The Veiled Dragon h-12 Page 2

  "I am sorry for the misery I caused the slaves of Voon- lar. Not a night passes when my nightmares do not ring with their cries." Ruha raised her chin and locked gazes with the half-ore. "But I assure you, my shame is as noth- ing compared to the disgrace of a coward who turns from those he can save."

  The half-ore'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 under- standing of magic far exceeds my knowledge of Heart- land 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, sur- rounded by four twinkling stars with a harp in the cen- ter. 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 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 displea- sure 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 sum- mon 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 somer- castle. Two of his fellows followed him inside, while sev- eral 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 reap- peared, laden with thick-braided skeins and barbed har- poons 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 fin ished, the caravel lay a hundred yards ahead, lumbering forward at a shallow angle that would present her star- board 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 car- avel, 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 dis- played 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 pre- vent 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 fin- gers. A terrible rasping arose between the ships as they rubbed hulls, and the witch knew it would not be long befor
e 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 play- ing 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 gal- lop, 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 ser- pent's tail ended in a long section of gray, weathered bone, as though it were suffering from some wasting dis- ease 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, sput- tering 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 rib- bon 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 half-ore 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 sporadi- cally 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, tear- ing 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, fol- lowed 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 sec- ond stone shot from the wyrm, then a third and a fourth, and still the serpent trembled and convulsed but some- how 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 sph- raled away into the heavens, and Fowler cast an impa- tient 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 wor- thy 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 half-ore'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 half-ore 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 far- ther, until at last the harpoon lines ran vertically from the wales into the water. The heaving sea dunes crashed over the bow with thunderous force, and the decks sloped so steeply that it was impossible to stand without holding a halyard or shroud. Still, the crew made no move to free the ship.

  "What's all this standing about?" Fowler yelled.

  "Secure the lines to the anchor windlass and prepare to haul!"

  An excited murmur filled the air as the crew leapt to the task with surprising agility, dangling monkeylike from lines and belaying pins. The sea continued to batter the Storm Sprite, spraying white foam over the decks and threatening to capsize her all too often, but it took only a few moments for the men to wrap the lines around the windlass and start winching. Their efficiency did little to soothe Ruha's nerves. In the desert only fools tempted fate, especially for a prize as petty as gold.

  "What of your reward, Captain Fowler?" The witch glanced toward the departing caravel. The lanterns atop its stern were still visible whenever the great ship crested a dune, but the gray outlines of the vessel itself were rapidly fading into the night. "I thought you wanted to catch the caravel?"