The Veiled Dragon

by Denning, Troy

  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 spiraled away into the heavens, and Fowler cast an impatient 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 worthy 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-orc’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-orc 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 farther, 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?”

  Fowler did not even look over his shoulder. “Not if the dragon pilfered all its gold.”

  Several wails of surprise sounded from the windlass; then the Storm Sprite righted herself so suddenly that half a dozen men fell flat on the deck.

  “What happened?” Fowler boomed. “Why are those lines slack?”

  “It—it just happened,” came the reply. “The harpoons must have pulled free!”

  A chorus of disappointed groans rumbled through the crew, but Fowler’s gray eyes shined with alarm. “All of them at once? Never.”

  The sailors looked at each other with baffled expressions, as though they expected one of their number to confess to some mistake that explained the mystery. A babble sounded ahead of the Storm Sprite and to both sides of her bow. The little cog fell abruptly silent, and every head aboard swiveled toward the noises.

  Ruha slipped a hand into her aba. “Perhaps the men should retrieve their weapons, Captain—”

  A curtain of black wings rose from the sea ahead, eclipsing the moon’s reflection on the water and casting a shroud of murky darkness over the ship. The crew gasped in alarm and retreated toward the somercastle, giving no apparent thought to the spears and axes that lay stowed around the deck.

  “What’s the matter?” Fowler demanded. As he spoke, a pair of ebony talons shot from the water on both sides of the bow. There was no hide over the gnarled fingers, and even the wrists exhibited bare patches of gray, weathered bone. The claws dug into the wales, and the little cog’s bow dipped into the sea. The half-orc released the tiller and stepped forward. “Cowards! Stand and fight!”

  For the first time since Ruha had boarded, the captain’s words seemed to have no effect on his crew. The bravest of them watched over their shoulders as they opened a hatch or door, but most simply screamed in terror and hurled themselves through the nearest opening. Their panic surprised the witch, for until now they had exhibited the unwavering discipline of men who knew their lives depended upon working together. She pulled a small crystal of quartz from her pocket, at the same time catching Fowler’s arm with her free hand.

  “Your men are braver than this,” she said. “It is only the dragon’s magic frightening them.”

  “Only?” the half-orc scoffed. “It will be enough to sink us!”

  Ruha pointed her crystal over the ship’s bow. “I am not frightened.”

  The dragon’s head rose into view and, despite her claim, the witch was so shocked she could not keep the syllables of her incantation from fleeing her mind. She found herself staring not into the slit pupils of a wyrm’s diabolic eyes, but into the vastly more sinister void of two black, empty sockets. Though a thin layer of shriveled black scales still clung to the beast’s brow and cheeks, its snout was a fleshless blade of cracked bone and cavernous nostrils. Even the creature’s curved horns, once as sturdy and long as horse lances, were mere splintered stumps of their ancient magnificence.

  “Umberlee have mercy!” Fowler ripped a golden ring from his ear and hurled it overboard, a piece of bloody lobe still dangling from the clasp. “Save us!”

  The dragon’s empty-eyed gaze followed the arc of the glimmering earring as it plunged into the sea, then snapped back to Fowler.

  “If you wish mercy, do not throw your gold to Umberlee.” The dragon spoke in a voice as raspy as it was loud, and the mere sound of it made Ruha’s legs shake so that she could hardly keep her feet. “Gi
ve it to me, and perhaps your death shall be quick!”

  When Fowler made no move to produce more gold, the dragon opened its jaws, revealing a hundred broken fangs and a scabrous white tongue, and the Storm Sprite’s sail billowed toward its mouth. A loud rasp rustled down the length of the ship, and Ruha realized the serpent was gorging itself with air. She squeezed the quartz crystal between her thumb and forefinger, at the same time summoning her spell back to mind.

  The rasping ceased, and wisps of dark fog rose from the dragon’s nostrils. Ruha called out the words of a wind spell. The quartz crystal evaporated in a searing flash, and a bolt of white lightning leapt from her hand. It struck the wyrm’s head with a thunderous bang, hurling desiccated scales and shards of gray bone high into the air. The creature’s neck snapped back, and from its shattered maw shot a plume of boiling, turbid vapor.

  The dragon roared in pain, shaking the Storm Sprite from stem to stern, and the sea sputtered with the sound of its torn flesh dropping into the water, but the beast did not slip beneath the surging dunes. Instead, it dug its ebony talons deep into the ship’s wales, then laid its neck over the bow to display the smoking, mangled crater that had once been its face.

  “Who would do this to me?” the dragon rumbled. “Cast yourself to Umberlee, or you shall wish you had.”

  Captain Fowler glanced back at Ruha. His lips were as white as the moon. “Well, Harper, c-can you k-keep your promise?”

  Ruha thrust her shaking hands into her aba and, fearing her efforts would come to naught, fumbled through her pockets. Live wyrms could be killed, but what could she—or anyone—do against this dead beast?

  The turbid vapor that had spilled from the dragon’s maw earlier began to settle over the front part of the ship. As soon as the dark fog touched the rigging, lines started to snap and fall, hissing and smoking as though they were on fire. The sail broke free of the yardarms and fluttered to the deck, as sheer and full of holes as old lace. The mast, and then all the wood from midships forward, began to sizzle and fume.

  Fowler sank to his knees. “Wretched witch! What have you done to my ship?”

  The dragon turned its shattered face toward the captain. “Did she give the order to interfere with me? Or was it you, thinking of Cormyr’s filthy bounty?”

  With that, the wyrm withdrew its head and slipped beneath the sea’s dark surface. Ruha stepped to the taffrail and saw the shadow of one huge wing gliding through the water toward her.

  “Captain, did I not promise that the Harpers would buy you another ship?” She stepped toward the half-orc. “How can they do that if we perish with this one?”

  Fowler looked at Ruha with disbelieving eyes. “You think we’ve a choice in the matter? If you could destroy the dragon, you’d have done it by now.”

  The yardarms broke free and crashed down upon the deck. The thick planks gave way as though they had been rotting for a hundred years, and the spars struck several barrels stowed below decks. One of the casks split in two, spilling a viscous liquid that filled the air with a bitter, caustic stench. The babble of swirling water sounded behind the Storm Sprite.

  Without glancing back, Ruha pointed into the hold. “What is in those casks?”

  The half-orc looked puzzled, as though he found it a strange time for Ruha to question the cargo. “Lamp oil. We’ve got to have ballast, and it might as well pay—”

  A sharp crack sounded from the rear of the deck. Ruha glimpsed the tiller disappearing through its housing, then three black talons rose into sight and hooked themselves over the taffrail. The witch grabbed Fowler’s arm and jerked him off the poop deck, pushing him toward a boarding axe down on the main deck.

  “I cannot save your ship, Captain, but I can save us. Go and smash those oil casks.”

  The half-orc jumped down and retrieved the weapon, then leapt into the hold. Ruha ducked down beside the somercastle and emptied her pockets of all the brimstone powder she possessed, piling it upon the deck before her. A sharp crack sounded from the stern of the ship, then the Storm Sprite pitched to her rear. The witch shaped the heap of yellow powder into the figure of a tiny bird and uttered a wind spell.

  The brimstone vanished in a brief flash of yellow, and in its place appeared the diaphanous form of a yellow canary. Ruha pointed toward the ship’s hold, where Captain Fowler was busy smashing oil casks, and made a quick sweeping motion. The little bird flitted off to circle the area she had indicated.

  A tremendous crackling sounded from the poop deck, and Ruha peered over the edge to see the dragon’s claws ripping into the stern of the ship. She withdrew another quartz crystal from her aba, then jumped onto the ladder and pointed it at the creature’s pulverized face, yelling a series of nonsensical syllables that she hoped the beast would mistake for those she had used to cast her first lightning bolt.

  The dragon’s head swiveled toward Ruha. She felt oil-laden air swirling past her head and heard the unmistakable rasp of the creature filling its chest. The beast sucked the diaphanous yellow bird she had created earlier into its throat. The witch dropped behind the somercastle, squeezing the quartz crystal and uttering the incantation of a fire spell.

  A fiery spark shot from the tip of the crystal, igniting the stream of air being sucked into the dragon’s throat. Ruha threw herself through the somercastle door. She felt a jolting crash; then there was a searing fulguration, the smell of wood ash, and finally the cool bite of saltwater.

  Two

  Once the numb ringing inside Ruha’s skull abated and it occurred to her that she was still alive, her first thought was not that she would choke on the saltwater she had swallowed, nor that the weight of her sodden aba would drag her beneath the dark waters, nor even that she might bleed to death from her many lacerations. When the witch opened her eyes and saw the sea heaving all around her, her first thought was that she would never be found.

  The dunes loomed as high as mountains, with rolling, moonlit faces that blocked Ruha’s sight in every direction, making her feel immeasurably alone and insignificant in the stormy vastness of the Dragonmere. They were maddeningly inconstant, now lifting her toward the stars, now dropping her into the abyssal gloom, now carrying her along on steep, tumbling slopes of water. The witch knew she could not let the sea have its way with her. She had to free herself of its capricious grasp or die, but her chest was pumping water from her lungs in racking coughs, and she could barely keep her head above the surface, much less hold herself steady on the crest of a surging dune long enough to … do what, Ruha did not know.

  In all likelihood, she was not the only one to survive the disintegration of the Storm Sprite, but there had been no time to put the little shore boat into the water. The others would be in the same predicament as Ruha, and no doubt anxious to blame her for their troubles.

  The caravel crew would have every reason to treat the witch more kindly—providing they came back. Certainly, they had witnessed the explosion that destroyed the dragon, but would they realize what had happened to the Storm Sprite? Was their captain an honest man who would turn back to help those who had helped him? Ruha could only allow herself to believe that the answer to both questions was yes; to assume anything else was to lose hope, and to lose hope in Umberlee’s domain was to die.

  Still, the caravel would not arrive soon. It would take time for the great vessel to come around, then she would have to beat her way against the wind—using only one of the three masts she had once carried, and probably relying upon a tiller half splintered by the dragon attack. By the time she arrived, the Storm Sprite’s wreckage would be strewn across a square mile of heaving sea, and Ruha knew better than to think any lookout would spy her dark head bobbing amongst all the oil casks, splintered timbers, and shreds of dragon floating upon the surging waters.

  A large, curved timber appeared atop a nearby dune, its end briefly jutting over the crest like a great scimitar. Ruha fixed her eye on the beam. As it glided down the watery slope, she started to swim, reaching forward and k
icking her legs in the fashion Storm Silverhand had taught her. The witch’s shawl and veil had vanished, but her aba remained securely wrapped about her shoulders, and she had to struggle against both its clumsy cut and sodden weight to make headway. Nevertheless, she did not even consider slipping out of the garment. Its pockets were loaded with exotic dirts and rocks useful for her stone magic. More importantly, all of her spells were sewn into the interior lining. In the desert, paper and ink were precious commodities, but there was always plenty of thread to spare for embroidery.

  By the time Ruha reached the timber, she could do no more than throw her arms over the top and hang there gasping. Though she had not realized it until the exercise had warmed her body, the water was deceptively cool. Her joints began to stiffen, and she recalled Fowler’s stories of pulling his sailors aboard, blue and dead after only minutes in the water. But that had been in northern seas, and the Dragonmere was in the south. The temperature here could not be so dangerous—or so the witch hoped.

  Ruha fought back her growing panic, reminding herself that the sea was not so different from the desert: it was vast and empty and lonely, with most of the life lying hidden beneath the surface. True, the dunes moved faster and they were made of water, but not water that one could drink. That was as precious here as it was in the sandy wastes. And there was one other similarity, one the witch did not want to consider: the sea, like Anauroch, was hospitable to those who knew its ways—and merciless to those who did not.

  Ruha contemplated her growing chill and decided it probably would not kill her. She was not shivering, she still felt her toes and fingers, and her teeth were not chattering. All in all, the witch had spent more frigid nights in the desert, and she suspected that the cool water was keeping her from bleeding to death. There were dozens of cuts on her body, some both long and deep, but all stinging bitterly from the salt. The witch could feel her blood swirling about her, warm and viscous against her skin, but she could not tell how much she had lost. Had she been on dry land, she would have examined her cuts and bandaged them all, starting with the worst one first. But in the dark, heaving sea, she had to content herself with running her fingers over each wound in turn, feeling for a heavy flow that suggested a severed vein or artery.