The sun burned away the last of the fog, enabling the crew to put on still more sail and to flee from that darkling, benighted patch of ocean. Then it was time to bring forth a small quantity of the ship’s precious supply of ice, kept sealed in the darkest, coldest depths of her hull. Not to cool her crew, who were certainly sweating heavily enough to deserve it, but to ice down the muscles of one of her passengers. Held in one position for so long, Ehomba’s left arm and fingers had become badly cramped. The application of ice wrapped in towels might not equal the recent display of magic, but it was blessedly effective.
While the herdsman sat on the helm deck trying to restore the flow of blood to his aching muscles and tendons, Simna gingerly held the sky-metal sword. As always, the crosshatched lines on the blade fascinated his eye.
“How do you make it work, Etjole, if you are not the sorcerer you keep insisting you’re not?”
The herdsman would have shrugged, but his cramped shoulders would not allow it. “Practice, friend Simna. Otjihanja showed me some things, and other elders had suggestions. It is not something to be described. You must feel the proper motion, the way the weight of the metal travels through the air and fights the pull of the Earth.”
Simna nodded. “You know, it’s funny. When I was younger I would have taken that as a challenge, and as a result probably tried something stupid.”
“I do not see much that has changed with age.” Curled up against the railing that separated the helm deck from the main deck below, the black litah murmured sleepily.