The Merman's Children by Poul Anderson

how she warned herself not to hope.
    â€œCan you pass a word to Niels?”
    â€œMaybe when he’s haled forth. They’ll surely make me come along.”
    â€œWell…if you can without being overheard, tell him to lift his heart and be ready to fight.” Tauno pondered a minute. “We need to pull eyes away from the water. When they’re about to put the rope around Niels’ neck, let him struggle as much as he’s able. And you too: rush in, scratch, bite, kick, scream.”
    â€œDo you think—do you believe—really——Anything, I’ll do anything. God is merciful, that He…He lets me die in battle at your side, Tauno.”
    â€œNot that! Don’t risk yourself. If a knife is drawn at you, yield, beg to be spared. And take shelter from the fighting. I don’t need your corpse, Ingeborg. I need you.”
    â€œTauno, Tauno.” Her mouth sought his.
    â€œI must go,” he breathed in her ear. “Until tomorrow.”
    He went back to the sea as cautiously as he had left it. Because his embrace had wet her ragged gown, Ingeborg thought best to stay where she was while it dried. She wouldn’t be getting to sleep anyway. She fell on her knees. “Glory to God in the highest,” she stammered. “Hail, Mary, full of grace—oh, you’re a woman, you’ll understand—the Lord is with you——”
    â€œHey, in there!” a sailor shouted. “Stow that jabber! Think you’re a nun?”
    â€œHow’d you like me for a divine bridegroom?” called the masthead lookout.
    Ingeborg’s voice fell silent; her soul did not. And erelong the watchers’ heed went elsewhere. Dolphins came to the ship, a couple of dozen, and circled and circled. In the pale night their wake boiled after them, eerily quiet; their backfins stood forth like sharp weapons; the beaks grinned, the little eyes rolled with a wicked mirth.
    The men called Ranild from his bunk. He scowled and tugged his beard. “I like this not,” he mumbled. “Cock of Peter, how I wish we’d skewered those last two fishfolk! They plot evil, be sure of that….Well, I doubt they’ll try sinking the cog, for how then shall they carry the gold? Not to speak of their friend the bitch.”
    â€œShould we maybe keep Niels too?” Sivard wondered.
    â€œUm-m-m…no. Show the bastards we’re in earnest. Cry over the waters that Cod-Ingeborg can look for worse than hanging if they plague us further.” Ranild licked and lifted a finger. “I feel a breath of wind,” he said. “We can belike start off about dawn, when Niels is finished with the yardarm.” He drew his shortsword and shook it at the moving ring of dolphins. “Do you hear? Skulk back into your sea-caves, soulless things! A Christian man is bound for home!”
    â€”—The night wore on. The dolphins did nothing more than patrol around the ship. At last Ranild decided they could do no more, that his foes had sent them in the hollow hope they might learn something, or in hollower spite.
    The breeze freshened. Waves grew choppy and smote louder against the hull, which rocked. Across the wan stars, inexplicable, passed a flight of wild swans.
    Those stars faded out at the early summer daybreak. Eastward the sky turned white; westward it remained silver-blue, bearing a ghostly moon. The crests of waves ran molten with light; their troughs were purple and black; the sea overall shimmered and sparkled in a green like the green of certain alchemical flames. It whooshed and cast spray. Wind whittered through the shrouds.
    Up the forward ladder from the hold, men prodded Niels at pike point. His hands were tied behind him, which made the climbing hard. Twice he fell, to their blustery glee. His garments were foul and bloodstained, but his blowing hair and downy beard caught the shiningness of the still unseen sun. He braced legs wide against