The warriors who had gone ahead of him and had turned back to join their comrades couldn’t have heard him. But they must have seen his urgent hand gestures and, looking in the direction he was pointing, spotted the easier prey.

“Fire the ships!”

The Wolfram captains riding anchor in the harbor couldn’t hear him either. No matter. They already had their orders. They knew what to do. Even if that witch-loving bastard captain managed to reach his ship, he wasn’t going to escape.

The tone of the fight behind him changed. The sailors were no longer fighting the warriors, exactly. Now they were fighting to reach the ships, the smaller fishing boats, anything that would get them away from the docks.

As if they actually believed they could get out of the harbor.

“You there!” someone shouted.

Glancing back, Mihail saw the warriors moving toward them. “Run,” he said, grabbing Craig’s arm.

No need to say it twice, not when the two sea hawks perched on the dock near his ship suddenly screamed and took flight.

They ran for the end of the dock. The sailor dropped the wooden plank. It scraped along the dock as Sweet Selkie began following the tide to open water.

Just one chance. Two other men stood by on board, ready to throw ropes that would keep him and Craig from tumbling into the sea.

“Go!” Mihail said, pushing Craig toward the plank as his men threw the ropes. Craig grabbed one and hurried up the bucking, bowing plank as fast as he could.

As soon as his men grabbed Craig’s arms to pull him on board, Mihail rushed up the plank. He was knocked aside by Craig before both feet touched the deck.

Glass shattered. Craig screamed. Mihail felt a sudden burning along his left shoulder and down his back.

More screams.

Mihail twisted—and stared.

The right side of Craig’s face was on fire. Fire burned down his neck, down his arm. The satchel he was still holding burned.

Someone beat Mihail’s left shoulder and back, and he cried out in pain.

“You’re on fire!” a crewman shouted.

Fire. “Water!” he shouted, putting his heart into the command, the plea.

Two barrels of fresh water burst open as he grabbed Craig, still staggering and screaming, and pulled him down on the deck. The water arched as if following a bridge of air and came down in a waterfall on both of them.

Gasping for air, he blinked water from his eyes—and saw the archers with odd-looking arrows take aim at his ship.

Fire. Not just flaming arrows, but something else. Something filled with fire.

“Get us away from this dock!”

He tried to get to his feet, but a woman, bent low to make herself a smaller target, bumped into him, sending him to his hands and knees.