“What do we do?” Dorian asked.
“They’ve no doubt hidden the real device someplace we’ll never find it. We’ll have to run back to Sarostar as quickly as we can. If Miro activates the device at the Crystal Palace, word needs to get out soon as possible. Scratch it! This is going to add days. We’re going to need an enchanter . . .”
“Actually,” Tapel said, “the real prism wasn’t hidden.”
Bartolo stared at Tapel. “What did you say?”
“It’s in the river, near the bridge.”
“Why there?” Dorian asked.
“They made me climb the tower and help them swap the fake prism for the real one. But I didn’t give them the real one. Instead, I threw it in the river.”
Bartolo looked at Tapel in surprise. “Well done, lad,” he said. “Come on! Leave the bodies for the crows. Quickly, to the bridge!”
The group of two bladesingers, five recruits, a ferryman, and Tapel hurried back they way they’d come, to stand near the support columns at Samson’s Bridge. The three-legged tower loomed over them.
The water surged below the stone arch of the bridge itself, turbulent and frothing.
“It’s hopeless,” Fergus said. “I know water, and you’ll never find it.”
At that moment, a fiery green light shone brightly from somewhere in the water below the bridge.
The chill that ran through Bartolo’s spine was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Miro had activated the reflector at the Crystal Palace. Looking back toward Sarostar in the west, Bartolo could see a distant green light, high in the sky. The device in the water had responded to this reflector.
But looking east, across the bridge to the land of Halaran, there was no onward signal. With the prism in the water, the chain was broken.
The fleet had been sighted. Sentar Scythran was here, and he was coming for Altura.
Bartolo took a deep breath and began to strip off his clothing.
“No,” Tapel said.
“You’ll never make it,” said Dorian.
“Do you know what our strategy is?” Bartolo asked as he disrobed. “All the high lord’s planning and effort has one objective, and one objective only. It’s to delay the enemy. Not to win; Miro doesn’t think we can. It’s to hold them until help arrives. Every moment counts, and even if I die here, I’m going to try.”
Soon Bartolo stood in just undershorts, the muscles in his abdomen rippling as he drew deep breaths to flood his lungs with air.
Without thinking too hard about what he was about to do, Bartolo fixed his gaze on the shining green light welling from the deep water below. He ran to the edge of the bridge and stared down into the depths.
Bartolo drew in a breath as he climbed up onto the rail.
He dived, head first, into the surging water.
It was the middle of spring, but the water from the north was cold, so cold it sent icy needles stabbing into Bartolo’s flesh. The current immediately fought to drag him downriver as his arms and legs clawed against it, his vision firmly set on the green light. He fought the water like an enemy, feeling the muscles he’d hardened over years of training and countless battles come to his aid.
He knew he had to keep his eyes open, but the force of the river made it nearly impossible. He concentrated on the color green, focusing on the glimmers that came through his eyelids. The current tried to pry open his mouth, and with each stroke of his arms and kick of his legs he felt the breath in his lungs grow short.
Bartolo was running out of air.
Summoning reserves of strength, he opened his eyes wide, and there it was in front of him, a shining green prism, too bright to look at.
A dozen more strokes should take him close enough to touch it.
Bartolo screamed underwater and kicked harder, fighting his own buoyancy as his body desperately tried to return him to the surface where he could breathe again, and live. Instead, he pulled hard, clawing at the water as if gouging out the eyes of a vicious enemy.
Bartolo reached out with his hands, and he touched the prism.
The surge of victory was short lived as the river pushed him half a dozen paces again.
He couldn’t breathe anymore; his brain was starved for air, and he felt his vision closing in.
Bartolo knew that if he couldn’t succeed, he wouldn’t be able to try again. Dorian was young, and he would try, but he would drown. This was his one chance. Only he could do this.
Bartolo channeled the last of his energy into one final surge. His body dipped deeper into the water as an unpredictable current twisted him over. Turning back around, he felt a rock under his arms and hooked a wrist underneath. Bartolo used the leverage to gain the last distance, and he took hold of the shining prism.