrol was a faint swirl and streaking of phosphorescence, blacker shadows against the night. It was coming nearer.
"Have they spotted us?" wondered Corun.
"No," breathed Chryseis. "But they're close enough for their mounts—"
There was a great snorting and splashing out in the murk. The cetaraea were refusing to go into the circle of Shorzon's spell. Voices lifted, an unhuman croaking. The erinye, the only animal who did not seem to mind witchcraft, snarled in saw-edged tones, eyes a green blaze against the night.
Presently the squad turned and slipped away. "They know something is wrong, and they've gone for help," said Corun. "We'll have a fight on our hands before long."
He stretched his big body, suddenly eager for action. This waiting was more than he could stand.
The ship drove on. Corun and Chryseis napped on the deck; it was too stiflingly hot below. The long night wore away.
In the misty gray of morning, they saw a dark mass advancing from the west. Corun's sword rasped out of the sheath. It was a long, double-edged blade such as they used in Conahur, and it was thirsty.
"Get inside, Chryseis," he said tightly.
"Get inside yourself," she answered. There was a lilt in her voice like a little girl's. He felt her quiver with joyous expectation.