“It’s no use, Zantheus; you’ll have to let me down.”

Zantheus was helping the first-mate Hudor and Tromo repair the mainsail.

It had torn in a few places during some stormy weather yesterday—apparently it had already been weakened by catching him when he had fallen out of the sky.

They had managed to sort out two of the tears, but the piece of material Hudor was trying to use to patch up the third had turned out not to be big enough.

Zantheus, who had hoisted Hudor up to the sail on a ramshackle platform they had assembled out of wooden planks and rope, began to let him down as he had requested.

Perched on the main mast above, Tromo looked after the intricate arrangement of pulleys that surrounded it, making sure that Hudor’s ropes did not get tangled up with any of those holding the sails in place.

The three of them had become something of a team; often now when Hudor needed assistance with a task he would enlist the help of Tromo and Zantheus. Zantheus appreciated this.

Hudor was the only person on board other than Thalassa who really paid him any attention. He was also the only person who dared to talk to him about his life before he came to be on the ship.

He would question Zantheus about his alleged climb of the mountain Awmeer and how he had prepared for it.

Zantheus would tell him about the training exercises he had been made to perform his whole life growing up as a knight in the Aythian Sanctuary, how his body had been coached into a state of physical excellence and how from childhood he had been taught to withstand extreme cold.

Hudor in turn told him about how he had been a fisherman in a town called Sephinah in Shul, but had wanted to leave for as long as he could remember, for the people of Shul were oppressed by a despotic tyrant.

When he had heard of the group of refugees planning to sail to Dahma he had joined immediately, and his hard-working and friendly nature had meant that he had quickly become first mate when the defected military Seargent Thalassa had come along to take charge of them.

Zantheus discovered that in Shul talk of the continent of Dahma was forbidden and it was only known as a rumour to some; hence the crew’s restlessness and uneasiness about the growing length of their voyage.

Hudor retained his certainty that the place existed, however, and Zantheus’s dramatic arrival on board the ship had bolstered his faith as it had Thalassa’s.

All the same, he was very careful never to ask Zantheus exactly how he had come to arrive on their vessel, perhaps because it was a taboo subject, perhaps because he was worried the answer would do something to call his certainty into question.

Zantheus helped him off the platform. Hudor was a very big man. Though he had not had the physical regime of an Aythian knight to hone his body into shape, Zantheus noted, he was a hulk all the same, and incredibly strong.

He was prevented from being intimidating, however, by his exceptionally friendly nature and by his attire: for trousers, Hudor wore what looked like a couple of sacks clumsily stitched together, and his shirt, ripped at the arm-holes, appeared to be made out of the same material as the sail, giving him the overall impression of being dressed in different parts of the ship and having outgrown even these. He wore no shoes either, preferring to walk barefoot.

“Thanks, Zantheus,” said Hudor. “We’ll have to go and get some more material. But let’s have a break first. Why don’t we have something to eat?”

Zantheus nodded in assent. He was not particularly hungry, but he had grown used to Hudor’s almost insatiable appetite and constant need for food breaks. Hudor was just about to call up to Tromo for him to come down as well when--

“Land hooooooooooooo!” came the words from the crow’s nest.

Zantheus could hardly believe his ears.

“Land hooooooooooooo!” the jubilant cry sounded again.

At last!

Immediately the entirety of the crew dropped whatever they were doing and rushed on to the deck.

Zantheus joined the congregation at the bow, crowding for the best view.

There on the horizon, an obscure, shadowy mass rose out of the sea. It was indistinct and at places faded away to emptiness, but there was no doubt about it: land was in sight.

A voice spoke quietly next to Zantheus, unable to conceal its relief. “I knew you were a good omen, Sky-Man.” It belonged to Thalassa. Now he spoke louder, addressing the whole crew. “Well boys, we made it! Soon we will drop anchor in Dahma!”

A great cheer went up from the crew. Any resentment or doubt towards Thalassa was forgotten in an instant. “Now get back to work!” he bellowed, making full use of his renewed authority. “We should reach her by nightfall, by my reckoning!”

The men swiftly returned to their stations, visibly uplifted. Some of them even smiled at Zantheus.

Thalassa remained where he was. “Zantheus and Hudor, may I see you in my quarters?”

Zantheus followed the sailors into Thalassa’s quarters, which were located in the aftercastle, at the top of some steps that led up from the deck.

This was the most well-furnished room Zantheus had seen on the ship. A polished table stood in the centre, complete with silver cutlery, and there were even some pictures on the walls.

One of them, he noticed, depicted a magnificent white watercolour mountain-range.

Instead of addressing him directly, Thalassa stood at the end of the room staring through the big windows that looked out through the stern of the ship over the ocean at their backs. After a moment, he spoke solemnly.

“So, Zantheus, you don’t really know your way around Dahma at all, do you?”

Zantheus’ mouth dropped open.

“In fact, Hudor tells me that you seem to have almost no knowledge at all of the world outside of your ‘Sanctuary’. Am I right?”

Zantheus glanced at the first mate, who gave him a sheepish look. Had he only been spending time with him in order to get information for the captain? Had their friendship just been a ruse?

Zantheus was cornered. “Yes. That is correct,” he said.

“I thought as much,” said Thalassa. “You have never reliably spoken of anywhere in Dahma beyond this place called ‘Aythia’, and even of Qereth you have given us only the barest details. But I asked Hudor here to befriend you and find out for himself, just to be sure. And it turns out that, however you got here, you really do know nothing about Dahma.” Now Thalassa turned and looked at him, with some anger. “So then, you would agree with me that it is difficult to see how you might serve as a useful guide once we reach it?”

Zantheus wondered what the sailors would do to him now that he had so carelessly given away his secret. Would he have to defend himself against them?

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to kill you,” Thalassa said, as if sensing his thoughts. “I have left that way of life behind. Anyway, you have proven yourself to be a reliable and hard-working hand aboard this ship. You can stay with us. But if you ever lie to me again, Zantheus, so help me...” Thalassa’s voice trailed off.

Zantheus wanted to say something for himself. He stuck with the truth. “My only desire is to return to Qereth. I would be happy to make my journey across Dahma with you, and help as I can, though I do not know the way as I let you think that I did. Nothing will stop me from returning there.”

“Yes,” said Thalassa. “You are determined to reach Qereth. Hudor has confirmed as much. I can see at least that is true. You are lucky that we have spied land; the crew were getting very restless. They were considering mutiny.”

“I know,” said Zantheus.

Thalassa turned back to the window. “Then you are more perceptive than I had given you credit for, ‘Paragon’. Yes...this is a welcome change in events. I do not know how much longer we would have lasted. I had begun to suspect that this sea went on forever...” Something resonated in Zantheus with these words, but he pushed the thought away. “With any luck, we will be able to put in at a port or at the very least go ashore very soon. My voyage is at last coming to an end...” He spoke more to himself now, not really paying attention to Zantheus and Hudor. “Leave me,” he concluded.

Zantheus left with Hudor. Tromo was waiting for them outside.

“Zantheus,” said Hudor, “I’m sorry. It wasn’t just because of my orders that I befriended you…”

“It does not matter,” said Zantheus briskly. “You were performing your duty.” He ignored the feeling of betrayal and stifled it, pushing it away just as he had the thought of the never-ending sea.

“I hope we can still be friends.”

“Yes,” said Zantheus without emotion. The truth was, he told himself, he did not really care that much. He just wanted to be off this loathsome ship, rid of this loathsome ocean, back on dry land. Sensing the awkwardness, Hudor went off to get some food and Zantheus went to find some other chore to occupy himself with.

He spent what was left of the afternoon in the galley peeling spuds with Tromo, who followed him, and whom he now matched for speed at the task, having had lots of chances to practice it. Just as they were finishing off, there was another cry from the deck above them. It sounded urgent. Had a port been sighted, or a beach, or rocks? He went up to the deck where once more everyone had congregated.

“What is happening?” he asked the assembled rabble.

“Skaphē’s seen another ship,” said one of the sailors. “Somewhere on the starboard side.” The crew were craning their necks and squinting their eyes to try and make out the ship. Gradually it came into focus. It was more or less the same size as their own, with two masts and sets of sails, though maybe a bit longer and more slender.

Maybe it carried a contingent of emissaries from Dahma. Maybe he could explain what had happened to him, and who he was, and they could offer to guide him back across the country to Qereth.

“Who told you to leave your stations?” Thalassa tore them out of their collective reverie. “Back to work! We will talk with them when they are closer to us!”

Zantheus watched the far-away ship as the crew dispersed. When there was no-one else around to hear, Thalassa said “Zantheus, do you really not know anything at all about the settlements on the west coast of Dahma?”

“No. Nothing.”

“You have no idea about what kind of welcome we will receive?”

“No,” said Zantheus again.

“No idea of the diplomatic protocols of your country?”

“No,” he said a third time, though this time he added “The people of Dahma are civilised and upstanding. I am sure they will receive you in the proper, courteous manner.”

“I sincerely hope you are right,” said Thalassa.

They watched as the foreign ship got closer. It had definitely spotted them; it had set a course to come alongside them.

Evening had now arrived and the sun would soon set. As the day darkened, the ship drew closer.

After some time, they were sailing parallel to it. They could see figures moving about on the deck, oddly ominous in the waning orange light.

The crew came up one last time to see what was going on as they finished their respective jobs.

“I wonder why they don’t come closer...” said Thalassa.

Just then a hatch in the side of the ship opened. Something black filled the space.

“Echthros’s tongue—!” swore Thalassa.

Suddenly a flash of light erupted from the ship with a terrible noise and something smashed into the main mast, raining a shower of splinters onto the deck.

The whole thing toppled over, sails and all, and Zantheus dived to the side just in time to avoid being crushed by it. The boat rocked violently.

“Foes!” Thalassa was shouting at the top of his voice in the chaos. “Foes! They’re hostile! All hands! All hands prepare to fight!” There was another tremendous boom and a second cannonball whizzed across the deck.

“Zantheus!” Hudor grabbed him. “Come with me!”

They rushed down the steps below deck, along the little corridor to a door Zantheus had not been inside before.

Hudor fumbled with the key when a third cannonball ripped into the hull somewhere below them.

He unlocked the door. Behind it were weapons, a pile of swords, spears, and some shields.

Zantheus spotted his own white scabbard and shining helmet, dented slightly from where his head had hit the edge of the ship after his fall, and retrieved them.

He barged past the rest of the crew who had come to take up arms and bounded back up the short flight of steps out into the air above.

The cannonballs had stopped when they had not been answered. Thalassa was shouting more orders.

There now came a brief but terrible interlude while they waited for their attackers to come aboard.

It was no use trying to outrun them; they had been crippled by the lucky first cannon shot.

The ship was close enough now that Zantheus could make out their attackers’ faces clearly.

They were gripped by grim, murderous stares, underneath messes of long, bedraggled hair—pirates, in all probability.

Not the ‘civilised, courteous’ welcome party he had expected at all then.

It struck Zantheus that he might die at some point the next few minutes. He could not handle that. He could not die out here, so far from home, so far from Awmeer, without ever finding out what had happened to him, how he had got here.

He would not.

Grappling hooks flew across the gap between the ships. Zantheus drew his sword and got a surprise. It was only about half its proper length, and ended in four uneven splinters instead of a single point.

The memory of breaking it against the enormous mirror on the mountain shone in his mind and for a moment he was filled with an all-consuming sense of helplessness.

He regained his wits just in time to block the first blow that one of the assailants aimed at his head as he leapt over the edge of the deck with a bloodthirsty roar.

He parried another, having to compensate slightly for the reduced length of his weapon, and then swung his broken blade around in its own deadly arc.

He was surprised when this was parried in return, but then an instinct which Zantheus had never had to rely on before suddenly came into play and he brought his knee up hard into his opponent’s stomach with such force that he crashed over the rail backwards into his own vessel.

Zantheus looked around. About him swords locked and the clang of steel rang in the air. Another man launched himself at Zantheus from out of the corner of his eye, and he span to meet him.

As he knocked away the blows of his new adversary and countered with his own he became aware of how excited he was. He had sparred with his fellow Paragons and undertaken countless combat exercises before, but he had never had to fight for his life.

This came as more of a momentary insight, as he did not really have time to meditate on his predicament at length before blocking the next swipe directed at his head.

It was a dance. The movements came easily to him, rehearsed a thousand times, as if he was practicing a routine. The pirates were unskilled and untrained. This was going to be easy.

Now he blocked high, moved his foot here, came back low with a counter-blow, now he elegantly sidestepped an ambitious thrust from his opponent, caught him off balance, and struck at him...

Zantheus nearly dropped his sword in horror. The man fell. The dance had come to an abrupt end, in a way he had not been prepared for.

Had he meant that to happen? He lifted his jagged edge. It wept thick red tears. It had never tasted blood before.

“Zantheus!” came Hudor’s voice from behind, bringing him back to his immediate situation. He turned to see another man running towards him, charging to avenge his fallen comrade.

Still in shock, Zantheus did not react in time. The man collided with him, tackling him to the floor, and lifted a long knife.

Then he dropped it and keeled over, Hudor’s spear protruding from his abdomen. The knife thudded into the deck, barely missing Zantheus’s right ear. Hudor nodded at him.

“Thank you,” said Zantheus. He pushed the man off of himself him in repulsion. More death. Death everywhere.

He suppressed the sickness rising in his stomach and re-joined the battle with Hudor.