A pall of oily smoke began to shroud the vessel. Moving at a clip, the flying disc sliced out of it and headed for the captured galleon. The rider flew low, letting himself be seen by the victorious islanders beneath, triggering a renewed clamour. Then he spotted his objective, and swooped to the deck.

The disc hovered in front of the fighter in black. Its rider smoothed down his mop of blond hair. There was soot on his cheeks. He was good-looking, his features dominated by shrewd azure eyes, and he sported a neatly barbered goatee. His build was athletic, with broad shoulders and sturdy arms. But his legs hung uselessly from the edge of the floating dish.

He stared at the warrior, who had a glazed expression and seemed unaware of his presence.

‘Reeth.’ The disc rider’s gravel voice belied his looks. ‘Reeth.’

There was no answer.

‘Reeth!’ he repeated. ‘Get a grip, man! Reeth!’

The warrior was insensible. A lingering spark of bloodlust still lit his eyes.

A wooden bucket hung from the rail beside them. The disc tilted slightly as the rider reached for a ladle in the pail. He lifted a scoop of water and, turning, flung it hard in the warrior’s face.

The icy sting snapped the man in black out of his reverie. He shook his head, shedding droplets, and brought up his blades. His eyes blazed. Passion rekindled, face contorted, he lurched forward menacingly.

‘Reeth!’ the rider barked, his disc swaying. ‘It’s over! We won!’

The warrior hesitated.

‘Steady,’ the rider added, his tone soothing. ‘It’s me. Zahgadiah.’

Reeth Caldason froze. He blinked, and started to focus. ‘Darrok?’ he whispered.

‘It’s over, Reeth. You can stop now.’

Slowly, Caldason came to himself and lowered his swords. He took several shuddering breaths.

‘You all right?’ Darrok asked.

Caldason nodded, expressionless.