Трой Деннинг: The Veiled Dragon

“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 mizzenmast 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 half-orc 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 half-orc 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 if 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 of her 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 half-orc still did not mean to give battle.