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fliers out there, bearing on, chips of rust against the light.
    More than thirty? We had in this squadron sixteen vessels, a mixture of fighting vollers and larger ships designated transports for this operation. This op was, as I have explained, intended to harass the enemy from the air and hold him until our main forces could come up.
    Now the devils had provided their own air, a completely new force of which we had no intelligence. Therefore, the situation had changed, the odds had altered and the stakes had been raised.
    There was no question of sending our own aerial cavalry aloft. Our two squadrons, hardly more than a hundred and twenty flyers, would be hopelessly outnumbered. I did not relish the idea of a single Valkan astride his flutduin being attacked by ten or a dozen flutsmen.
    “They fly on apace,” said Targon.
    “So I observe,” I said.
    “It will be — interesting.”
    The lookouts screeched down for the third time.
    “More than forty!”
    Now was no time for vacuous expressions like: “H’mm.” Now was no time for shilly-shallying, and most certainly now was no time for me to act like some proud intemperate and bloody stupid emperor.
    “That’s it,” I said. I made my voice into that rasping and unpleasant gravel-shifting voice of old, and even good old Targon the Tapster jumped.
    “All out.” I fairly hurled the words at the helmsman, using the old foretop-hailing lungpower that had carried commands through many a gale in the Bay of Biscay. “Reverse Course! Speed lever hard over — full speed ahead!”
    Carrying on with the bullroarer of a voice, I shouted commands to the signal Deldars to run up the flags to spell the message out to the rest of the squadron.
    “You, Dray Prescot, are running away!” said Delia.
    “Too right,” I told her, still wrought up. “By Zair! I’m not having all these people of ours chopped uselessly.”
    The small almost secret smile that touched her lips heartened me. Delia knew me well enough. She’d seen me change from a hot-headed and damned stupid fighting man into an emperor who was somewhat more cautious of other peoples’ skins. As for myself, well, I suppose had there been no one else to concern myself about, I’d have gone raging into that hopeless fight and you would not now be listening to my words as I relate my story of my life on Kregen.
    The fliers of our squadron curved in the air, swinging about in graceful arcs, all their brave flags flying.
    “Cap’n,” I said in a more moderate voice to Captain Lorgad Voromin, in command of
Heart of Imrien
, who stood like a bluff barrel girt with leather armor and with feathers in his helmet, face like a beetroot. “Cap’n, I crave your pardon. Would you kindly allow your command to fly last in the squadron?”
    “With all my heart, majis.”
    In the violence of those moments before I’d shouted the orders to reverse course, I had been so wrought up I’d thrown overboard altogether the etiquette of ship command.
    Of course, I should have requested Captain Voromin to give the actual sailing orders for his own ship. I had trodden on his toes with a vengeance. He was a bluff old sea dog, transferred to aerial duty, and I thought he would understand. We had not served together before; I had a shrewd idea he knew my mettle.
    If he decided to cut up rough or to try to indicate his perfectly understandable resentment, I’d have to think on, as they say.
    The clouds of flutsmen were for only a few moments thrown by our maneuver. They sensed victory and came flying in with renewed vigor.
    This was to be expected.
    Heart of Imrien
dropped back through the squadron to take up station in the rear.
    We did not sail in this position alone. On our starboard flew
Pride of Falkerium
and to our larboard
Azure Strigicaw
paced us carefully. Both ships were crammed with men, fighting vollers, and were mighty comforting, by Krun, I can tell you.
    A youngster, Ortyg Thingol, all rosy cheeks and brown curls, smart