The Veiled Dragon (2 page)

deck. “Man the harpoons! Break out the axes and spears! Ready yourselves for the attack!” Every man upon the decks turned an astonished eye toward their captain, and the crew grumbled its displeasure in one voice. A greasy-haired youth in a thin cotton tunic and gray, brine-stiffened trousers rushed up the stairs, stopping at the edge of the half deck. “Cap’n, sure ye canno’ mean to strike that dark thing first?” “I can and do!” Fowler pulled a key from a chain around his neck and passed it to the man. “Now, you alley-spawned son of a tavern hag, open the weapon lock ers before the witch calls the squids to drag us all down to Umberlee!” The youth’s eyes darted toward Ruha. Though the witch did not know who the squids were or how to summon them, she took some lint from her pocket and tossed it to the wind, making many strange gestures and reciting her lineage in the lyrical tongue of the Bedine. The sailor leapt off the stairs and ducked into the somercastle. Two of his fellows followed him inside, while several others struggled forward to the forecastle, fighting their way through the churning froth that boiled over the bow twice every minute. The magic wind continued to drive the little cog onward. At intervals, Captain Fowler adjusted the tiller or ordered the crew to tighten a line, and each time they crested a dune, Ruha marvelled at how the distance between the Storm Sprite and her goal had closed. The sailors who had gone into the somercastle returned with boarding axes and spears for their companions, and those who had struggled forward to the forecastle also reappeared, laden with thick-braided skeins and barbed harpoons twice a man’s height. They tied lines about their waists and clambered onto the foredeck, where they pulled the oilskins off three ballistae and, fighting against raging waters and the ship’s mad pitching, set to work stringing the heavy weapons. By the time they finished, the caravel lay a hundred yards ahead, lumbering forward at a shallow angle that would present her starboard side to the Storm Sprite. The battered caravel stretched to five times the length of the little cog. Her hull, looming dark and sheer in the night, rose from the sea like a cliff. The wales were crowned by a crest of white railing, broken in many places and draped with shredded rigging. Her foremast, all that remained of three, could have scraped a cloud, and carried more cloth than three of the Storm Sprite’s sails. Having torn the somercastle completely off the caravel, the dragon now crouched on the stern of the ship. All that could be seen of the dark beast were fluttering black wings as large as sails, an immense ebony flank, and its serpentine tail sweeping back and forth across the main deck to keep at bay the warriors behind it. The wyrm raised a black claw above the starboard wale and flung overboard a handful of refuse. Among the debris were a pilot’s table and three screaming women. The witch gasped and would have asked if all sea dragons were so large, except that she feared the question would alarm Captain Fowler. Instead, she watched as the Storm Sprite and the caravel continued to crash toward each other. Already, the two ships were so close that even when the sea heaved up between them, Ruha did not lose sight of the wyrm’s black wings. At last, Captain Fowler said, “If that wyrm’s not the largest ever to fly the Dragonmere, I’m the Prince of Elves.” The Storm Sprite’s bow crashed into the trough between two great sea dunes, and the water poured over the forecastle and came frothing down the main deck. “I hope your magic arrows are powerful ones. A dragon like that could make short work of us.” Ruha thought it wiser not to mention that, unlike most sorcerers Fowler had seen, she could not create magic arrows. Heartland wizards used expensive and exotic ingredients to cast their spells, but desert witches seldom had access to such components. Instead, they fashioned

their enchantments from the elements that ruled their lives: wind, sun, sand and stone, and, most preciously, water. Ruha was particularly adept at sand and sun magic; unfortunately, water was her weakness. The witch rummaged through her aba until she found a small piece of obsidian. “My spell will cut through the wyrm as a scimitar cuts through a camel thief.” She displayed the black sliver. “But your men must also be ready, for the first blow does not always kill.” Fowler glowered at the dark shard suspiciously. “On my command, Witch.” He flashed a menacing scowl that left no doubt about the consequences of disobeying. “Not a second before.” Ruha inclined her head. “Of course, Captain.” The Storm Sprite pitched upward. The boiling waters crashed against the somercastle and poured over the wales, and the little cog rose on the water dune. Thirty yards off the bow loomed a great wall of dark planks, the hull of the mighty caravel. The witch raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Fowler shook his head. “Harpoons, let go atop!” They crested the dune. Ruha cried out in shock, for the caravel lay only twenty yards ahead, with the dragon’s mountainous figure still hunched over the stem. A dozen astonished sailors stood at the great ship’s wales, staring down at the Storm Sprite. From the bow of the little cog sounded a trio of sonorous throbs. Three barbed harpoons arced away from the Storm Sprite’s ballistae, a long braided rope trailing from each. The first shaft sailed high over the wales of the devastated caravel and passed through one of the wyrm’s flapping wings. The other two harpoons dropped lower, piercing the mighty serpent’s black scales and sinking to their butts. The dragon gave a furious roar. Its sinuous neck undulated in rage, and clouds of roiling black fog shot from the caravel’s portholes. The Storm Sprite started down the rolling dune, and the dragon disappeared behind the caravel’s looming

hull. Ruha thought surely they would smash into the great ship. Captain Fowler pushed the tiller to port. The Storm Sprite swung around, though not quickly enough to prevent her bowsprit from splintering on the other vessel. The little cog completed her turn, then a tremendous boom filled the air when she slammed hulls with the great caravel. The impact hurled Ruha to the deck, and she felt the sliver of obsidian shoot from between her fingers. A terrible rasping arose between the ships as they rubbed hulls, and the witch knew it would not be long before they were past each other. A powerful hand closed around Ruha’s wrist, and she felt herself being dragged toward the tiller. “This is no time to lie about!” “No, wait!” Ruha’s protest went unheeded, for already Captain Fowler had pulled her to his side and set her on her feet. Her eyes darted toward the deck. The planks were wet and as dark as the night and, even if the obsidian had not washed overboard already, she would never have found it in time to attack the dragon. “Ready, Witch!” Fowler ordered. “It’s almost time.” Ruha looked forward, raising her eyes toward the wyrm. She found her view blocked by the huge flaxen square of the Storm Sprite’s half-filled sail. Beneath the sheet’s fluttering edge, she could see harpoon lines playing out, and also the cog’s bow slipping past the caravel’s massive rudder. The witch thrust her hand into her aba and found several small pebbles. Fowler hauled on the tiller, bringing his ship smartly around the stern of the caravel. The flaxen sail filled with wind and, like a proud stallion spurred to the gallop, the Storm Sprite leapt forward. The harpoon lines snapped taut, and a tremendous shudder ran through the cog. Fowler flashed his tusks. “Now, Lady Witch! Slice that terror out of the sky!” Ruha pulled the pebbles from her pocket and pivoted around to keep her gaze fixed on the looming caravel. Over the stern came a great mass of writhing darkness, the wyrm being dragged along by the sturdy harpoon lines. The dragon beat the air with its wings, struggling in vain to right itself and wheel on Its attacker. Its wings were tattered and strewn with holes, while its dark scales looked strangely tarnished and dull. Even the serpent’s tail ended in a long section of gray, weathered bone, as though it were suffering from some wasting disease or festering wound. Bracing herself against the binnacle, Ruha rolled her pebbles between her palms and called upon her stone magic. The rocks began to buzz and shake, vibrating so violently that it hurt her bones to hold them. She tossed the stones up before her face, and there they hung, sputtering and whirling around each other like angry wasps. Recovering from its initial shock, the dragon ceased its flailing and stopped trying to wheel on its attacker. It beat its wings more slowly and contented itself with staying aloft. “I said now, Witch!” Fowler’s eyes were locked on the dragon, and Ruha knew what concerned him. Smaller wyrms than this could spew fire and acid twice the length of the Storm Sprite’s harpoon lines, and the witch had no illusions about what would happen if such a spray caught the little cog. The serpent’s neck began to curl toward the Storm Sprite. “Wait no longer!” Fowler pleaded. At last, a faint sapphire gleam appeared inside the pebbles. Ruha blew upon the swirling stones, at the same time breathing the incantation of a wind spell. They sizzled away, screeching like banshees and trailing a ribbon of blue braided light. The dragon had almost brought its head around when the pebbles tore through its wing and blasted its flank, spraying shards of shattered scales in every direction. The wyrm stiffened and dropped

toward the water, but when its belly touched the heaving sea dunes, it roared and once again lifted itself into the

air. Fowler’s face paled from green to yellow. “I was a fool

to listen to you, Witch! To think a woman who’d take a slaver’s coin could know dragons—” “Captain Fowler, wait.” Ruha wrapped an arm around the binnacle, then pointed at the wyrm. “The spell has

only begun its work.” The halfore narrowed his eyes and turned back to the dragon, still being dragged along by the harpoon lines. The wyrm had curled into the shape of a horseshoe, with both its head and tail pointing away from the Storm Sprite. Its wings were fluttering so slowly and sporadically they could barely keep it aloft, while its serpentine body shuddered with erratic convulsions. “My pebbles have not stopped moving,” Ruha explained. “They are flying about within the wyrm, tearing it apart from the inside.” “A quick kill would’ve been better,” Fowler grunted. The captain kept his gaze fixed on the dragon, as though he would not be satisfied until the thing dropped into the sea and sank out of sight. Behind the serpent, the battered caravel was lumbering away, rolling wildly from side-to-side as her crew struggled to bring her under control. Atop the stern, Ruha saw twenty men standing amidst the wreckage, some holding lanterns while the rest waved amulets and talismans at the Storm Sprite. “That seems a strange custom. Captain Fowler.” Ruha

pointed at the men on the caravel’s stern. “What does it

mean?” Fowler shrugged, barely glancing at the display. “Who can tell? She’s a foreign ship. They’re probably telling us to mind our own business.” A tarnished scale fluttered off the dragon’s back, followed by the spiraling blue streak of a pebble. Ruha watched closely for more such flashes, as they indicated

the tiny rocks had demolished the internal organs and were beginning to find their way out of the body. A second stone shot from the wyrm, then a third and a fourth, and still the serpent trembled and convulsed but somehow kept from falling into the sea. Ruha scowled. Most victims were dead by the time four stones left their bodies. Captain Fowler must have seen her brow furrow. “How long’s it going to take that wyrm to die?” “It is a big dragon. Captain.” Another pebble escaped the serpent’s body and sphraled away into the heavens, and Fowler cast an impatient glance toward the departing caravel. “I’d like to catch her if we can,” he said. “A prize like that

If her captain’s a good man, he’ll reward us well.” “Captain Fowler, what is this obsession of yours?” Ruha demanded. “Do you expect treasure for—” Ruha’s question was interrupted when the dragon finally went limp and plummeted into the water, raising such a splash that buckets of dark sea rained down upon the Storm Sprite. The harpoon lines throbbed sharply, and the cog nosed into the water and heeled toward the wyrm. Fowler shoved the tiller to port, bringing his ship around so sharply she seemed to pivot on her bow. “Loose the braces!” he boomed. He turned to Ruha and, more quietly, asked, “If you’d be kind enough to call off your wind. Lady Witch.” Ruha uttered a single syllable, and the magic breeze died away. The crew loosed the brace lines, leaving the yardarms to swing free, and the sail snapped and popped as it flapped loose in the wind. The drag of the wyrm’s enormous body quickly brought the Storm Sprite to a halt. She swung around and began to roll wildly in the churning sea, still pitching toward the bow and listing toward the wyrm. All at once, the crew broke into a tremendous cheer, many of them calling Umberlee’s favor upon the witch’s head. A great swell of pride filled Ruha’s breast, and for

the first time since the debacle in Voonlar, she felt worthy to wear the pin of a Harper. A loud, sonorous gurgle sounded just off the starboard side. Ruha looked over to see the dragon’s corpse sliding beneath the churning black waters. The Storm Sprite gave a long groan and listed even farther to starboard, the harpoon lines swinging toward her hull. Several of the crew lost their footing and would have fallen overboard had it not been for the quick hands of their comrades. Ruha looked to Captain Fowler. “Why is the wyrm sinking? Shouldn’t it float?” “Aye, it should.” A larcenous gleam filled the halfore’s eyes, and he glanced toward the bobbing lanterns atop the stern of the departing caravel. “Unless its belly is filled with foreign gold!” The Storm Sprite continued to heel, and Ruha shook her head emphatically. “No, Captain Fowler! Cut it free, or you’ll sink us!” “Cut it free?” the halfore scoffed. “My crew would mutiny!” “They would prefer losing the treasure to dying, I am sure.” “Don’t be,” Fowler said. “It takes a lot of gold to sink a dragon. And there’s the bounty to think of, too. Cormyr pays a thousand gold for each wyrm head brought to port, and every man gets his share.” “All the gold in the Heartlands will not buy their lives back.” “Aye, but men sell themselves for less every day.” Fowler lifted his chin toward the crew. “If you think they’ll forgo their chance to live like kings, you know less about men than you do about the Heartlands.” Ruha studied the men. As Fowler had claimed, their expressions were more greedy than fearful, and despite the Storm Sprite’s increasing list, not a single sailor was moving to cut the wyrm free. The cog continued to tip farther, until at last the harpoon lines ran vertically from the wales into the water. The heaving sea dunes crashed