Douglas Niles - Circle at center

A few minutes later the caravels wheeled around again, reversing course to once more close rapidly with the enemy platform. Tam was encouraged to see plumes of smoke rising from the raft, a series of smoldering fires apparently burning behind a wall of iron encircling the central portion of the vast deck. Perhaps the first volley had done some lasting damage after all. The little fleet of sailing ships pressed in, ready to launch another salvo of blazing missiles, while splashes rose before the caravels as giants hurled great rocks. The range was great, even for the iron-thewed giants, and nearly all of the boulders fell short. Tamarwind saw two caravels lurch as a sail or mast came down, and both of these turned from the attack, limping away from the menacing platform.

“Fire!” called Tamarwind, and once more the trumpet echoed his command. The Swallow lurched again as the great spring compressed, flinging the load of shot up and out, sending the incendiary globes bouncing across the deck of the raft. A great volley of silver spheres rained onto the raft, the balls slicing through tightly packed Crusaders along the rail. Flames erupted here and there, and some of the enemy warriors, engulfed by fire, hurled themselves into the lake. But the slain and injured warriors were merely pushed overboard by the press of their comrades advancing to take their places.

Again volleys of enemy arrows arced outward, stuttering along the caravel decks, tearing through the sails with soft rips. The caravels veered again, beginning their turn. More boulders flew through the air, but these too splashed well short of the speeding attackers, and Tamarwind allowed his hopes to flare.

But then the wall of iron on the enemy raft fell flat, and Tam saw that he had led his ships into a trap. Smoke flared into orange flames as a hundred catapults snapped forward, and balls of oily fire soared into the sky, tumbling in lazy parabolas toward the elven fleet.

S ir Christopher stood atop the tower that had been erected on the raft’s foredeck. From here he could see across the teeming surface of the platform, had watched the caravels wheel gracefully into a line abreast, and had seen his ambush work to utter perfection.

The caravels had raced close, and then went into a turn across the broadside of the massive raft, unaware of the imminent and lethal barrage. The catapults were a total surprise, launching a volley when the enemy was in easy range. The knight cheered as many of the catapult loads spattered into the water among the elven ships to form bobbing, burning slicks of oil-soaked wreckage. Black smoke blotted the air, swirling crazily as it was caught in the gusts of the druid-spawned wind.

A few of the missiles struck with even greater effect. Christopher shouted a hurrah as a white sail caught a fireball and quickly erupted into flames. At the same time, rivers of fire trickled down the mast, and immediately the planks of the main deck began to burn. Another caravel wheeled out of line, flames streaking the port gunwale, engulfing the helmsman and half the crew within an inferno. And at the far end of the elven line, fire crackled in the prow of a wildly steering caravel. White flames suddenly shot skyward, and Crusaders cheered at the knowledge that one of the hated batteries was now turned upon its owner. More explosions rocked the hapless vessel, blasting away the mast, tearing at the planks of the hull. Within a few heartbeats, the ship was gone, the grave marked by a smear of crackling flame and hissing steam boiling upward from the surface.

“Give it back to the heathens!” Christopher shouted, delighting in the results of the lethal ambush. Already his elves and goblins were hastening to pull the great baskets backward, to ready the next load of flaming doom.

“Hurry, bold Crusaders!” shouted the knight, voice shrill. His hand went to the Stone of Command and he clenched it. “Make haste, and smite the enemy again!”

With a frenzy the last of the baskets was loaded, crewmen diving to get out of the paths of the coiled weapons.

“We’re ready, lord!” shouted his elven gunners’ chief.

The knight looked down, watching with satisfaction as the caravels reeled through the smoking chaos on the water. The catapults were fully revealed now, the wall that had once concealed them having dropped to lie flat on the deck. And even the undamaged caravels were still in easy range, veering and swerving on the water now marred with a hundred crackling, oily blazes. Christopher knew the time had come for the killing strike.

“Let fly!” he cried, and one hundred supple weapons snapped forward. Bundles of oily rags soared through the air, trailing smoke and fire, plunging toward the wooden hulls of the slender elven ships.

“F ire!” cried a crewman, flinging himself to the rail as the Swallow swerved past a flaming swath of floating debris. Tamarwind got a quick glimpse of broken staves, greasy rags, and oil burning into a column of thick, black smoke. Thankfully the caravel slipped past without damage-though they clearly remained in grave danger, as another series of smoking fireballs burst upward from the stunning array of catapults.

“Another volley!” Tam shouted. “Get out of range!”

But he saw that it was too late for at least half the fleet. He watched in horror as caravel after caravel caught fire, sometimes losing masts and sails, with all too often decks and hulls succumbing immediately after.

“They got the Robin-and the Goshawk is burning too!”

Tamarwind tried to follow the reports of his lookouts, tried to think, to decide what to do. The surviving caravels were curling around to port and starboard, frantically maneuvering to avoid the rain of smoldering missiles. Another volley smudged the sky, and still another elven ship was suddenly immersed in fire.

“Come about-fall back!” Tam shouted in anguish, knowing that to run away was to yield the lake to the invaders.

But what else could he do?

Only four of the caravels were sailing away from the raft, these ships-including the Swallow-having suffered only minimal damage. Of the other eight, two were already gone-destroyed by the explosive combustion of their battery ammunition. Tamarwind watched, horrified, as a third-the beleaguered Goshawk-abruptly vanished in a thunderous explosion of white fire and roiling smoke.

Five more of the valiant ships struggled to make headway, often with only a jib or stern sail. Broken masts were cut away and tattered sails tried to corral the slippery wind. The crews seemed to be bringing the fires under control, and now at least the surviving ships were safely out of range of the lethal catapults. Two of the caravels, apparently the Robin and the Cardinal, were still burning savagely, and it was clear that they would never make it back to port.

“Pull up!” Tamarwind shouted to Juliay and his helmsman. “Let’s get over there and see if we can take off survivors.” The other captains apparently had the same thought, for the caravels were slowing, gathering together like frightened sheep.

But the next piece of bad news suddenly became apparent, as the last of the Crusaders’ galleys came into view, moving out from behind the great raft, oars driving it steadily toward the elven ships. In that lofty, metal-jacketed prow Tamarwind saw utter disaster. The caravels were bunched together, half of them dismasted or lofting only tattered ashes of sails. The Swallow was the only elven vessel with a battery, and it was badly out of position, too far away to shoot without endangering allied ships.

A streak of white moved across the lake, coming terribly fast from the shores near Circle at Center. Sails bulged, and the ship raced like a soaring bird, skimming over the surface of the water.

“It’s the Osprey!” The shout came from his lookout, and Tamarwind watched with a sense of sick horror. What was Roland Boatwright trying to do? His ship skipped across the lake with stupendous speed, surely traveling faster than any craft could sail. The druid was visible as a distant figure standing in the helm. There were no other sailors in sight, and Tam understood intuitively that Roland had sent his crew off the ship.