The Enchanted Quest by Frewin Jones

harsh voice from out of the sky. “Do them no harm for the present. Let us learn who dares to sail these waters without Lord Balor’s leave!”
    Tania spun around, instinctively reaching for the staff that lay in the bottom of the boat: a weapon against the invaders.
    A black shape moved toward her, and she saw the gleam of a curved crystal knife. She swung the staff hard, hitting the knife arm just above the elbow.
    There was a sharp crack and a roar of pain. Tania drew back then thrust the pole forward again. The man doubled up as the butt of the staff rammed into his stomach. She used all her weight to follow through, and the man was pushed up against the gunnels. The side of the boat took him behind the knees, and he was flipped over with a shout. A fountain of white water rose as he plunged into the sea.
    Tania could see Connor by the mast struggling in the grip of three men. And in the stern Rathina was warding others away with savage sweeps of the tiller arm. But more were coming, swarming down the ropes, tipping the small vessel wildly as they leaped aboard.
    A curved sword was thrust toward Tania, sparkling like the crystal swords of Faerie. She hefted the staff, parrying the blade away. A black shape came hurtling down toward her.
    “Tania!” Too late she heard Connor shout a warning.
    There was a blinding pain in the side of her head, and the world exploded in an agony of red fire.

Chapter Ten
    A furnace blazed in Tania’s head, searing her brain.
    Her face felt as though someone had hurled a volley of needles against her raw skin. There was salt water in her mouth. She realized she was lying on a hard surface. Her head pounded, heavy as lead.
    Hands gripped her upper arms, dragging her to her feet. Brine ran down her face and neck. Hard fingers closed like a vice on her chin, wrenching her head up.
    Gasping, she forced her eyes open. For a few moments all she could see was swimming black and red. Shadows and fire. Forming half-shapes that melted away again and reformed in meaningless blotches.
    “A pretty mare, to be sure,” said a voice as the world eddied around her. “She’s no peasant girl, I’ll warrant. Some grieving father will pay a fine ransom for her return.” The fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “Hoy! Waken now, mare!”
    The pain helped bring Tania to her senses. The floating shapes settled and she found herself staring into a face stained red by the light of many lanterns. A man’s face. Long and hollow-cheeked and deep-eyed with a black goatee and a fierce hooked nose, all framed by dark curling hair.
    An instinct of fury made her snatch at the man’s wrist and drag his hand away from her face. She glared at him, pulling herself free of the men who had brought her to her feet, aware of the clammy darkness of the fog swirling around her.
    She swayed, dizzy, hurting.
    “A spitfire or I’m much mistaken,” said the man with a cruel smile. “Good. All the better. The fish that turns belly-up is poor sport.” He peered into her face. “Are your brains addled or can you speak?”
    She swallowed, her throat tight and leather dry. “I can speak,” she croaked. She coughed again, drawing herself upright. “Why did you attack us?” she demanded. “Where are my friends?”
    Ignore the pain. Ignore the way your head feels. This has to be dealt with.
    The man stepped aside, and finally Tania was able to make sense of what was happening. She was on the deck of a large galleon. Beyond its high rails the fog blotted out the world. Black sails billowed like thunderclouds. Men stood around her, many holding up lanterns from which poured red light. They were dressed in simple clothes: leather or woolen tunics, leggings of animal skin or dark cloth. Some had bare feet; others wore high boots. Most had crystal swords thrust into their belts; others had daggers and bludgeons.
    The man who had first spoken to her wore a long black coat tied at the waist with a red sash. There was a white ruff at