A violent wave. Pazel was hurled back and down. Volpeks tumbled from the deck. Arunis lost his grip on the Wolf and plunged into the sea.
Cannon fire!
Somehow Pazel rose. No one was motionless now. Men ran, oars churned; terror showed on every face.
They were under attack.
On Pazel's right a skiff was blasted to splinters. The air was full of wood, water, blood. Pazel swam toward the nearest boat, screaming for help. It was overfull: Volpeks and their young prisoners, stuffed like worms in a baitbox. And it was drawing away, much faster than he could swim.
"Help! Help!" ("Kquak! Kquak!")
He chased it, but his strength was gone. Another wave sank him, and when he struggled to the surface again he knew it was for the last time.
The drowned, like those who die of thirst, suffer visions: every sailor knows that. So Pazel was not too surprised when familiar faces appeared in the departing boat. There was Neeps, throwing punches. There was Thasha fighting like a champion. And there, dashing one Volpek after another into the sea, was Hercуl of Tholjassa. A pretty dream, he thought, not believing in it for an instant.