Deborah Hale by The Destined Queen

shook his head and answered in a tone of grim pride, “The Han are better swordsmen than archers. They got one lucky shot. We hit four times thatmany. You know, inlander, I am beginning to think we might get out of this alive, after all.”
    Gull pulled hard on the rudder and the Phantom veered to squeeze between another pair of ore galleys.
    How many did that make? Rath had lost count. He wondered that there was any ore left in the Blood Moon Mountains, with this much hacked out and shipped away every year since the Han had conquered Umbria. How many men had sweat, bled and retched away their lives to fill this fleet with its vile cargo year after year?
    Impotent fury seethed within him. His fist ached for a weapon powerful enough to channel and purge it, but even the Han did not possess one that destructive.
    A harsh chuckle from Gull roused Rath from his fruitless rage. “Do my eyes lie, or is that open sea beyond those cursed tubs?”
    Rath peered ahead, his rage ebbing for a moment. “I am only an inlander, so you might not want to take my word for it. But that looks a good deal like open sea to me.”
    Something about the tone of Gull’s laughter told Rath it was partly directed at himself. “I will take your word for it. And I reckon I had better find something else to call you…friend.”
    “I like the sound of that.”
    Gull thought for a moment, then he grinned. “So do I. And to think this was all the idea of a pretty wench. If you ever tire of her…?”
    “The lady will tire of me long before I tire of her.” Though Rath meant the words only in jest, somehow they turned back to sting him hard and deep.
    He did not have time to fret about it, though, for just then the Phantom broke through the final row of ore galleys.
    “Slag!” muttered Gull. “Nothing’s ever that easy, is it?”
    Rath glanced up to see one last Hanish cutter sailing toward them.
    “We didn’t come through all that to let them get us now!” Gull snagged Rath’s arm and hauled him toward the tiller.“Hold on to this and keep it pulled as far that way as you can until I tell you different. Aye?”
    “Aye!” Rath struggled to hold the tiller that had seemed to take no effort at all from Gull.
    Meanwhile, the captain strode the length of his ship, calling out orders for setting the sails. From what little Rath had learned about wind and sails, he reckoned Gull was putting the Phantom on a course that would force the Hanish ship to veer out of the wind. But would it lose speed quickly enough to keep it from ramming the smaller vessel?
    Rath guessed it would be a near thing one way or the other. With each passing moment, as he strained to hold the rudder firm, his fear grew that they would not make it. He glanced toward the hatch, willing Maura to climb up looking for something she might need to tend the injured men.
    With danger so near at hand, he wanted her close so he could be certain she was all right. And so he could do whatever he must to protect her, if it came to that.
    He did not dare leave the post Gull had assigned him, or he would have gone to her at once. Instead, he made frantic plans how he would reach her and what he would do if the Han boarded Gull’s ship, or if their sharp prow caught it broadside.
    As the latter seemed more and more likely, Rath braced for the crash. Then suddenly, the Hanish cutter veered back to its original course and the Phantom slid past.
    Rath sagged under the warm weight of his relief—so much that he almost lost his grip on the tiller. What had made the Han flinch at that last instant? Surely they did not fear a collision with Gull’s little Phantom.
    Could this be the working of his and Maura’s destiny?
    Gull soon appeared to give Rath a few answers. He fairly danced over the deck in his excitement. “Look, man, look! Slag the tiller—let it go and look!”
    He pointed past the Hanish cutter to the bulk of the Ore Fleet in the distance. Though the sun had dipped near the