The Veiled Dragon

The Harpers, Book Twelve The Veiled Dragon

Chapter One Far across the surging dunes of moonlit sea, the dark wyrm wheeled and, with a deftness surer than any desert falcon, struck again at the distant and battered caravel. The serpent caught the topyard in its ebony claws and snapped the thick timbers like twigs; the topsail tore free and away it flew, a gift to the wailing salt winds. From the caravel’s distant decks rose a flurry of tiny splinters, arrows and spears hurled by men who looked like insects beneath the belly of the monster. The black shafts struck its thick scales and bounced away without causing harm. The beast swooped low over the stern, spun upon its leathery wing, and returned at once to the vessel. Its talons tore into the wooden hull as the claws of a lion tear into the flanks of a camel. A great dune of wind-driven sea rose up before Ruha robbing her eyes of the faraway caravel and the nightblack dragon. She locked her arms around the starboard taffrail of her own vessel, a forty-foot cog hired out of Lormyr, and watched the black waters gather like a mountain beside the ship. The dune crashed down, and the froth roared over the wales and swirled about her waist, sweeping her feet from beneath her hips. Ruha hugged the rail as though it were a husband. The torrent raged on, and each second seemed a minute. The angry sea dragged at her long aba like a ravisher determined to disrobe her, and churning tears of foam beat at her face, soaking her veil and her shawl with cold briny water. Her arms trembled with the strain of holding fast. At last, the cog heeled to the wind and rose on the heaving sea. The fierce waters rolled across the deck and poured overboard, carrying with them all the torrent’s rage, and Ruha’s smooth-soled sandals found purchase on the wet planks. She stood and looked toward the distant caravel and saw neither dragon nor ship, only the splintered tip of a mainmast swaying above the crest of a faraway dune of water. Ruha released the taffrail and clambered down the listing deck, half sliding over the wet planks to where Captain Fowler stood at the rear of the ship. He was as much ore as human, with a jutting brow, swinish snout, and tough, grayish-green skin, and he seemed a strange sort of commander to the eyes of a Bedine witch not long absent from Anauroch’s burning sands. He hugged the tiller with one burly arm, and his gray eyes never strayed from the ship’s single bulging sail. Ruha grabbed the binnacle, the wooden compass stand before the tiller, and asked, “Captain Fowler, why do you sail in the wrong direction?” She pointed over the starboard side. “Do you not see the dragon? Over there!” “Lady Witch, I know the beast’s bearings well enough.” Though his voice was deep and gravelly, the captain spoke with a deliberate composure that belied his feral aspect. “But even I cannot sail Storm Sprite full into the wind. We must beat our way.” Ruha had learned a little of the strange speech used by the men who lived upon the water, enough to know Fowler meant they had to follow a zigzag course to their goal, and she did not need the captain to explain why. Even a woman who had not set eyes on a ship until three days ago could see that the Storm Sprite could not sail directly against the wind. But she could also see that Captain Fowler placed a high value on his vessel, and he was certainly shrewd enough to make a great show of rushing to the caravel’s aid while sailing at angles shallow enough to ensure he arrived after the battle was done. Ruha glanced over the starboard side and saw the caravel topping the moonlit crest of a rolling sea dune. High upon its poop deck sat the dragon, swatting at the faraway vessel’s indiscernible crew as a man slaps at stinging flies. “Captain Fowler, we have no time for this sailing of a snake’s path! By the time we reach the ship, we shall find nothing but dead men.” “What would you have me do, Witch?” Fowler demanded. “I cannot change the way the wind blows!” “And if you could turn the wind, would you have it blow straight at the caravel?” The captain scowled, suspicious. “Aye, but first I would call Umberlee up from the great depths and have her chain her pet.” “That I cannot do. I know nothing of this Umberlee.” Ruha released the binnacle and cupped her hands together. She blew upon her fingers and spoke the mystical incantation of a wind enchantment. Her breath shimmered with a pale sapphire glow, then it swirled in her palms, emitting a low, keening howl such as starving jackals make at night. From Captain Fowler’s throat arose a gasp of surprise, and his gaze swung from his ship’s flaxen sail to the whistling breeze she held in her grasp. “Lady Witch, what have you there?” “It is the wind, Captain Fowler.” Twinkling blue streamers spilled from Ruha’s hands and spun across the gloomy deck, each adding its own piercing note to the wailing of the gale. “I am determined to reach that ship before the dragon sinks it.” “That I can see, but it is no simple thing to bring a ship like Storm Sprite around. It takes time.” “The dragon will give you no time!” Ruha raised her hands toward the distant caravel, which now lay hidden behind another black and looming water dune. “Hold your magic, Lady Witch!” commanded the captain. “You may have hired this ship, but I am the—” The dune broke over the starboard side, and a torrent of white foam came boiling down the deck. Ruha flung her spell at the distant caravel and saw a dazzling stream of blue-sparkling wind shoot from the side of her own vessel. She threw her arms around the binnacle, and the dark waters were upon her. The raging currents swept her feet from beneath her. Had her elbows not been tightly wrapped around the slippery wood, surely she would have tumbled overboard and drowned in the angry black sea. Instead, she locked her fingers into the cloth of her aba and held fast, and when the torrent had receded, she pulled herself to her feet. A few yards off the starboard side hung Ruha’s spell, a glittering wedge of blue air that constantly whirled back on itself, yet steadily drove forth into the fierce night wind. As this wedge moved forward, its fan-shaped tail broadened and stretched back toward the Storm Sprite, until it engulfed the whole of the small cog. A fog of cold indigo vapor spread over the decks, causing the crew to give many shouts of alarm and promise offerings of treasure to Umberlee, and eddies of sapphire wind sprang to life atop the taffrail. Azure drafts raced along the wales and undulated through the ratlines, and pale glowing breezes twined their way up the mast to spread along the yardarms. Then a magnificent flapping arose in the sail. The night wind spilled from its belly, pouring a cascade of swirling turquoise zephyrs down upon the crew, and the small cog slowed. The sailors wailed in fear, tossing many rings and earrings overboard to win the favor of their avaricious sea goddess. “You wretched witch!” Fowler held the tiller at the length of his arm, and his gray eyes were staring in horror at the pale breeze spiraling along the lacquered surface. If it troubled the captain to have the scintillating currents swirling over his green skin also, he showed no sign of it. “What have you done to my ship?” “I have done nothing to harm her.” Beyond the starboard taffrail, Ruha’s wind spell had stretched to twice the Storm Sprite’s length. The glowing breezes had lost much of their sparkle and swirl, and they were beginning to look like a flight of spears aimed straight across the churning sea. “Perhaps you should change course, Captain Fowler. The wind is about to shift.” Fowler glanced at the shining wind spell, then looked at the great water dune gathering off his ship’s starboard side. “I hope you haven’t capsized us!” Ruha met his glower evenly. “And I hope you are done with your stalling, Captain Fowler.” Fowler’s face darkened to stormy purple. He looked forward, and his voice boomed over the main deck like a thunderclap. “Ready about!” Terrified though the Storm Sprite’s crew might have been, the command sent every man lurching through the froth to form lines at the braces. So marvelous was their skill and balance that not one sailor lost his footing, though the raging sea would have hurled Ruha overboard in an instant. By the time the last man had taken his place, the final glimmers of blue light were fading from the rigging. The wind bent to the witch’s magic and swirled around to blow against the gale. The sail filled from the opposite side, and the Storm Sprite heeled farther into the dune and began to climb its face. The torrents of water pouring over her decks grew even greater. “Loose the braces!” Fowler bellowed. The crew freed the heavy lines that controlled the angle of the yardarms, leaving the sail to swing free and flap in the wind. The ship righted itself and slowed as it had earlier, but the starboard wales finally rose out of the water, and the sea drained off the decks. The captain gave no further commands and did not take his eyes from the dune’s moonlit crest. Ruha saw his lips moving in silence, and she wondered whether he was cursing her magic or offering some bribe to the faithless Queen of the Sea. The Storm Sprite drifted to a full stop, then heeled away from the heaving sea. It slipped sideways down the face of the great water dune, and Ruha thought they would capsize. “Haul the braces!” Fowler commanded. The crew hauled on the thick lines that trailed down from the yardarms, bringing the sail around to catch the wind. The flaxen sheet ceased its flapping, then bulged outward and snapped taut. The sailors grunted, straining to hold the braces steady, and several were pulled off their feet and left to dangle above the deck. The ship rolled back toward the dune, and the dark waters boiled over the decks, flinging strings of men about like beads on a thread. Somehow the crew held the yardarms in position, and the Storm Sprite lurched forward again. The taffrail rose above the crest of the dune. In the moonlight, Ruha glimpsed the distant caravel, the dragon still standing on the poop deck. The beast had ripped the mizzemnast from its step and was using it like a spear to jab at its foes, almost too tiny to see, upon the main deck. The witch thought it strange that the wyrm fought with a makeshift weapon instead of spraying its enemies with fire or acid, but perhaps the creature feared sinking the vessel and losing its treasure. The Storm Sprite’s bow cleared the top of the dune, and Captain Fowler shoved the tiller to one side. The ship’s bow swung neatly over the crest, and the sail sputtered as it lost the wind. “Fill the sail!” The command had barely escaped Fowler’s lips before the yardarms swung around. Once more, the sail caught the wind. The Storm Sprite lunged forward and slipped down the back of the dune so swiftly that it reached the bottom trough before the captain could give his next command. The prow slammed into the next rolling dune, and the ship groaned as though her spine would break. A wall of water roared over the forecastle and rolled down the decks to splash against the somercastle, then the bow pitched up and the flood drained overboard, carrying with it two screaming men. Ruha cried out in alarm. Captain Fowler let out a long breath and fondly patted the Storm Sprite’s tiller. “That’s a fine girl.” The halfore made no remark upon the loss of his crewmen, but looked forward and, in a calm voice, ordered, “Fasten the braces.” The crew tugged at the brace lines until the last flutter disappeared from the sail and, with the Storm Sprite rushing madly up the face of the heaving water dune, secured the lines to the belaying pins. The little cog crested the top and raced down the other side, then sped, pitching and crashing, toward the distant caravel. The sailors busied themselves with clearing away the great tangle of lines scattered over the decks, coiling the loose ends and hanging them in their proper places, and paid no heed to the misfortune of their two lost fellows. “Captain Fowler, what of your lost men? Is there nothing you can do for them?” The halfore shrugged and did not look at Ruha. “Even if we could find them, I would not turn back.” His voice was sharp with restrained anger. “They’re the price Umberlee demanded for letting us come about, and she’d look harshly upon me^f I tried to bring them back.” Ruha felt a terrible emptiness in her stomach, feeling her spell had brought the Storm Sprite around too suddenly and caused their loss. “Then I am sorry for their deaths.” “For their deaths?” Fowler snapped. “And what of Storm Sprite? She could have lost the rudder or snapped a yardarm!” “You care more for boards and cloth than for men’s lives?” The captain’s jutting brow rose, and his flat nose twitched uncomfortably. He squared his shoulders and looked forward and did not speak. The crew had finished the tidying of the lines and now stood in the center of the ship, clinging to whatever they could find to keep from being swept away by the cataracts that boiled down the decks each time the bow crashed into another water dune. When Fowler finally spoke, his gravelly voice was again deliberate and composed. “I doubt the world’s going to miss those two. They were cutpurses and murderers both, and if Umberlee doesn’t take them for her own, I pity the shore they wash up on.” The captain peered at Ruha from the corner of his narrow eye, then added, “But I warn you, Storm Sprite is mine. Hiring her does not give you leave to disregard my commands. While a ship is at sea, the captain is lord and master, and those who cross him are filthy mutineers. I could sail into Pros with your rotten carcass hanging from my yardarms, and your friends would not question your punishment.” Ruha had reason to be glad she still hid her face behind the modest veil other people, for it would do much to conceal her shock. The Harpers had paid a steep price for her passage, which, having observed the effect of gold on people in the Heartlands, she had expected to make her master of the ship. She considered challenging Fowler’s claim, but saw by his composure and firm manner that he was speaking the truth. Not for the first time, the witch cursed her ignorance of the strange customs in this part of the world and wondered if she would ever learn them all. The Storm Sprite crested another dune, and Ruha saw they had closed half the distance to the ravaging dragon. The dark wyrm stood upon the caravel’s main deck, facing sternward and digging through the somercastle like a pangolin after termites. The wings upon its back were flapping fiercely, knocking aside the cloud of arrows and spears assailing it from behind. The vessel itself had begun to list, but the bow
continued to slice neatly through the heaving sea, giving Ruha hope that the ship would survive until they arrived to help. Yet Captain Fowler had not ordered his men to take up arms. Even with a magic wind driving his vessel to the rescue, the halfore still did not mean to give battle. The Storm Sprite pitched downward, and Ruha lost sight of the battle. “Captain Fowler, I did not mean to challenge your authority,” she said. “I was told that you are a Harper friend and, despite your mixed blood, a man of honor. I can see now that my informant was mistaken.” The halfore’s face grew tight. “I have as much honor as any human captain!” he snapped. “And would I have Storm Silverhand’s name upon my ship if I were not a friend of the Harpers?” Ruha shrugged. “I know only what my eyes show me—and I can see that you have not called your men to arms. You have no intention of aiding that ship.” “You’d do well to worry less about my intentions and think of your assignment. The Harpers are not given to hiring private ships unless the matter is urgent. Do you think Lady Silverhand would want you to risk your mission over a fight that’s none of your concern?” “Storm Silverhand is not here.” The witch’s reply was evasive because she did not know the answer to Captain Fowler’s question. Storm Silverhand had told her only that she was to sail to the port village of Pros, where an important Harper named Vaerana Hawklyn would be waiting to take her to the city ofElversult. Presumably, Vaerana would explain Ruha’s assignment, but even that was not certain. Ruha looked toward the distant caravel. “I do know one thing: neither Storm Silverhand, nor any other Harper, would turn a blind eye on so many people in such terrible danger. If you are truly her friend, you know this as well.” The sea was piled high before the Storm Sprite, blocking all sight of the caravel and its attacker, but Captain Fowler’s gray eyes looked toward the unseen battle and lingered there many moments. “It will go better for us, and them, if we arrive after the battle,” he said. “If that dragon sends the Storm Sprite to lie in Umberlee’s cold palace, we’ll be of no use to the survivors—or to those waiting in Pros.” Ruha laid a reassuring hand on the halfore’s hairy arm. “Captain Fowler, you may tell your men to arm themselves. I will not let the dragon sink your ship.” “Lady Witch, sea battles are wild things.” The captain’s tone was overly patient, as though he were speaking to a little girl instead of a desert-hardened witch. “Even with your magic, you might find you can’t keep such a promise.” “Captain Fowler, I have fought more battles than you know. It is true that I have not won them all, but never have I abandoned someone else out of fear for myself.” These last words Ruha spoke with particular venom, for she was offended by Fowler’s condescension. “But if you truly value your ship above other men’s lives, the Harpers will guarantee my promise. If the dragon sinks the Storm Sprite, we will buy you another.” Fowler’s face hardened. “And why are you so keen to fight the drake, Witch? Do you think to redeem yourself for the Voonlar debacle?” Ruha felt her cheeks redden, and her anger evaporated like water spilled upon the desert floor. “At least I know why you lack faith in me.” The Voonlar debacle had been Ruha’s first assignment. Storm Silverhand had sent her to work in a Voonlar tavern, where she was to serve as a secret intermediary and messenger. On her first day, a slave smuggler had crossed her palm with a silver coin. Ruha, failing to understand the significance of the gesture, had accepted the offering with thanks, then balked at delivering the expected services. Feeling slighted, the furious slaver had refused to accept the coin’s return and drawn his dagger. He would certainly have killed the witch if one of his own men, a Harper spy, had not leapt to her defense. As it was, she and the spy had been forced to fight their way to safety, leaving the smuggler free to sell a hundred men, women, and children into bondage. “I am sorry for the misery I caused the slaves of Voonlar. Not a night passes when my nightmares do not ring with their cries.” Ruha raised her chin and locked gazes with the halfore. “But I assure you, my shame is as nothing compared to the disgrace of a coward who turns from those he can save.” The halfore’s arm slipped free of the tiller, his lips curling back to show sharp tusks and yellow fangs, and he stepped toward Ruha. The witch did not back away, nor did she avoid his eyes, and when there came on the wind a distant roar and the splintering of ship timbers, Fowler was the first to glance away. “Do not fear the dragon,” Ruha urged. “My understanding of magic far exceeds my knowledge of Heartland customs.” Fowler shook his head as though trying to rid himself of some evil thought, and when he spoke, his voice was as low and guttural as a growl. “As you wish, then!” He thrust his leathery palm under Ruha’s face. “But give me your pin. I wager this battle will go harder than you think, and if Umberlee takes offense at your gall, I’ll want proof of your pledge.” Ruha started to object, then thought better and turned away. She reached inside her aba and removed the Harper’s pin hidden over her heart. It was a small silver brooch fashioned in the shape of a crescent moon, surrounded by four twinkling stars with a harp in the center. The pin had once belonged to Lander ofArchenbridge, a valiant scout who had died helping the Bedine tribes resist an army of rapacious Zhentarim invaders. The witch handed the brooch to Fowler. “Guard it well. This pin was once worn by my beloved, and I cherish it more than life itself.” “That makes the risk the same for both of us.” Fowler pinned the brooch inside his tunic, then hooked his arm around the tiller and turned his attention to the main