Richard Knaak - Night of the Dragon

Although the flowing sleeve stretched to the handle, those close by might have noticed that they never quite touched. Yet, the door swung wide open.

Inside, the goblin proprietor and three patrons stared at the intruder, who, at nearly seven feet tall, stood a hand higher than the biggest of them. The men's garb and the cutlasses at their sides marked them from the stories the newcomer had heard. Bloodsail Buccaneers. Yet, the figure paid no mind to their interest; only one thing mattered.

"This one seeks transportation across the sea," the hooded form declared. For the first time, the four registered some astonishment; the voice sounded neither male nor female.

The proprietor recovered first. The short, green, and somewhat potbellied goblin grinned wide, revealing his yellow teeth. He strode back behind the bar, where, despite his girth, he easily leapt up on an unseen bench or stool so as to be able to see over. His reaction was one of mockery.

"Ya wanta boat? Not too many in here! Food and ale, maybe, but we're fresh outa boats, hen!" As he spoke, his stomach swelled, straining farther out of the stained green and gold jerkin and almost completely over the wide, metal-clasped belt holding his weathered green pants up. "Ain't that right, boys?"

There were a couple of "ayes" and a slow nod, the last from one particularly keen-eyed drinker among the trio. Not one of the band had yet taken his gaze off the shrouded newcomer, who evinced no concern, no other emotion.

"This one is a stranger here, true," the figure replied, again in a voice unidentifiable as anything. "But a place where food and shelter are offered is often a place where knowledge of transport can also be found..."

"Ya got gold ta pay for this 'transport,' my muffled friend?"

The hood nodded. The sleeve that had opened the door now stretched forward again. It was not a hand that popped out of it now, but rather a small, gray pouch that jingled. The pouch swung from two leather strings that vanished into the sleeve.

"This one can pay."

The interest in the pouch was obvious, but the newcomer did not seem moved by that interest. The proprietor rubbed his pointy chin then rumbled, "Hmmph! Old Dizzywig, the wharfmaster, might be crazy enough to sail you there. Leastwise, he's got boats."

"Where might this one find him?"

"At the blasted wharf, of course! Old Dizzywig lives there. Go left out the door, then around the building. Walk a little bit. You can't miss the wharf and the docks. There's a lot of water beyond 'em, heh."

The hood dipped forward. "This one thanks you." "Tell 'im Wiley sent ya." The proprietor grunted. "Happy sailin'..."

With a graceful turn, the stranger stepped out. As the door closed behind, the figure surveyed the vicinity, then turned as the innkeeper had dictated. The sky was now dark, and while it was doubtful that the wharfmaster himself would wish to set sail at night, that did not matter.

Figures scurried to and from various buildings as the hooded form passed by. The stranger paid them no heed. So long as they did not interfere, they meant nothing.

The dark sea suddenly beckoned. For the first time, the hooded figure hesitated.

But there is no other choice, the stranger concluded. No choice but to dare one new thing after another...

While there were some larger ships anchored nearby, none were what the stranger sought. A small boat that could be handled by a lone sailor would serve all the stranger's needs. Three ragged but potentially-useful craft sat at the edge of the water, the fine finish of each a thing of the past. They likely floated, but that was it. To their right, the first of the docks stretched out into the black waters. Several wooden crates waited to be loaded on some vessel apparently not yet in port. An old but tough-looking figure that could have just as well have been Wiley's brother, father, or cousin sat upon one box, his gnarled hands working with fishing line. He looked up as the newcomer approached.

"Hmm?" was all he said at first. Then... "Closed for night. Come tomorrow..."

"If you are Dizzywig, the wharfmaster, this one seeks transport across the sea. Now, not tomorrow." From the voluminous sleeve emerged the coin sack.

"Ya does, does ya?" He rubbed his lengthy chin. Up close, the older goblin was thinner and in better shape than Wiley. He also wore clothes of a better quality, including a purple shirt and red pants that both contrasted greatly to his green hide. His boots, wide like all goblin boots due to the splayed feet of their wearers, were also of better condition.

"Are you he?" asked the stranger.

"'Course I am, fool!" The goblin grinned, showing that, despite his age, he had kept most of his sharp if yellow teeth. "But as to hirin' a boat, there're some ships that would do ya better. Where's your destination?"

"This one must cross to Menethil Harbor."

"Goln' to visit the dwarves, eh?" Not bothered in the least by the stranger's odd voice, Dizzywig grunted. "None of the ships are goin' there, that's for sure! Hmmph..." Suddenly, the goblin straightened. "And maybe you won't be goin', either...."

His slanted, almost reptilian black and coral eyes looked behind his would-be client, who followed the gaze.

Their approach had been expected. The ploy was an old one, even where the stranger came from. Brigands were brigands, and they always sought the tried-and-true paths used before them.

From behind his seat, Dizzywig pulled out a long piece of wood with a huge nail hammered through the head. The point stuck out for at least half a foot. The wharfmaster wielded the wood with an ease that bespoke of years of practice and use, but he did not jump up to give aid to the hooded figure.

"Touch my wharf, and I'll pound your damned heads to pulp," he warned the buccaneers.

"Got no quarrel with you, Dizzywig," one of the trio muttered. He had been the most interested of those observing the newcomer in the inn. "Just a little business with our friend here..."

The stranger slowly turned so as to completely face them, in the process sliding back the hood enough for those in front to see the face beneath. The face, the blue-black hair down past her shoulders, the two proud horns that stretched from each side of her skull...

Eyes widening, the three men from the tavern took a step back. Two looked anxious, but the leader, a scarred individual wielding a knife with a curved blade nearly a foot long, grinned.

"Well now... ain't you a pretty little female.. whatever race you is. We'll be taking that pouch girlie!"

"The contents of the pouch will not bring you much comfort," she said, discarding both the spell that had hidden her true, almost musical voice and the speech mannerisms she had used with it. "Money is only a fleeting vice."

"We like a little vice, don't we, lads?" the leader retorted. His companions grunted their agreement, greed having overtaken astonishment over what stood before them.

"Let's finish this before the bruisers catch wind of it," one of the other pirates added.

"They won't be around this way for awhile yet," the first snarled. "But 'tis true I don't fancy payin' the watch off with what we get, eh?"

They converged on their intended victim.

She would give them one more chance. "You don't wish to do this. Life is valuable, violence is not. Let us have peace between us...."

One of the lesser buccaneers, a balding, skeleton of a man, hesitated. "Maybe she's right, Dargo. Why don't we just leave her be—"

He immediately received a sharp, back-handed strike across the jaw from the leader. Dargo glared at him. "What's gotten into you, you son of a sea cow?"

The other brigand blinked. "Dunno..." He stared in shock at the tall female. "She done somethin'!"

Gritting his teeth, Dargo turned on her. "Damned mage! That's the last o' your tricks!"