The Veiled Dragon

by Denning, Troy

  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.

  The Storm Sprite pitched downward, and Ruha lost sight of the battle. “Captain Fowler, I did not mean to challenge your authority,” she said. “I was told that you are a Harper friend and, despite your mixed blood, a man of honor. I can see now that my informant was mistaken.”

  The half-orc’s face grew tight. “I have as much honor as any human captain!” he snapped. “And would I have Storm Silverhand’s name upon my ship if I were not a friend of the Harpers?”

  Ruha shrugged. “I know only what my eyes show me—and I can see that you have not called your men to arms. You have no intention of aiding that ship.”

  “You’d do well to worry less about my intentions and think of your assignment. The Harpers are not given to hiring private ships unless the matter is urgent. Do you think Lady Silverhand would want you to risk your mission over a fight that’s none of your concern?”

  “Storm Silverhand is not here.”

  The witch’s reply was evasive because she did not know the answer to Captain Fowler’s question. Storm Silverhand had told her only that she was to sail to the port village of Pros, where an important Harper named Vaerana Hawklyn would be waiting to take her to the city of Elversult. Presumably, Vaerana would explain Ruha’s assignment, but even that was not certain.

  Ruha looked toward the distant caravel. “I do know one thing: neither Storm Silverhand, nor any other Harper, would turn a blind eye on so many people in such terrible danger. If you are truly her friend, you know this as well.”

  The sea was piled high before the Storm Sprite, blocking all sight of the caravel and its attacker, but Captain Fowler’s gray eyes looked toward the unseen battle and lingered there many moments.

  “It will go better for us, and them, if we arrive after the battle,” he said. “If that dragon sends the Storm Sprite to lie in Umberlee’s cold palace, we’ll be of no use to the survivors—or to those waiting in Pros.”

  Ruha laid a reassuring hand on the half-orc’s hairy arm. “Captain Fowler, you may tell your men to arm themselves. I will not let the dragon sink your ship.”

  “Lady Witch, sea battles are wild things.” The captain’s tone was overly patient, as though he were speaking to a little girl instead of a desert-hardened witch. “Even with your magic, you might find you can’t keep such a promise.”

  “Captain Fowler, I have fought more battles than you know. It is true that I have not won them all, but never have I abandoned someone else out of fear for myself.” These last words Ruha spoke with particular venom, for she was offended by Fowler’s condescension. “But if you truly value your ship above other men’s lives, the Harpers will guarantee my promise. If the dragon sinks the Storm Sprite, we will buy you another.”

  Fowler’s face hardened. “And why are you so keen to fight the drake, Witch? Do you think to redeem yourself for the Voonlar debacle?”

  Ruha felt her cheeks redden, and her anger evaporated like water spilled upon the desert floor. “At least I know why you lack faith in me.”

  The Voonlar debacle had been Ruha’s first assignment. Storm Silverhand had sent her to work in a Voonlar tavern, where she was to serve as a secret intermediary and messenger. On her first day, a slave smuggler had crossed her palm with a silver coin. Ruha, failing to understand the significance of the gesture, had accepted the offering with thanks, then balked at delivering the expected services. Feeling slighted, the furious slaver had refused to accept the coin’s return and drawn his dagger. He would certainly have killed the witch if one of his own men, a Harper spy, had not leapt to her defense. As it was, she and the spy had been forced to fight their way to safety, leaving the smuggler free to sell a hundred men, women, and children into bondage.

  “I am sorry for the misery I caused the slaves of Voonlar. Not a night passes when my nightmares do not ring with their cries.” Ruha raised her chin and locked gazes with the half-orc. “But I assure you, my shame is as nothing compared to the disgrace of a coward who turns from those he can save.”

  The half-orc’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 understanding of magic far exceeds my knowledge of Heartland 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, surrounded by four twinkling stars with a harp in the center. The pin had once belonged to Lander of Archenbridge, 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 displeasure 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 lockers 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 summon 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 somercastle. Two of his fellows followed him inside, while several 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 reappeared, laden with thick-braided skeins and barbed harpoons 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 finished, the caravel lay a hundred yards ahead, lumbering forward at a shallow angle that would present her starboard 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 caravel, 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 displayed 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 stern. 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 prevent 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 fingers. A terrible rasping arose between the ships as they rubbed hulls, and the witch knew it would not be long before 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 playing 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 gallop, 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 serpent’s tail ended in a long section of gray, weathered bone, as though it were suffering from some wasting disease 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, sputtering 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 ribbon 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.

&nb
sp; 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-orc 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 sporadically 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, tearing 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, followed 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 second stone shot from the wyrm, then a third and a fourth, and still the serpent trembled and convulsed but somehow kept from falling into the sea.