Dragonclaw Dare

by Brian S. Ference

  Chapter 2.

  Feasting

  Endless dishes of every imaginable creature in the sea passed beneath Darek’s nose. Smoked crab and steamed mackerel, also yellowtail and squid, flash grilled and skewered on a stick. The aromas had Darek’s stomach growling. Tables laden with chocolate-dipped oranges and sweetmeats laced with stickypalm syrup held center stage. Darek ate like a starved wolf. When no one was looking, he, Vinz and others tucked as much salted filet and smoked kelp in their packs as they could to consume later.

  The wine and music flowed as freely with minstrels plucking stringed dotars and shaking decorative castanets. The twin towers off the main square hung with colorful red and green banners; the courtyard buzzed with excitement.

  That evening was a celebration for Darek and his cronies as they toasted each other, wrestled, jested rudely and laughed at old jokes and tall tales of treasure-mad sailors taken in by lusty sirens and mermaids.

  Under the protection of swaying stickypalms on the edge of the seaside forest, they did what most wild young men of their cast would do—drink and talk foolishly, long into the night. It was all in the spirit of fun, Nik, Fasouk, Vinz, Grame and Spunio, an all boys’ club—no girls allowed. Tradition demanded it. Darek would have preferred the company of some of the more delicate gender, particularly Clara, over the drunken quips of these knuckle-draggers who sat before him. The liquor in his blood slowed his thoughts, leaving him with a languorous feeling, somewhat wayward and uninhibited. His thoughts strayed again to Clara and how she would be a perfect companion. He remembered how her leathers had clung to her body as she had stood in front of him, dripping wet in the sunlight. He squirmed, a sense of passion stirring in his bones, feeling his blood rise.

  He sighed and struggled to push the thought of her from his mind.

  “Eat up,” said Spunio, “my aunt gutted and cleaned this fish earlier today, just for you, Darek!” He smoothed out his yellow peach fuzz then started in on a ribald song about a nice girl with a devilish streak, implying Darek’s mother, with Vinz and Grame chiming in. These last two sat opposite each other, Grame half a head shorter with his thin sandy hair, and Vinz, long-faced with dark, shaggy curls. Darek lay back and exhaled, coddling a forced grin, his cup of ale in hand, cut from a coconut. Fasouk seemed uncomfortable with the whole scene, his lips working in nervous disdain.

  “Come on, Fasouk,” quipped Grame, “you’re sitting a little too stiff on your log for a party. Have some more ale, ya priss.”

  Fasouk shook his head. “Stickypalm gives me the craps, Grame, and you know it.”

  “Such a sap.” They all laughed.

  Spunio, rubbing his high forehead and what looked like a set of monkey ears, jabbed him in the ribs. “Come on, Fazbaby. A little stickypalm’s good for the soul.”

  Fasouk still mulishly refused, shaking his head like a whipped hound. The others gave him a shove and piled on him, force-feeding him the ale, until he was half choking and spewing on the ground.

  “Knock it off, you weasels,” growled Darek. “He obviously doesn’t like jungle juice.”

  “When did you get so righteous, Dairy boy?” grunted Vinz. He flicked back his dark locks.

  “Since right now.”

  “Screw off, fishmonger, there’s no room here for party poopers.”

  Darek felt his patience fall away; he lurched forward and pulled Vinz off Fasouk. “I told you to knock it off.” Reaching down, he helped a grateful Fasouk clamber to his feet.

  “You want to fight me, big man?” Vinz sneered. He advanced on Darek, his knuckles clenched white. Darek stood his ground, unintimidated by Vinz or any of the others. It was all bluster, this cock-of-the-walk posturing. He knew he could take Vinz, drunk or sober.

  “Try it—or are you just a puffer-fish?” Darek saw the barracuda-gleam in Vinz’s eyes and frowned, puzzled. What game was he playing? There seemed to be a marked difference in him lately. Something must be in the air. Tempers had been running hot lately, what with Bralig’s aggression and the recent spree of attacks by the Black Claw Clan and roving pirates.

  Darek snatched a wedge of grog-battered shrimp to deflect his fired-up raw energy. He didn’t take Vinz and Grame’s aggression seriously, but it was sobering, and distressing, to know it was part of his own nature too.

  “Glub, glub, tunafish. You’re upset because you were bested by a girl.”

  Grame laughed. “Yeah, think you’re so hot because you almost won that qualifying match?”

  Darek stared. “Are we in the same world? Did she not outclass you, too?”

  Vinz sniffed while Grame shrugged.

  “For the record, I could sail circles around you—any of you.” Darek stared into Vinz’s eyes, reflecting the ruddy glare of the campfire’s light.

  “You think? You’re an okay sailor, Darek, but not that hot. You’ve got quick moves and maybe a gut instinct to read the winds—I'll give you that—but I dare you to try sailing into Black Claw territory, across their sacred isles.”

  Darek crossed his arms defensively. “I’ve done it before.”

  “Ha, when? How will you steal a boat, or get past the Harbormaster or navigate the rocks, or the sea serpents?”

  Darek’s blood simmered. “Serpents! There are no serpents in this close.” He could feel the stickypalm ale firing his blood and arrogance. “We’ll see, Vinz-o. I’ll take you up on your stupid dare. I’ll sail a ship past Devil’s Whirlpool, past the lava flows, across Serpent’s Teeth, through Pirates’ Cove—anywhere you want. Then you’ll all have to pay me a silver piece each for my efforts.” His words came out in a gush.

  A barely perceptible flush came to Vinz’s cheeks. The baiter chugged back his cup of warm ale, wincing at the bitter taste of its aromatic kick. “I dragon-dare you, dolphin boy.”

  Darek’s fists clenched. He gripped his fish skewer, itching to stab Vinz with it, oblivious to the danger signals in his inebriated state, and was only goaded further. “The sneaking part’s easy. I can have a boat past Kark’s eyes before he knows what’s going on.” He flourished his fish-greasy hand. “Plus, he’ll probably be in a doze, as he always is in the wee hours.”

  “I say it’s a dumb thing to do,” said Nik. “Too risky, Darek. Don’t listen to these two blowhards.” He rubbed his temples with concern.

  Darek only grew more sullen and angry, glimpsing the taunting mockery writ in both Vinz’s and Grame’s faces.

  “You’ll never make it,” scoffed Grame.

  Spunio, ever the sceptic, mumbled, “How could we even prove he was out there? He could just spin around the islands sunning himself, and say he was out there.”

  “Not if he brings us back a piece of the wreck from Windbit Isle. That’ll prove he was out there—in Black Claw territory.”

  Vinz smiled. “Yeah, a good test, Grame.”

  “Done,” grunted Darek.

  Nik’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind? Rumor has it that ship was chased by a sea monster and wrecked on the rocks. Something with three-foot fangs and a blue scaly hide. Only a few survivors lived to tell of it.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Darek, “and others tell a tale of a drunken captain Smitai swept up on rocks in a sudden windstorm, spinning an extravagant yarn about serpents.”

  “As you say,” laughed Vinz. “It’s your life.”

  “Believe what you want,” said Nik. “I still think it’s a crazy idea.”

  Fasouk shifted his chunky body. His doe-brown eyes blinked in uncertainty. “I side with Nik.”

  Darek mumbled his impatience. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove you sea snails wrong. I don’t believe in spooks or wights out there and it’s nowhere near sea serpent territory. I’ve sailed those seas before. The Black Claws can’t patrol that much ocean. I’m a better sailor than all of you put together.” Darek’s lip quivered, regret showing the instant the words left his mouth. But it was too late and he was too drunk to stop himself. He hated being this close to his friends when they knew ju
st how to rile him up—especially when he was incapacitated.

  Nik just shook his head as Darek thrust out his chin and the others followed his unsteady progress down the seaside path.

  In the dark before dawn, the whole group assembled at the moonlit wharf. The many sailboats bobbed in unseen currents, their canvases furled. The silhouettes of a few of the big sail-steamers loomed farther offshore. The dock lay empty with only candle light gleaming from the window of Kark, the watchman’s hut down the way. Kark, the only guard on duty and a glorified one at that, would have been exiled had he been caught napping. It was good timing. If Darek were caught, he could always blackmail Kark for sleeping on the job. If Kark were caught, the watchman could always plead little likelihood that any Black Claws would be foolish enough to put to port on a raid of Cape Spear—especially with scouts posted at each lighthouse a mile apart on either side of the harbor.

  Darek hunched closer, sizing up the craft he would borrow for the mission. A midsize boat, Star-runner, a fast sloop with extendible keel, jib and mainsail bobbed halfway down in the sprawl of boats. Guiding her out would be the only difficulty, just a matter of getting her sails up. Stars pricked the heavens and only the rhythm of the waves hitting the stone wall broke the silence.

  “Any of you want to go with me?” demanded Darek, wary of the many nervous and rueful faces around him. There was only the shifting of feet and darting of eyes. He sighed. “Just as I thought. All that talk and no balls amongst the lot of you. You jellyfish have no guts or tentacles.” He licked his lips as he grumbled. “Well, you’ll see!—When I come back after carving my initials and bringing a plaque from the shipwreck, you’ll pay me the silvers without question.”

  “Quit squawking,” said Vinz. “First you got to make it back. An unlikely feat which makes us none the poorer. We’ll even vote you club captain.”

  “Club captain, I second it,” said Grame. He rubbed his hollow cheeks with a facetious smirk.

  “I don't give a toss about being Captain of a kid’s club,” said Darek.

  “Kids’ club or not,” growled Vinz. “The wager stands.”

  Chapter 3.

  Sacred Isle

  The sea showed its tranquil beauty more than ever with the early morning sun burnishing the waves a copper-gold. Darek felt he could reach out and touch the entirety of the Dragon Sea as he inhaled breaths of salty ambiance without worry or care. Noisy gulls soared overhead, lured by his bright sails and the promise of fresh fish. Distant porpoises, blue backs long and sleek, leaped from crest to crest in tune with the sway of the sea. Darek’s boat glided over the gleaming surface like a dolphin. With a deft touch he trimmed the mainsail and close-hauled on a freshening breeze, gaining speed, east around Swordfish Isle then north toward the Black Claw islands.

  Freedom on the high seas... Nothing was quite like it. Darek’s spirits soared as the ocean air sobered him up. Wind, sky and Dragon Sea merged into one. He wondered how there could be any conflicts in this world of perfection. But there were. The Black Claw Clan was ever at odds with the Red Claw Clan.

  Darek gnawed his lip. His ship was small, harder to sight, so he was less concerned about arousing attention. He had sailed these waters many times before and had never been boarded or had a harpoon shot his way, and he saw no reason to worry, especially with no ships on the horizon. But in these uncertain times that could change at any moment...

  He clutched the teakwood tiller, guiding Star-runner closer to the northerly and kept his eyes peeled for wandering sloops or man-of-wars, particularly those bearing black or yellow flags—the mark of Black Claws or pirates.

  The hours passed and the sun rose like a flaming apple, a bright ball of warmth massaging his skin and reddening his cheeks. Darek could spend his whole life on the water, riding the open sea, breathing the fresh air and feeling the spray of brine on his skin. Collecting coconuts and dates on the islands by day, lighting fires at night to cook a dozen varieties of fish caught in his nets. But a frown curled his lip. Without friends or comfort, it was a lonely life. To miss out on the camaraderie, the joy of having someone like Clara, a shipmate, to curl up against beside a night fire—was not the way to go. He thought of her and his body tensed with a peculiar thrill. He thrust the feeling off, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand—his duty was to show those squidhead friends of his what he was made of; nevertheless, he missed his family as it once was, and he missed Meira.

  His eye caught the flash of a schooner riding to port, a Black Claw ship by the look of its dark sails, but he gave it a wide berth, his boat much too small for the crew to detect. By late afternoon, he saw a blur of rock on the horizon.

  Land ho! With a salty grin, Darek steered the craft toward the island’s eastern end. Windbit Isle, he knew something about it—to some known as ‘Sacred Isle’, a stark place, harboring elf shrub, dead clams and fish bones that had washed up on shore. His solar bearings had been accurate; only off by a few degrees to the north. Others called it ‘Serpent’s Blood Isle’, after the sunset’s color of ruddy copper that stained the fang-shaped shoreward rocks.

  The island loomed up, but as features formed in the late afternoon hour, Darek’s eyes caught a blue-grey trace of steam. Smoke? No, it couldn’t be. Windbit Isle was abandoned, a deserted place.

  With renewed caution, Darek tacked into the sandy cove around the far side of the rocky fangs that jutted from the seaside. This place was sheltered by a large outcropping of boulders. The wreck, the Vissicur, as he remembered, was closer to the east end of the island, beached on sand and rock in a half dozen feet of water.

  Darek trimmed to half sails, slowing his speed while moving toward a stretch of beach. Whatever was the source of the smoke, it had disappeared behind rocks and trees. The water, placid and inviting, shimmered as a cove came into sight. The air was silent and still, but for a few persistent gulls.

  He stared in awe at an emerging shape as the once-grand sail steamer, the Vissicur, revealed herself, with her primitive paddlewheels and boiler stacks, one of the first of her kind.

  Vissicur had deteriorated much in the years that had passed. On a heavy slant, she lay forgotten, hull turned in with holes gouged by rocks in her side. When Jace, his father, had taken him out a few years back, he had seen only a vague form that looked like a boat. Her bleached rigging was spider-webbed with moss and her sails hung in tatters, masts poking up like rotting fishbones. Her timbers creaked to the waves, and there was a terrible, eerie majesty to her.

  Darek wasted no time; he anchored his sloop and waded into the shallow water, sighing at the cool feel of it. He reached for her barnacled strakes, found some toe holds and lifted himself up onto the tilted deck. A shambles of broken planks and metal drums greeted him. Looters had scavenged here many a time. Only frayed ropes, rotten bales, wrenched-open, brass-bound trunks and odd bits of junk remained. Darek moved toward midships, worked his way crab-like to the cookhouse on the crazy-tilted deck. Once inside, he snatched a broken copper pot then went forward to the bowsprit to carve off some of the letterheads from her once-proud wood. With his prize in hand, he suddenly longed to be out of this forsaken place.

  The figurehead was a simple busty mermaid whose white, red and green paint had faded to the point where she now resembled a shapeless manatee.

  A strange noise like a bellow alerted him, distant, not like a whale, but more sinister—something he would rather not imagine.

  He twisted about, straining to hear the eldritch call coming from the island, heart beating, holding his breath. The sound, unlike any he had heard before, did not come again.

  He swam back to the sloop and deposited the trophies there. Perhaps the unlucky crew was protecting their final resting place. Looking around, he frowned. Nothing but wavering coconut trees and bare rock on Windbit Isle along the shore. A gull landed on the narrow sandy beach to his right. It seemed torn up from recent activity, as if a storm had ravaged it. On an impulse, Darek leapt from the ship and waded into sh
ore. All the while, he wondered what had created that unsettling sound.

  Sea water curled around his toes as he passed onto the sand and the rising surf lapped at his ankles, tinted rose-grey in the setting sun’s rays. Amidst the vagrant breeze, the calls of pesky gulls warred for his attention and he paused, stroking his chin, gazing at what looked like white whale bones not far from the wreck, picked clean by predators and feral seabirds. Well, some sea creature’s bones, he guessed, but these pale ribs had extra joints and twisted knurls in them. He scowled and puzzled anew over the dark mounds and unusual features etched in the sands.

  Moving farther up the beach, Darek came upon a blackened firepit ringed by rocks and several runestones—set in strange, pagan configurations. What would runestones be doing on a forsaken island? On a whim, he grabbed some of the small carved stones and swished them around in his cupped hands. They formed an ominous configuration in his hand, prompting Darek to blink in fascination. He saw skulls, fires, ruin, death, dragon teeth clawing human flesh, and his own hand in such destruction.

  Shivering, he dropped the uncanny things as if they were sea-snakes. On the sand Darek saw what he thought was another skull formation in the random array of dropped stones. Was he hallucinating?

  This place was cursed.

  Another disturbing sound drifted from behind a sand dune—a low moan such as he had heard earlier. Darek stopped, cocked his head, trained his ears like a hound.

  His curiosity got the better of him. His heart beating faster now, he decided to be adventurous and pressed his feet toward the inland hill. On odd thrill pricked his bones; a peculiar premonition was upon him. He headed up the low-shrubbed crest, footing his way through the prickly grass.

  Near the top he paused, looking down on his ship and the horseshoe-crab bay, weighing his options. He could make camp on the island and be back to Cape Spear by tomorrow. He did not relish the thought of sailing at night on such a small craft. Of course, he could lay over at anchor somewhere at sea, but even that was risky in unfamiliar waters. Darek remained undecided.