day, they ran aground.
Smith had relinquished the helm to Cutt while he downed a stealthy postbreakfast filler of pickled eel. He swore through a full mouth as he felt the first grind under the keel, and then the full-on shuddering slam that meant they were stuck.
He scrambled to his feet and ran forward.
“The boat has stopped, Child of the Sun,” said Cutt.
“That’s because you ran it onto a sandbank!” Smith told him, fuming. “Didn’t you see the damned thing?”
“No, Child of the Sun.”
“What’s this?” Lord Ermenwyr ran up on deck, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “We’re slightly tilty, aren’t we? And why aren’t we moving?”
“What’s happened?” Willowspear came up the companionway after him.
“Stop the rowers!” Smith ran for the boiler stopcock and threw it open. Steam shrieked forth in a long gush, and the oars ceased their pointless thrashing.
“You have hyacinth jam in your beard, my lord,” Willowspear informed Lord Ermenwyr.
“Do I?” The lordling flicked it away hastily. “Imagine that. Are we in trouble, Smith?”
“Could be worse,” Smith admitted grumpily. He looked across at the opposite bank. “We can throw a cable around that tree trunk and warp ourselves off. She’s got a shallow draft.”
“Capital.” Lord Ermenwyr clapped once, authoritatively. “Boys! Hop to it and warp yourselves.”
After further explanation of colorful seafaring terms, Smith took the end of the hawser around his waist and swam, floundering, to the far shore with it, as Cutt paid it out and Strangel dove below the waterline to make certain there were no snags. After four or five minutes he walked to the surface and trudged ashore after Smith.
“There is nothing sharp under the boat, Child of the Sun,” he announced.
“Fine,” said Smith, throwing a loop of cable about the tree trunk. He looped it twice more and made it fast. Looking up, he waved at those on deck, who waved back.
“Bend to the bloody capstan!” he shouted. Cutt, Crish, and Stabb started, and collided with one another in their haste to get to the bars. Round they went, and the cable rose dripping from the river; round they went again, and the cable sprang taut, and water flew from it in all directions. Round once more and they halted, and the Kingfisher’s Nest jerked abruptly, as one who has nodded off and been elbowed awake will leap up staring.
“Go, boys, go!” said Lord Ermenwyr happily, clinging to the mast. “Isn’t there some sort of colorful rhythmic chant one does at moments like these?”
The demons strained slightly, and the Kingfisher’s Nest groaned and began to slither sideways.
“That’s it!” Smith yelled. “Keep going!”
The Kingfisher’s Nest wobbled, creaked, and—
“Go! Go! Go!”
—lurched into deep water with a splash, and a wave rose and slopped along the riverbank.
“Stand to,” said Smith. As he bent to loose the cable, he became aware of a sound like low thunder. Looking up over his shoulder, he pinpointed the source of the noise. Strangel was growling, glaring into the forest with eyes of flame, and it was not a metaphor.
Smith went on the defensive at once, groping for weapons he did not have. As he followed Strangel’s line of sight, he saw them too: five green men in a green forest, cloaked in green, staring back coldly from the shadows, and each man wore a baldric studded with little points of green, and each man had in his hand a cane tube.
Strangel roared, and charged them.
Their arms moved in such perfect unison they might have been playing music, but instead of a perfect flute chord a flight of darts came forth, striking each one home into Strangel’s wide chest.
He kept coming as though he felt nothing, and they fell back wide-eyed but readied a second barrage, with the same eerie synchronization. The darts struck home again. They couldn’t have missed. Strangel seemed to lose a little of his momentum, but he was still advancing, and smashing aside branches as he came. Not until the third flight of darts had struck him did his roar die in his throat. He slowed. He stopped. His arms remained up, great taloned hands flexed for murder. Their forward weight toppled him and he fell, rigid, and rolled over like a log rolling.
His snarling features seemed cut from stone. The lights of his eyes had died.
The Yendri stared down at him in astonishment.
Smith turned and dove into the river.
He was scrambling over the rail of the Kingfisher’s Nest when the first dart struck wood beside his hand. He felt Willowspear seize his collar and pull