The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [145]
The lead schooner at the pier is shrouded in fire, and her masts and timbers begin to burn.
Double lightning forks from the swirling darkness to the north and west, shivering another Hamorian vessel, which one Creslin is not quite sure as he struggles with blade and winds.
The two ships flanking the debris that had been a tall ship try to turn from the waterspout, but the waters swallow them in a tower that rears like a wall between the harbor and the north.
“. . . light!”
“. . . get the redhead and the silver-head!”
Creslin’s blade snakes out and drops another Hamorian as his thoughts twist the darkness upon the ships beyond the breakwater, knowing that he dare not bring that much water within the small harbor.
“Around the regents . . . now!”
Creslin finds himself side to side with another fighter, one with red hair, and he almost lowers his blade in relief. “Get the other ships!” Megaera hisses.
. . . idiot . . .
Creslin swallows as he recalls those off the eastern beaches, as he pulls the waterspout around the point and toward the three ships. Only those three and the two schooners within the harbor remain afloat.
“Hit the center. That’s where they are!”
“Ooo . . .” Creslin winces. Flame seems to sheet through his right shoulder, but he continues to concentrate on the winds, bringing them and the entire wall of water down upon the Hamorian vessels off the beach.
Ruuu . . . swwussshhhHHH!
Creslin’s teeth grind under the impact of Megaera’s pain and his own. Yet, off the eastern beaches, only debris and bodies float. The sands are scoured clean by the mast-high wave that has ripped men, weapons, and vegetation alike off the low hill that protects Land’s End from the stones and the waves—and that has driven one nearly mastless hull hard upon the sand.
Creslin’s guts are in his throat, and he pukes over the man felled before him by Megaera’s blade before she follows his example.
“Damn your weak guts . . .”
. . . puking . . . weak-kneed . . . bastard . . .
“Shut up . . .” he mumbles, lifting his blade.
There is no further use for the blade, for all of the Hamorians on the pier are fallen. Perhaps a score have dived into the debris-laden waters to swim out toward the second ship, which has slipped her cables and turns toward the seas.
The lead schooner flares brightly, burning so hot that steam rises where the waters from the sky pelt her. The few Hamorians remaining in the water try to swim beyond the heat.
Hard rain swirls around Creslin, and his right arm lies leaden at his side. He swallows, knowing that he is not finished. Taking a deep breath, he regathers the winds, waiting only until the last Hamorian ship clears the rocks of the breakwater. Then he calls, ignoring the white stars before his eyes. Willing away the agony in his arm and shoulders, he summons the high winds and the cold.
He watches until he is certain that only timbers and debris dot the heavy swells; then he turns to Megaera, who looks at him white-faced, blood smeared across her gray tunic and leathers.
He cannot hold the image, cannot speak, and finds himself sinking to the slippery and bloody stones underfoot, knowing that Megaera is sinking with him.
XCV
CRESLIN’S ARM AND shoulder burn, not with the flame of suns, but with the heat of well-banked coals. When he tries to open his eyes, miniature fires flicker across the dark ceiling. A cool cloth is pressed over his forehead, and the fires retreat.
He dozes, and sees that the room is darker when he again awakes.
A shadowy figure steps toward him. “Ser?”
“. . . think I’m here . . .”
“The healer said you should drink this.”
A cup is placed before his lips, and he sips. Lifting his head sends a wave of heat through his right shoulder and down his arm. He forces himself to keep on sipping until some of the liquid spills out of his mouth and the cup is withdrawn.
He sinks back on the pillow, trying to puzzle out where he is. The room is small, and the guard who presented the cup is female. So he