Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9

by Коллектив Авторов

  Up ahead, the egg disappeared from her view. With a final desperate burst of speed, the dragon broke through the last of the trees, emerging at the base of the basalt mountain in the middle of the island. She caught one last glimpse of her egg, shining golden and orange in the mid-afternoon sun. Then it was gone, carried into a lava tube at the base of the volcano.

  Unfurling her wings, Kraxx closed the distance with one quick sweep. Slamming her head into the lava tube, she let out a tremendous roar, shaking the walls and spraying the inside of the tunnel with her billowing breath. But it was too late. The thieves were already beyond the reach of her attack. She clawed forward, but it was no use. Her body got stuck at the shoulders. She was simply too large to fit inside.

  Pulling herself out of the tunnel, Kraxx took to the air, circling the volcano. It had not been the first time her eggs had attracted the attentions of the greedy and the powerful. There were those who would pay dearly for such a prize-including the dracolich who lived deep within the volcano.

  Kraxx watched the molten lava bubble from the top of the open basalt mound. No, she-would not take the undead creature's bait. She would have no chance of defeating him there, inside his own lair. But if he could get the egg inside without coming out, then perhaps she could get it out without going in.

  With a keening wail, the topaz dragon turned away from her circling and glided back out over the jungle, toward the ocean.

  ¦GOS-*

  A loud crack rattled the windows of the captain's cabin, and every pirate aboard Expatriate let out a hoot.

  Captain Clay came out into the sunlight, absently flipping one of his twin daggers in his left hand. The sky was a perfect clear blue. The sea was at a dead calm, except for the hint of a tiny ripple.

  Lifting a handkerchief to his face, he wiped the ever present line of sweat off of his brow then looked up at the billowing sail. A smile spread across his parched, withered lips. It wasn't a hard wind, but it was wind all the same.

  "Mr. Mansa. In my cabin."

  A portly man turned away from the bustling crew and answered, "Aye, Cap'n."

  Inside it wasn't much cooler than on the deck. Even though the windows were open, there hadn't been a breath of wind, not even the slightest breeze, in so long.

  Clay sat down behind his large oak desk. Sifting through a pile of parchment, he selected one that was to his liking and unrolled it.

  "You wanted to see me, Cap'n?"

  "Aye, Mr. Mansa," said the captain without looking up. "Now that we have some wind, I want to discuss our course of action."

  "Should I round up the other mates?"

  "In good time, Mansa, but for now, I'd like to figure out where we're going and set a course while the winds are in our favor." Captain Clay pinned the corners of the parchment down with four stones and ran his hand over the worn map. "The sooner we find that island the sooner we claim our prize."

  "And all become rich," said the first mate. "Praise Umberlee," he added

  The captain chuckled, and a smile spread across his face. He couldn't help himself. Treasure always made him smile.

  "Aye, Mansa. Once we have that egg, we'll be rich men indeed."

  Clay's fingers traversed the miniature Sword Coast, lifting off the page when they reached the Nelanther Isles, as if touching them might burn his flesh, then dropping back down after they crossed Asavir's Channel. They continued on, dipping quickly into the Shining Sea, casually bypassing Calimshan and Tethyr, then following the Chultan peninsula to the edge of the Wild Coast. There Captain Clay circled his index finger in a wide berth. The weathered map crackled.

  "We're here." Under his finger, the pirate captain indicated the open sea. "And-"

  "Captain. Captain!" A skinny man came bursting into Clay's chamber calling, "Captain, come quick."

  Clay stood up and asked, "What is it, Tasca?"

  "You wouldn't believe it if I told you. You better come see for yourself."

  Clay bolted out from around his desk, Mansa close behind. Just outside the door of his chamber, the world went white. A thick fog had rolled in. The warm sweat that had plagued his brow was suddenly cool. The dampness on his face was transformed in an instant from sweat into dew. Looking out over amidships, Captain Clay couldn't even make out the mainsail.

  Over the side of the ship, what had been mile upon mile of endless open ocean and clear blue sky was nothing more than a gauzy film that seemed to have swallowed the entire world. Even the sun was blotted out by the billowing whiteness.

  The wind picked-up, and the partially slack sail snapped taut. Clay could hear Expatriate's deep hull slipping through the water.

  "What in the name of Talos?" the captain murmured. "Where did this fog come from?"

  Tasca shrugged and said, "Dunno. It just arrived."

  "You didn't see it roll in?"

  "No, Cap'n," Tasca replied. "Like I said, one minute it was clear, the next, fog. It was like the sea itself just lifted its hands and covered us up."

  "We must be getting close," Clay said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Come to Captain Clay you great big topaz egg," he whispered.

  Members of the crew began to materialize out of the thick mist. Every one of them carried something-belaying pins, hooks, lengths of chain, or broken bits of wooden crates. The captain had seen it before.

  "All right lads, let's just calm down."

  The crew began to grumble.

  "It's witchery," shouted one.

  "No good can come of this," shouted another.

  Captain Clay raised his hands, and the men quieted.

  "Now listen, you swabbies, all of you, back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled and a sturdy piece of wood nearby. Mind that you don't fall over the edge, and we'll get what we've come for. Understood?"

  "Aye, Cap'n," came the collective response.

  "Very good," he said, then he turned and headed back into his cabin. "Mr. Mansa."

  "Cap'n?"

  "Round up the other mates."

  "Aye, aye."

  Inside, Clay stepped behind his desk and stared down at the map. He laughed. He didn't need to look at it anymore. The jagged lines of the coast were permanently burned into his memory. For three tendays he'd stared down on that same wrinkled, brown parchment while Expatriate had sat off the coast of Chult searching for the island. First no wind, then the fog, were the gods conspiring to keep him away from that dragon's egg?

  Mansa knocked on the cabin threshold and called, "Cap'n?"

  Clay looked up. Mansa was flanked by a half-ore and a dwarf. "Come in, gentlemen."

  The half-ore was garbed in little more than torn rags, held together by a series of belts and straps at strategic points along his waist, biceps, and thighs. His hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail and held in place by a strip of thick, rancid-looking black hide. At the end of his left arm, where most other sailors had a hand, the half-ore had a wicked-tipped blade strapped to his ruined stump.

  The dwarf on the other hand looked as if hed just stepped out of a fancy inn after a good night's sleep and a bath. His beard was in three long braids all tied together-near his knees-to a shiny brass ring. A clean, dry rolled bandanna of yellow silk covered the top of his head, a perfect accompaniment to his blue pantaloons and purple vest. He wore a series of golden rings in one ear. His burley bare arms were covered in tattoos of mermaids drinking flagons of ale. On his belt swung a jeweled sheath with a keen-edged rapier inside.

  The collected mates entered, each taking a chair around the heavy desk.

  Clay steepled his fingers in front of his chin and asked, "Any guesses about this mysterious fog?" He looked to the dwarf. "Mr. Tabor?"

  The immaculately dressed mate shook his head and replied, "I'd say we're getting close."

  Clay nodded.

  "Mr. Hadar?"

  The half-ore grunted, "Smells of witchcraft to me."

  Clay slapped the desk and said, "Aye. Which means someone doesn't want us to find what we're lo
oking for. I'd wager my weight in gold that when we find our island we'll find the mage responsible for our bad luck."

  The three mates shook their heads.

  The ship's timbers complained, creaking and screeching under the sudden pressure. There was a crunching sound, followed by a long, slow grind, and Expatriate lurched. The captain's heavy desk shifted, adding to the noise, and the three mates were thrown to the floor. Captain Clay went sprawling over the top of his desk, thrashing the map and the stones that held it open and sending them flying.

  "What the-?"

  Clay's words were cut short.

  "Land ho!"

  The captain got to his feet and scrambled onto the deck, followed closely by the dwarf and the half-ore. The sky overhead was visible, the sun coming through a large hole in the sheath that had covered the ship. Where before the amidships had been socked in by fog, traces of the ship were revealed. The thick mist seemed to dissolve, dropping away from the planks and sails as if it were a wave, already spent, slowly drifting back into the sea.

  Tasca was facedown on the deck, surrounded by at least five other sailors, all pulling splinters out of their palms. The lookout, perched high up on the mainmast, hung to the edge of the crow's nest by one hand. His legs dangled below him as he surveyed the deck and the spilled pirates.

  As the foggy whiteness drifted away, Captain Clay got his first look at what had caused all the commotion.

  "Shiver me timbers," he whispered.

  Before him, not more than a league ahead of Expatriate's bow, sat an active volcano. A column of sooty smoke rose out of its top, and a bright line of orange-red lava rolled down its side.

  Clay dashed down across the deck. Leaning out over the spinnaker, he looked down on a rocky beach.

  "Mr. Mansa," he shouted.

  The portly mate had just managed to pull himself up off the floor of the captain's cabin and stagger out to the deck.

  "Aye."

  "We're going ashore."

  "Aye, cap'n," replied the first mate. "I'll gather the repair party."

  The damage wasn't extensive, but the ship was taking on water. Expatriate had come ashore quite softly, only crashing to a halt when its hull collided with a huge, melted piece of basalt jutting up from the bottom of the sea.

  Once the leak was fixed, it wouldn't take much to get the boys to push her off the sand and get her back out to sea. The crew Mansa had rounded up was coming off the ship. It would take them at least a few hours, if not a few days, to fix the hole. Then a few more hours to bail the hold.

  "You know the drill, gentlemen," shouted the captain. He strode toward the jungle in the near distance. "Let's cut some lumber and patch her up."

  Machetes in hand and with little more than a grumble, the entire crew, save for those few unfortunates left aboard to mind the ship, followed their captain across the blistering shore.

  Reaching the edge of the trees, Clay turned around to take a look at Expatriate. His ship seemed to flicker in and out of existence, disappearing in a wave of heat as if it were caught in a raging storm deep at sea.

  "Split into pairs," ordered the captain. "Each of you take a strong tree back to the ship."

  "Aye, cap'n," they said in unison.

  The pirates split up, searching the jungle. Clay turned to his mates.

  "We'll leave them to their task," he said with a smile, "and get on with ours."

  The three mates nodded and silently followed their captain into the jungle. The trees were tall and thin, and the ground was completely bald in large patches, as if it were swept clean by a legion of maidens with brooms. That far off the water, the damp humidity was even more noticeable. Having spent most of his life on the high seas, Clay was not unaccustomed to warm, damp weather. Somehow, though, being surrounded on all sides by an ocean made the humidity seem more natural, more welcome. There, deep inside a tropical jungle, it just seemed wrong.

  When he got deep enough into the jungle that he could no longer hear the chopping and cussing of his sailors, Clay sat down on the soft earth and unrolled his map.

  Mr. Mansa lowered his portly girth down beside him. The dwarf and the half-ore stood on either side.

  "Any guesses where we are, Mr. Mansa?" asked the captain.

  Mansa leaned over the map, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  He pointed at a small island and said, "Here, Cap'n."

  "TheMother-of-Mists?"

  "Aye."

  "Not even in a hurricane could we travel that far in less than a day." The captain pushed his first mate's hand out of the way and continued, "At dawn, just before the mists, I spotted the southern tip of the Kobold Mountains. That's nearly four hundred miles."

  Mansa shrugged and said, "There aren't any other islands out here. Never has been."

  "It doesn't seem possible," the captain said. "Then again, neither did that fog." He looked up at the half-ore. "Hadar, you know these waters better than any of us. What say you?"

  The half-ore didn't even look at the map, just said, "The Dead Islands are farther north."

  "The Dead Islands?" asked the captain.

  Hadar explained, "Those islands at the far south end of the Nelanther chain with no fresh water and nothing a pirate could want." The half-ore shook his head. "Ain't good for nothin' except dyin' on."

  Something rattled the trees in the near distance. Hadar dropped into a crouch, dashed between a pair of trees, and disappeared into the jungle. Tabor stepped sideways and seemed to simply melt into the shadows under the canopy. Mansa leaped to his feet as quick as a cat, moving as if he was a man half his size and a third his age.

  Clay too was ready, gripping one of his daggers by the gleaming, polished steel blade. He ran his eyes over the immediate vicinity. Out on the waves, Clay had some of the best eyes around, being able to spot fat cargo ships long before some elves even. But in the dense, dark jungle, he was at a disadvantage.

  Behind him, another crash rumbled through the jungle, shaking the ground. Mansa nearly jumped, startled by the sudden sound. Then the man let out a squeal and backstepped. Twisting, the pudgy man fell onto his rump. Clawing the ground, Mansa tried to push himself backward but slipped and landed flat on his back.

  Clay spun around to look up into the most terrible face he'd ever laid eyes upon

  Eye's burning red like the fires of the Abyss looked down over huge flaring nostrils, covered in yellow-orange scales. Crystalline fangs jutted out of its upper and lower jaw, crisscrossing on either side of the creature's mouth like the bones of the Jolly Roger.

  Captain Clay staggered back a step and stammered, "D-d-dragon."

  The creature stood on its hind legs, its wings pressed back against its considerable bulk. Hunched, the dragon's shoulders reached nearly to the top of the jungle canopy. Huge bony spurs jutted out of its hide along its spine and the length of its tail. Its long neck, thick and heavily muscled, snaked down from high above.

  Though the monster's enormous head filled most of Clay's vision, he could see that the creature held both Tabor and Hadar captive, one in each of its front claws.

  The dragon let out a short, powerful breath through its nostrils, and a plume of watery vapor floated out.

  Trying to remain calm in the face of such a beast, Clay lifted one of his daggers, prepared to throw.

  "That would not be wise," bellowed the dragon.

  The captain looked to Mansa-still flat on his back-nodded, then lowered his hand.

  "So," the captain asked the dragon, "what happens now?"

  The wyrm's eyes narrowed and it replied, "We parlay." Clay swallowed.

  "All right. I'm Captain Clay." He looked again at Mansa. The portly mate shrugged. "This is my first mate, Mansa. And those two-" the captain indicated the two pirates the dragon held in its grasp-"are Hadar and Tabor, also mates."

  The dragon's eyes shifted from Clay to Mansa then back again.

  "Before we begin," Clay said, nodding again at the trapped mates. "I would ask you
to release your captives."

  The dragon snorted and said, "You are in no position to ask for concessions."

  "Then as a show of good faith."

  The pirate captain slipped his dagger back into its sheath.

  The dragon growled but released the two pirates.

  Clay lifted his hands, showing his empty palms. "Our ship, Expatriate, was beached-"

  "I know how you got here," interrupted the dragon. "I brought you."

  Clay understood.

  "So you're the mage."

  The dragon didn't reply.

  Clay had been in similar sorts of negotiations before, though never with a dragon. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then tried to proceed as if he was talking to a rival captain.

  "So, what is it you want of us?"

  "You've come for my egg," replied the dragon.

  "Egg?" bluffed Clay. "We don't know anything about any egg, our ship was run aground-"

  The dragon blew out another strong breath, its lip curling, as it said, "Do not play games with me, human. I know why you were looking for this island. You've come to barter with the thieves for my egg."

  A cold lance of fear shot up Clay's spine.

  "Are you going to kill us?"

  The dragon leaned back, giving the captain a bit more space, and said, "That depends."

  "On?"

  "You're not the only ones who have an interest in my egg," explained the dragon. "The thieves who stole it have taken it deep into the volcano where I cannot go-

  "What do you want from us?"

  "I want you to go in and retrieve my egg."

  The captain cocked his head, a bit confused. "You want us to retrieve your egg?"

  "That is what I said," replied the dragon. The captain laughed.

  "If whoever took your egg is so powerful…" Clay struggled for the right words. "If you can't retrieve it yourself, what makes you think we'll be able to get it back for you?"

  The dragon reared back, crossing its mighty fore-limbs over her golden chest. Her eyes burned an even darker red.