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By Eric Van Lustbader

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The highest end of the triangular sail a serpentine banner, slapping wetly against the rain-slick mast before shredding into ragged tongues. Moichi, his great brawny dusky-skinned body fighting aft toward the terrified tillerman, felt rather than saw the heightened agitation of the sea. The diamond set into the flesh of his right nostril flashed blue light as he drew in the sharp, charged scents of the storm, and he thought, damn this Bujun vessel and its delicate construction - unless I can straighten our course we'll go under for sure.

The skies were fair, with scattered ribbons of high wispy cloud, and the wind was freshening out of the northwest quarter. It was ideal weather. ' She tossed her head, glad to be abovedeck in fine weather. ' Moichi shook his head. 'I call upon him, no. I curse him on occasion because one does not speak of the God of my people in that way. Just as one does not call upon Him to change the wind or ensure success in business. He is not like the tiny gods of smoke and stone other people kneel before.

The Dolman-' 'Exists no more,' Qaylinn said. 'You made certain of that when you sundered it with your magic dai-katana. But Chaos did not die when the Dolman ceased to exist. It was thrown into disarray and torment, and we wished to assume that it would remain leaderless and, therefore, without threat to us. Now the bones of the snow-hare have told us the truth. ' 'I knew my work was not yet done,' the Dai-San said. 'I wonder whether it ever will be, my friend,' Qaylinn said. The Dai-San flipped the tongue into the air, caught it on the talons of the scaled, six-fingered glove, made from the hide of a Makkon.

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Beneath an Opal Moon - SW4 by Eric Van Lustbader


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