Tol put the edge of his saber to the elf’s throat and demanded he halt the beast.

Calmly the driver replied, “Kill me, and nothing will stop the great Zeboim.”

The turtle named for the tempestuous sea-goddess was by now only half a league from the tents housing the imperial clerics. Frustrated, Tol sheathed his sword and ordered the insolent Silvanesti dragged from his perch.

There were no reins or other obvious means of control, but with its driver gone, the turtle did slow a bit. Tol slid into the leather seat and tried yelling for the creature to halt. Zeboim continued to plod directly toward the vulnerable tents.

Frez leaned over his commander’s shoulder. “The elf’s nearly naked,” he said. “Mayhap the beast needs to feel skin?”

Tol unwound his leggings and removed his boots and stockings. Planting his bare feet in the carved niches, he tried to influence the giant with pressure from one foot, then the other.

Zeboim swung his huge head from side to side. A deep grunt gusted from his nostrils. Tol’s men cheered him on, while he gave all his attention to the task. Sweat rolled down his face. Zeboim was foremost of the turtles; Tol was close enough now to see the pennants on the tent tops. A solid wall of Ergothian infantry had formed between the tents and the oncoming giants, a gallant, if futile, gesture.

Tol’s men had seized a second turtle but failed to wrest the other two from their owners. Ergothians on the captured turtles took up Tarsan bows and loosed arrows at the two beasts still controlled by the enemy.

Tol exerted more and more pressure with his right foot. With agonizing slowness, the beast bore into a turn until it was crawling straight at another turtle, one still under Tarsan control. Between the slowly converging creatures the air was thick with arrows. A quartet of missiles shattered around Tol’s naked feet and more thudded into the low-walled box that sheltered his upper body.