Meanwhile, Tromo had been trying to keep out of the way of the fighting.

It was happening all over again; it was just like the last time he had been on this ship when it had been attacked. Only worse.

This time he had no-one to tell him what to do or to try to protect him. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about him the moment they had sighted the ship. While the others had been preparing to be boarded, he had searched about manically for a place to hide, and had decided on Thalassa’s rooms.

Now he was stuck in the dining room in which Zantheus had been questioned earlier that day. He had hid under the table and was concentrating on trying to stop himself shaking. By now he could hear the sounds of weapons meeting in the air, and horrible screams when they met something other than steel. He knelt with his eyes fixed on the floor, willing this all to be over.

The door flung open with a bang. Not again. It was happening all over again. He could see two pairs of legs. One man had been forced to back into the room by the other as they were fighting. He could hear each of them grunting with the force of each blow as their legs took them round one side of the table. One wore brown boots, the other dirty white trousers that ended in huge feet and sandals.

The man with the boots had backed in first, and Tromo could see just from their feet that he was struggling to fend off his opponent. The white trousers were winning. Tromo hoped they belonged to someone from his ship, but he didn’t recognise them.

They were at the window-end of the room now. The boots changed the pattern in their steps. There was a gagging noise. Tromo recoiled as a gush of blood decorated the floor. A shout of rage followed, and then the boots disappeared altogether. At the same time there came the sound of breaking glass and translucent shards joined the blood on the floor. Had someone been thrown out of the window?

The remaining man in the white trousers made a gasp like someone might make after a long drink and started to walk back towards the entrance of the room. Blood still dripped where he walked.

Tromo begged his body to stop shaking so violently. Why was he trembling? What good was it going to do him? His worst nightmare happened: the sandals stopped. The legs started to bend. No! He couldn’t do anything! He wanted to make a dash for the door but invisible chains held him in place. After all of that shivering, now his body had decided to freeze still!

A fat, ugly face appeared and looked straight at him, choking him with fear.

An arm reached under the table to grab hold of him, but this turned out to be the same instant that his body chose to start obeying him, and he shot out on his hands and feet, under a chair, through the open door.

The man followed him. Tromo scrambled up and looked around.

Fighting. There was no safe corner, nowhere left to hide.

At the other end of the ship, Zantheus turned as he dispatched another foe, piercing his chest with almost surgical precision.

He had been moving through a range of different emotions during this battle; first fear, then excitement, then horror.

Now he was just angry. Who were these men to attack their ship? Why did they hurl themselves at him so recklessly, so eager to meet death?

What right did they have to board a peaceful, well-meaning vessel, unprovoked? He looked for his next combatant.

Tromo whizzed past. The boy! What was he doing? He was stumbling over the wreckage of the main mast and sail, trying to get away from something...

There! A man in pursuit –a great big ball of muscle and fat, in a blood-stained white apron and trousers, carrying a huge meat-cleaver in his right hand.

He was bleeding from a cut in his neck, and making straight for Tromo.

Zantheus reached the man just as Tromo made it to the rigging of the second mast and swung himself up in his nimble way.

There was no time to aim a proper strike as the cleaver was lifted high in the air.

Zantheus could only dive and smash headlong into the aproned man from behind.

The cleaver came down, missing Tromo by inches and slicing straight through the tough, tight roping of the rigging, severing part of it from the side of the ship.

Tromo held on for his life as it swung inwards, pulling him in tow.

The collision had brought Zantheus to the floor, but the aproned man had merely been knocked into the side of the ship; he had retained his footing.

The cleaver was raised high again.

There was no time; Zantheus had lost his grip on his sword when he fell.

This was it. He was about to die.

Something collided with the aproned man, smacking him in the face.

Tromo, still hanging on to the loose bit of rigging, had swung back to kick his pursuer in the head.

Fast as he could, Zantheus picked up his sword, stood up, and struck.

He had not been fast enough. It was blocked by the cleaver. But instead of pulling back, without letting a moment pass Zantheus brought his free hand up around the other side of the man and punched him as hard as he could in the face.

The man reeled backwards with a cry of pain, clutching his neck where the punch had further opened his wound.

Zantheus plunged his broken sword into his stomach, then withdrew it as the man slumped to the ground.

Victory!

But where was Tromo?

He could not see him anywhere. He realised what had happened.

When Tromo had swung back into their attacker, most likely saving Zantheus’s life, the force of the impact had made him let go of the rigging. He had gone overboard.

Just then the world was torn into two. Zantheus felt two paths diverge before him: he could win this battle for Thalassa and his crew. Their enemies were wild and vicious but they were unskilled. Zanethus had not faced one yet who could best him in combat. He could stay and fight.

But, the boy... Up until lately no such choice would have presented himself to him. In fact, Zantheus could probably save more lives by staying on board and fighting.

It was no use being distracted by the loss of one small life, one tiny piece of existence passing out of the world with no-one to notice or care. No-one to mourn him. No-one to remember that he even existed...

Sharp cold filled Zantheus’s lungs as he hit the water.

He thrashed about, coughing it up and swallowing more at the same time. He had to fight to keep his head above water.

His armour was dragging him down, fast. He was just about able to use the strength in his legs to force himself upwards towards the surface, but only barely.

As he came up for air he bashed his head against something that would have knocked him unconscious had he not been wearing his helmet.

Swirling himself round, Zantheus realised it was a chunk of the fallen mast, and a thick one at that. He grabbed hold of it and, using it to keep afloat, began to look about in search of Tromo.

It did not take long. The boy could swim, and he had paddled over to Zantheus, lips tremulous blue from the cold. Zantheus took one little arm and placed it on his shoulder.

“Hold on to me! We can stay afloat with this!”

What to do next? The blue and orange twilight was now dwindling fast as the sun sank into the ocean. Above them the noise of battle could be made out.

Just then a body flew overboard with a scream and landed face down in the water next to them, staining it temporarily. From the wisps of grey hair Zantheus recognised it as having belonged to Chortas, the cook.

It was clear that Thalassa was not going to win the battle. There was only one thing for them to do.

Cloaked by the creeping darkness, Zantheus maneuvered his section of mast around the two ships as cautiously as he could, titling his head up every few seconds to check if someone had spotted him.

When he could see the outline of what he very much hoped was the shore, he left caution behind and started swimming as fast as he could towards it, driving the fragment of ship forwards, willing it to complete its last voyage, bearing Tromo and himself towards Dahma.