Free Down to the Sea by William R. Forstchen Page A

nosed his plane over, banking sharply, putting the fire of the city directly behind him.
    “We’re getting the hell out of here.”
    He continued to dive, the wind shrieking, pushing the plane. He looked aft, caught a glimpse of the Triangle.
    Looking forward, he saw Gavala, the star that was the point of the Hunter’s Spear, low on the horizon, and two points off to port.
    He raced back out for the open sea, pulling up to clear a ship that suddenly appeared out of the darkness and in seconds disappeared astern. It was a ship without masts, he realized, turrets mounted fore and aft.
    The ocean seemed to spread out to either side, and with a start he realized that he was only feet above the water.
    “Five more degrees to port,” Sean cried.
    “What?”
    “You’re about five degrees off.”
    Sean had always scored highest in their navigation classes, so Richard followed his order without comment.
    But after a few minutes something else caught his attention.
    A fire glowed on the horizon, not as big as the one he had been approaching less than half an hour ago. It was simply a pinpoint, flashes of light that popped, flared, and disappeared.
    A thought crossed his mind. From the position of the Great Wheel, which showed intermittently through the scattering of clouds, he judged it was little more than halfway through the first watch. Less than three hours ago he had come awake and wandered to the galley for a cup of tea and biscuits before going on watch. Three hours ago he would have had no idea of what it was he was now seeing, or how to judge it.
    Ahead there was another fight, ship to ship, and someone was burning. Was it his ship dying? Were they now alone a thousand miles from home?

THREE
    “My lord.”
    Hazin stirred, momentarily disoriented. He had always hated ships, the constant movement, the stenches coming up from below.
    “My lord, there’s a .ship.”
    Hazin sat up, nodding, wearily rubbing the back of his neck. The captain’s bunk was far too small for his towering frame. At nine feet he was tall even for one of his race.
    He stretched, nearly losing his balance as the deck beneath his feet dropped and rolled. He looked over at the messenger, a’ novitiate of his order, but one obviously accustomed to the sea; he balanced easily, shifting comfortably.
    Though the sea was the theater upon which the game of physical power was played out, it was an environment he secretly feared. It was an environment one could not control, the way one could so easily control the minds of others.
    Once aboard a ship, one’s fate was in the hands of too many unknown variables. In spite of all the elaborate plans, the games within games, there was always the possibility that an hour hence a storm could send one to the bottom. Or a raider of the Orange Banner, who acknowledged no power, could take and hold them for ransom.  Or a rival with a fleet of a hundred vessels might suddenly appear where he was not supposed to appear.
    He fumbled to brush the wrinkles out of his bloodstained robes. Hanaga’s blood—dried flecks of it dropped off. He felt nothing, though it was the blood of an emperor he had supposedly served since early youth.
    Poor fool, he should have seen it coming. Everything was but part of “The Plan,” the concealed reality. For all in this world was but a shadow of a deeper reality. Hanaga should have sensed that. His brother Yasim, knew it. That is why he was now the emperor, at least for the moment, and Hanaga was dead.
    The novitiate—the red stripe on his left sleeve marking him as a summa of the second order—waited patiently, but Hazin could sense the young one’s agitation.
    “The ship, our captain does not know what it is,” Hazin guessed.
    “Yes, my lord, he asks your presence on the deck.”
    “Lead the way, then.”
    Hazin followed him out of the stateroom and up onto the deck.
    The total darkness at sea was always a bit unnerving, and it took him a moment to adjust, half feeling his