Arcs of green fire lanced at the ship, coming from the nearby vessels. Paedrin saw the enemy now, the other Paracelsus on deck, sending wave after wave of magical fire at the sails. The flaming globes struck the sails with a hiss and crackle, but otherwise plummeted to the deck and were doused by the wounded crewmen. The sails did not look scorched.
The Cruithne glanced at Paedrin again, a half-smile on his mouth. “It helps to know their kind and their craft.”
From a pouch at his waist, he withdrew a glass orb. He then clomped to the quarterdeck and held up the orb. He uttered a word. A fierce wind surged in the air, sending the sails billowing. The ship began to pick up speed. Winds surged and rushed, released from the orb in powerful gusts.
Men were running down the planks of the harbor, some screaming and shouting obscenities at them. The boat rocked and pitched as the furious winds intensified, shoving the vessels into the harbor. The Cruithne reached into his pouch and withdrew a smaller orange orb. He spoke the Vaettir word for fire—thas—and the orb burst into flame. With a powerful arm, he threw it at the docks behind and the orb shattered against it, sending a deafening explosion across the pier. He followed it with two more, Paedrin staring in amazement as the flaming orbs arched into the sky and landed in front of the rushing soldiers where they burst into explosions, devastating the docks.
Hettie joined them up on the deck, her hair whipping about her face. “What magic is this?” she yelled.
The Cruithne took a defensive stance, a Bhikhu one, and held aloft the orb, his legs sturdy against the gale. He gripped the wheel and turned, sending the ship knifing into the deep waters. A shaft of lightning came from the skies, striking the mainmast. An iron spike was at the top and the lightning made colors dance in the air, but the ship did not burn.
“Almost beyond their range!” the Cruithne shouted. “I thought they would unleash a bejaile on us by now, but they probably haven’t thought of that yet.”
Paedrin still could not believe what he was seeing. Why had the Cruithne joined their side? Was his connection to Aboujaoude more than a boast of his fighting abilities but also an indication that he could be trusted? Had Tyrus trusted him?
There was a flash of light on deck and a contingent of soldiers appeared wearing the tabard of Kenatos.
“Tay al-Ard,” the Cruithne muttered. “Should have guessed that.”
Paedrin vaulted over the rail, flipping in the air, and came down in the midst of the soldiers. He struck as a whirlwind, crippling knees and striking faces—using his entire body to press the attack. They were armored, which helped protect them from his blows, but he knew the vulnerabilities and struck quick and hard, moving this way and that to avoid swords and spears.
One of the soldiers threw an orb at him and he dodged it, but the glass shattered and burst into flames, racing across the deck. Paedrin grabbed the man before he could loose another one and chopped his neck soundly, dropping him. Every sense in his body opened like flower petals, absorbing the scene around him.
There was a boom of thunder on the deck as the Cruithne also dropped from the quarterdeck. He had a sword in each hand and moved like an avalanche, crushing through the mass of soldiers, using his elbows and the flat of the blades. Paedrin saw how quickly he moved, which was fascinating considering his girth, but he literally trampled the soldiers in front of him and sent others sprawling. The clash of swords against armor rang out on deck. The few sailors on board joined the fight.
Paedrin was struck from behind, feeling a blade slice into his shoulder. There was no pain at first, but he ducked, feeling the wet blade whistle over his head. Spinning around, he downed the man with a kick to his kneecap then swirled away from a blow aimed straight for his head. Blood oozed into his shirt, mingling with the sweat. He thrilled at the act of battle, ducking low and then inhaling to rise above his enemies, causing two to crash into each other as they attempted to tackle him. He moved liked a wisp, darting back and forth.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hettie strike a man in the groin with her dagger hilt and then his ear with her fist. She kicked out, moving in a form he had taught her days before, slipping between soldiers like a silk shadow. Paedrin seized another man’s wrist, arched it up and plunged his fist into the man’s armpit, watching the man’s grimace of pain. As he torqued the wrist and the blade clattered to the deck, he realized the fight was already over.
“Off with your hauberks,” the Cruithne ordered, kicking one back down who still had some fight in him. “You’ll soon be joining the fishes. You heard me. Off!” He sheathed his swords and grabbed one soldier by the collar and tossed him overboard. The others scrambled to remove the hauberks as one by one they were tossed over the side. There were twenty in all, and all were still alive, though some were unconscious. It was the Bhikhu way.