Dagger Magic

IN the cavern above which the seaplane circled, nascent lightnings crept along the hull of U-636 in a flurry of fluorescent green. Huddled far forward in the conning tower, Francis Raeburn ducked low as a javelin of light crackled down the periscope above his head. His lean face tight with tension, he darted a hand into the front of his jacket and took out a slender rod of stripped ashwood.

The rod was tipped with an iron-bound lump of rock crystal. With a muttered incantation, Raeburn used it to trace a sign of personal warding around himself, between him and the open hatch. Another lightning bolt sheered off before it could hit the railing and struck the radio antenna instead. It hung there writhing like a serpent for the space of a heartbeat, then dissipated downward through the fabric of the deck.

The power of the storm grew. Though apparently insulated from its brunt, Raeburn could feel the static electricity stirring the fine hairs on the backs of his hands, crawling on his scalp. Thrusting tongues of wildfire invaded every valve and outlet of the vessel beneath him, burning away five decades' worth of filth and corrosion until the air grew choked with the reek of charred barnacles and scorched metal. Freed from their bondage of rust, the deck-guns swung crazily on their pivots as if chasing ghost targets. From deep down in the bowels of the ship came the liberated groans of other systems coming back on line after half a century of paralysis.

The water beneath the keel began to boil, tossing up angry gouts of foam. Feeling the sub shudder beneath him, Raeburn clutched at the nearest railing for support. As he did so, he heard dimly through the hiss of the electrical storm another unmistakable sound: the hard rattle of gunfire.

Raeburn's jaw tightened at this latest complication. The noise was coming from outside. It could only mean that Kavanagh had encountered opposition. Commanding his zone of protection to move with him, he grabbed up his lantern and scrambled down out of the conning tower, making a dash toward the bow, for the need to find out who the new arrivals might be outweighed all other considerations of safety. He dared not look back as he sprang across the gap between the deck and the rocks and sprinted for the base of the ledge.

Sparks rained down on him from the rift in the cavern roof as he began his ascent. He scaled the gradient in leaps and bounds, dodging fiery hailstones as he went. Fending off a last, blazing shower with a sweep of his wand, he won through to the passageway at the top and made his way out into the sanctuary of the open air, keeping low and to one side.

The Rose of Tralee was standing offshore where he had left her, but a second boat was now drawn alongside, showing lights fore and aft. That meant that Kavanagh probably was neutralized. Drawing a deep breath, Raeburn pocketed his wand and pressed the stone of his Lynx ring to his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate, to re-engage patterns established earlier. As his perceptions sharpened, he scanned the scene below, seeking some clue as to the identity of the newcomers.

One of the figures aboard the second cruiser was a woman, but not anyone he recognized. Her male companion was some years younger than she, slender and fair-haired, but he could not see the face because the man was looking through a pair of binoculars trained in the direction of the cliff below. A third man was in the pilothouse, also gazing intently at the shore and pointing. At that moment, Raeburn's own attention was diverted by a flicker of movement near the water's edge, not far from where he had left the Rose's dinghy.

Keeping close to the wall, lest he show a silhouette, he bent his gaze downward, bringing deeper levels of awareness into play as he attempted to pierce the obscuring distance and moonlight. He located the dinghy easily enough, and the crewman he had left behind unconscious, but a second dinghy now was drawn ashore beside it, and three other figures were skirting the base of the cliffs, heading his way. Their faces were obscured in the shadows, but not the aura of authority that centered on the tall, dark man who led them.

The signature of power was one that Raeburn had encountered before. Sucking in breath, his teeth drew back from his lips in a silent snarl of recognition as he acknowledged that presence by name.

Adam Sinclair: Master of the Hunt.

Mentally cursing his luck - and Dorje had warned him of this possibility! - Raeburn ducked back into the sheltering darkness of the cave mouth. As he did so, he became aware of the distant drone of aircraft engines. He spotted its source as the distinctive silhouette of a Grumman Widgeon passed across the moon. In the same instant, the comlink in his breast pocket gave a subdued beep.

Raeburn snatched it out and upped the volume. Barclay's drawl came through on a wave of static.

"Sea Wolf, this is Sky Hawk. Do you copy?"