Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

It was nothing like the dragons in the books she’d studied during her training. The reptile was covered in brownish-gray scales everywhere except for its head, which was covered in a mass of thick, short horns and resembled nothing so much as a lamprey, or perhaps a morning star crafted by an overeager smith. Winglike membranes stretched between two parallel lines of spines that ran along the length of the creature’s back, from the base of its spiked head to the tip of its tail.

“What in the name of Olladra’s larder is that?” she asked as she handed the spyglass back to Jester, vaguely repulsed.

“A sand dragon,” Brannan answered. He’d given the controls over to Xujil and climbed into the back of the wagon, rummaging around in one of the crates. He came up with a handful of green-fletched bolts and a crossbow, which he held out expectantly. “Well? I certainly can’t operate the thing.”

Sabira took the weapon impatiently from him and selected a bolt. But before she could load it into the groove, Greddark snatched it out of her hand.

“What the-?”

The dwarf ignored her exclamation, instead examining the bolt with a furrowed brow. Then he turned a baleful eye on the Wayfinder.

“You just happen to have bolts enchanted to pierce dragon scales?”

“Actually, I happen to have bolts enchanted to pierce any number of things. This crate alone holds silver bolts, bolts blessed by practitioners of every known religion on Eberron-and some unknown ones-and bolts that will bring a giant to its knees… probably even some that might do the same to a dwarf, if I dig deep enough.” The Wayfinder flashed that perfect smile. “You never know what you might face on an expedition. It pays to be prepared for every eventuality, no matter how unlikely. It’s kept me in business this long.”

Greddark harrumphed and grudgingly handed the quarrel back to Sabira, who quickly loaded it into the crossbow and moved into position, using the feed trough at the back of the wagon to steady her aim.

She could see the dragon without the spyglass now, a dark speck rapidly growing in size as it approached from the north. As it glided through the air, Sabira could see it wasn’t quite as large as she’d been expecting-the size of two of the wagons shoved together, maybe. She revised her estimate of the creature’s age-no more than a young adult, if the facts she’d learned as a Blademark could be applied to dragons she’d never seen in any of their libraries.

Hopefully, that should mean the reptile would rely less on magic and more on mundane attacks. But without knowing what sort of breath weapon the creature had, she wasn’t sure if that was a benefit or not.

“So,” she asked over her shoulder as she tried to keep the crossbow level while the wagon bumped along over the desert floor, “sand dragons. What do you know about them?”

“Not much,” Brannan answered from behind her. “I’ve never encountered one out here before, but I’ve heard stories.”

“Stories?” Jester asked, and Sabira could just imagine the red-armored warforged leaning forward eagerly on his bench.

“I’ve heard they can create sandstorms-a tale I think we can safely confirm-and that they prefer to attack from underneath the sand. Not much else.”

Wait. If sand dragons preferred to come at their prey from beneath the sand, then why-?

Sabira didn’t even have time to finish thinking the question. As the dragon came within bowshot of the rearmost wagons, it suddenly veered up and over the caravan, well out of range of both arrow and quarrel. As it crossed above their wagon, Sabira scrambled forward to the front, poking her head out beside a startled Xujil. She watched as the dragon swooped down behind a row of high dunes ahead of the caravan and disappeared. Though she scanned the horizon in front of them, she didn’t see it reappear.

“Stop the caravan!” she shouted to Brannan without turning.

There was utter silence behind her.

“Have you lost your mind?”

The Wayfinder’s voice was politely amused, as if he were humoring a lunatic while trying to determine if she were dangerous or not.

Now Sabira turned, her eyes narrowed and her jaw set.

“The dragon is ahead of us somewhere, on the ground. Under the ground, if the stories you’ve heard are to be believed.” She waited for understanding to dawn on the Wayfinder’s features, but his face remained affable and unenlightened. It was Xujil who caught on first.

“The beast is using the storm to herd us,” the drow said, the soft, oily words the first he had spoken in her hearing. Sabira was surprised at the anger behind them. Then again, she supposed that for someone who was used to leading others, being guided himself against his will must rankle.

“Classic hunting tactic. And we’re the buck with the trophy rack.”

Brannan took the revelation in stride.

“If we halt the caravan, we have no chance of outrunning the storm, and it’s the greater of the two dangers facing us. The dragon can only attack one wagon at a time; the storm can wipe out the entire caravan.” The Wayfinder’s expression was no longer so affable. “There is no choice here, Marshal. We press on, ambush or no.”

And as much as it galled her, Sabira couldn’t refute his logic.

“If that’s your decision, then at least have the caravan advance in a row instead of a column. That way we can bring more force to bear against the dragon when it attacks.”

Because that attack was as inevitable as the storm bearing down on them from behind. No predator would pass up such easy odds, least of all a dragon.

Brannan regarded her for a moment before his smile returned, a grin that Sabira would almost have called flirtatious, in other circumstances, on another man’s face. On Brannan’s, she couldn’t help but regard it as calculating. Though the Wayfinder hadn’t said it in so many words, he’d made it abundantly clear that his bottom line was the main factor in any decision he made, including this one. That it was also the safest decision for the men in his employ was completely beside the fact, Sabira was sure.

“As you will, Marshal,” he replied, inclining his head to her. He glanced at Xujil, who’d looked back over his shoulder at Sabira’s command to stop the caravan, and was now waiting for instructions. “Slow it down.”

As the drow obeyed and turned back to the controls, Brannan dug around in a satchel tied to the rear opening of the wagon. He pulled out a length of bright red cloth, then leaned out the back of the wagon into the wind. With one end of the cloth clutched in each hand, he slowly spread his arms out, so that the red fabric was a bright, visible slash across his chest. After a moment, he brought his hands back together in front of him, and then repeated the gesture two more times. When he was sure the next wagon in line had gotten the signal and was passing it on, he balled up the cloth and replaced it in the bag.

“That’s rather primitive,” Greddark remarked, no doubt thinking up a way he could rig a more efficient system with some Dust of Disjunction and a little spit.

“Ah, ‘primitive.’ That’s a dwarven euphemism for ‘cheap,’ is it not?” Before Greddark could answer, the Wayfinder continued. “It may seem simple, but it’s the most effective means to communicate between wagons when the wind is howling too loud for voices to be heard and the glare of the sun blinds you to anything but the brightest colors.”

“There are spells to bypass those difficulties,” the dwarf argued. “Cheap ones too.”

There were even spells that would protect the entire caravan from both sun and storm in the first place, Sabira knew, but they were also quite a bit more expensive than a few strips of cloth torn from the tent in the Marketplace.