The sails flapped erratically in the wind, but Tromo’s mind wasn’t on them.

Instead, it was out on the sea, skipping on the waves that split the bright day as they exploded against the ship.

It was leaping and gallivanting over the exquisite liquid canvas, skirting the borders of the beyond, skimming all around the vessel.

Up here he was free, free from the chastisements and occasional beatings of the crew, free from preparing food at the shouted commands of the cook, free from scrubbing the enduringly filthy decks.

He cherished these hours spent lingering in the crow’s nest on lookout duty while his mind played over the ocean. Nothing ever happened for him to look out for, and it wasn’t as if he’d be able to alert anyone to anything very quickly anyway.

That was why he was up here—to get him out of the way; even he, young as he was, could work that out. But he did not resent this fact so much as relish it.

He sailed his eyes closer and closer to that place in the distance where the sea collided with some imperceptible edge and came hurtling back towards the ship along the sky.

The sky! Hours could be wasted on that alone, sketching different shapes and stories in the clouds, imagining vast warring kingdoms, their borders marked off by sunbeams or thunderstorms.

In Tromo’s mind, the pillars of white were the castles of valiant kings. Their smaller counterparts were the servants of these kings, bold knights charging in swathes over the air.

And the darker clouds, these were the evil intruding forces laying siege to the white castles, threatening to corrupt the rest of the sky with their darkness.

There weren’t any of these around at the moment, but this did not stop the armies of light from mustering and displaying their strength all the same. They were on patrol, ready for the event of another attack.

His imagination started to trace out their ranks now, but presently something stopped it.

For a second he thought he had seen the smallest hint of blackness poised against part of the magnificent blue and white.

An invader! An enemy scout! He looked again—there it was. A speck of dirt in the firmament, the tiniest of blemishes in the blue. It was getting bigger. Tromo stood up in the crow’s nest.

Something was falling out of the sky. It was falling very fast. Soon it would hit the ocean or, worse, the ship. He scampered over the rail and began climbing down the rigging, but he would not make it in time.

He shut his eyes and felt the falling object rush past him, missing him by inches and colliding with the mainsail.

Tromo felt the mast creak underneath him as the sail was pulled taught and for a moment it was unclear whether it would rip under the strain or take it.

But then it sagged back into its original position, and the object, which had lost most of its momentum, was catapulted backwards.

As it span almost gracefully through the air Tromo got a glimpse of it. It was a person, a man, wearing something metallic he had never seen before but guessed was armour.

He flinched as the man’s head caught the edge of the ship’s rail with a clang and his flight was ended with an almighty splash as he crashed into the sea.

“What in Mashal was that?” came the instant question from the deck.

As Tromo reached the floor, Hudor shouted “I saw it, captain! It was a person!”

Before Tromo knew what was going on he was throwing Hudor a length of rope and watching him dive into the sea to rescue the fallen man.