Dragon Mage- Uprising

by Brian Ference

  The bow of the first man-of-war tilted and Black Claw sailors slid to one side, mouths agape. A half score fell overboard in waters swirling with sharks gathered at the scent of the blood already spilled.

  The older, riderless sea dragon with gray-wings wheeled in fury to harry the second craft. The beast plunged into the water, dove down, slamming against the hull. It kicked up a small tidal wave that sent the boat rocking to near oblivion. Up it burst from underwater, cracking its snout on the keel while the hull splintered and began to take on water.

  The last Black Claw rider took wing and flew a wide ring about the red dragon, yet he turned a shivering glance at his adversary, not relishing a fight with that behemoth. The moment of hesitation cost him. A green fireball sailed through the air. The dragon rider dodged, only to have Valoré veer in like a falcon and dig eight-inch talons into the dragon’s chest. The claws bit between breastplate and belly, prompting a shriek of agony, sending its rider to the sea. Like a leopard shark, Cyrus’s mount whipped the smaller dragon back and forth in its teeth, then tossed out the mangled husk as an orca toys with a wounded seal. Blood and gore splattered over the crews below, raining Serle’s men in a bath of crimson.

  Valoré screeched overhead like a banshee from the grave. Cyrus’s yellow eyes gleamed. A wingless, headless dragon torso struck the deck, nearly crushing Serle and Hreg.

  Serle shrank back from the violence of such a beast. He stroked his beard. Such powerhouses, these dragons of the wizard. They had saved his growing fleet from a surprise attack—that he could not deny. Another lapse of judgment on his part. He sent a fist crashing down on what was left of the railing. To the deeps with his ineffectual dragon riders! Those of the wizard’s made his riders look like flying fish.

  Not for the first time, Serle felt a tickle of dismay creeping in his innards. What had he gotten himself into, joining with this ruthless maniac? Men, dragons, ships, whole islands were nothing more to him than jellyfish waiting to be crushed.

  The sounds of destruction, splintering wood and cannon shot, drifted over the water alongside anguished cries.

  The Black Claw ships were either smashed or cowed, and the remaining pirate vessels swarmed in like seasoned vultures to loot the ships and give death to all who resisted. The battle was won, but at high cost. Like it or not, Serle had to admit the balance could have gone either way. While his men saw to repairs, Seawrack floundered on her side, sinking in red foam. Angry curses filled the air as men abandoned ship, taking to rowboats to join Captain Varnet on The Calliope.

  Hreg gripped his captain’s arm and showed a yellow row of teeth. “Shall we join the mates and loot the town? They’re defenseless now. Her navy’s crushed and ripe plunder awaits.”

  “Go to it, Hreg.” Serle gave a wordless nod. “They’ll have land forces waiting, but nothing we can’t handle. Can’t have that greedy Drakus and his cutthroats taking more than their share.”

  True, the lads were ready to pillage and take slaves to bolster their wealth. Serle ordered the dead crewmen dragged to stern and thrown overboard.

  Cyrus’s red-bellied dragon glided over to hover above him and his crew. The enormous beast had the mates on edge.

  “Feasting on your spoils, my seacrows?” cried Cyrus. “This is only a sampling of the power I give you, Serle.” He flung out a sprinkling of runestones down on the deck at the captain’s feet. Green and red they glowered with a baleful shimmer to their edges—twelve misshapen beads, strung in a ring of corded leather. “Twelve, one for each of your ships. Take this talisman, the ring of Behydra, and it will generate a circle of protection for you and give your mates an advantage over your enemies.”

  He motioned to the tan-scaled dragon at his side. “I give you my third dragon, Forgefighter, who will aid your cause. I stole him from a wounded clipper not a few days back. I’ve already penetrated his mind. He’ll follow your commands. See,” he clucked in amusement at their ogling looks, “he has the dark dragon amulet wrapped about his neck—a secret crystal forged from Windbiter’s dragon fire. The dragon is still too young to breathe flames himself, but he’s eager and cunning.

  With my magic he can scorch the masts of your enemy and burn the sails of those who refuse to bend to your will. A caution though. Should the amulet break, or the binding snap, the dragon will turn on you and kill you all. The same if you should think about deserting me.”

  Serle examined the beast with a grimacing stare. “Just like you, wizard. Gift us a weapon more likely to kill us than be of use.”

  Cyrus grinned. “Don’t lose your nerve, Serle. Without my help you’d have fared poorly in this battle. Gather your ships and celebrate your victory. Your power grows with each passing day. Soon we’ll be strong enough to attack Ravenstoke and Cape Spear.”

  Serle hitched forward and snatched up the garland of glimmering stones. His eyes glowed, mesmerized by their witchling light. “How do I use these evil pearls?”

  “Rub them in your palms till they are warm. Hold them up to your brow. Give the silent command, Verbestul! One chance will they give you to conjure some weak magic, if the dark gods favor you. They’ll grant the first wish on your mind.”

  “Weak magic,” spat Serle, “or a spell-ridden way to control us further?”

  Cyrus’s lips quivered in anger. “Don’t think I dish out my magic lightly, knave! Be careful what you say and be grateful that I give you anything. This is a rare opportunity for a man such as yourself.”

  Serle grunted. Myx and Hreg stared with suspicion at the stones and muttered under their breaths. Others flashed the wizard sullen looks.

  “All well and good,” growled Hreg, “but after that, wizard, what’s the plan? You’ll have the Dragonclaw islands under your heel. And then what use will we be to you?”

  Cyrus cackled out a laugh. “You’ve a strong sense of self-preservation, sailor. I commend you for it. Prove yourselves to be loyal then the seas shall be yours.”

  “We already have—”

  “Do you think Kraton and the islands are the only ones in this great sea?” he boomed. “There are coasts and lands undreamed of in the endless leagues that lie beyond the Serpents’ Deeps.”

  A chill tickled up Serle’s spine. He’d only envisaged a Dragonclaw empire, not a seawide one. Such a prize was worth the sacrifice. “What is your will?” he grunted.

  Cyrus’s flourish brought the third, younger dragon down with a roar. The beast landed with a thud on all fours on the midships deck, eyeing the pirates with peculiar dispassion.

  “We’ll strike Three Sisters’ Isle in the next week. Just to keep the Red Claws on their toes and show them they’re not immune to my power. From there, on to Cape Spear.”

  “As you wish, wizard.” Serle thumbed the end of his blade. “I gave those Red Claws a chance long ago and they spurned my offer to join me, laughing in my face. Now they’ll pay for their insolence.”

  “All in good time,” croaked Cyrus. “Fate plays odd tricks on prideful men. I have my own score to settle with both clans. The Black Claws will pay dearly for their betrayal at Cape Spear. Casks of blood will flow. Groans of despair’ll fill the skies as their fleet dwindles to nothing.” With that, the wizard summoned Windbiter and flew off on Valoré, his billowing black robe trailing behind him like a dark flag of doom.

  Chapter 12.

  A Bold Plan

  Livis’s quest for allies had taken her far and wide. A newfound independence had stirred fresh confidence and strength, and somewhat more appreciation of the work needed to manage a fighting crew as large as her own had grown.

  “Ak!” She caught Maquias’s blade on her cutlass as they sparred in the bright sunlight. Her long hair whipped back in the breeze and her stun-tanned body gleamed with sweat, showing new muscles and bruises earned from long hours training with a man whose skill at the blade knew no equal.

  She danced back and forth, swinging her blade, goading the master swordsman into a mistake or hoping to catch him in an awkward po
sition. With a quick flick of blade he deflected her ripostes and stepped in to attack. In a sudden lunge of impatience, she turned his sword, edging in sideways to stab at his ribs, a dangerous move which Maquia caught on the haft of his blade with a laugh. “Not bad, Livis, but risky. You left your weakest side exposed.”

  She stored the instruction in her mind and drove in for another strike in a whirl of steel difficult for any eye to follow. Maquia let each blow slide off his long blade, smiling through his teeth as the crew, backed to the rails or hanging from the rigging, watched with silent appreciation. The clank of steel rang high, echoing across the white waves.

  He growled, “Take the parry early on the downswing. Catch my blade closer to the tip. It could spare you a bloodletting in a real fight.”

  Livis acknowledged the advice with a grunt. Her bare arms and legs shone with exertion, and she kicked at his leg, earning a sharp exclamation and another grin, this one less jaunty. “Fighting dirty, are you? You’re worse than Serle.” He stabbed in with a flourish and this time it was Livis who crabbed back on defense.

  Backpedaling, she felt her shoulders brush the captain’s cabin. Maquia had that look in his eye and she was cornered. “Enough!” She held up a hand in surrender. Her breath came in gusts and she sheathed her sword. Even the swordmaster’s sweat beaded on his brow in the noonday sun. His chest heaved, rising up and down, a rare occurrence for him.

  Skarlee came up behind them, cutlass gripped in the other fist. “Kraton’s tears! Good show, Livis.”

  He pulled off his gull-feathered cap and wiped his gleaming head with a sigh. “You swordfish are going to cut each other to pieces along with the ship if you don’t take care. Though I don’t mind seeing Maquias have to work hard for his keep.”

  Maquias bowed. Livis sheathed her blade and gave a throaty laugh. “Unfurl the gib, Skarlee. We’re nearing port and I see Rarl still hasn’t changed out the slatting sheets—curse his lazy bones. I won’t have my sails blowing in that state, peppered with cannon shot. Check in the forward hatch. There might be some spare canvas there.”

  “We’ll be vulnerable. You sure you want to do it now?” Skarlee asked.

  “Do you see any enemies in sight?” Livis smirked.

  Life at sea was a battle of wills—one every captain worth his salt realized sooner or later. So did the thought brush her mind as she stretched her sore limbs, feeling a new sense of surety. A swift ship, a hardworking crew… the beginnings of a new life, free from the shackles of her father. Not a shred of guilt stirred in her breast for stealing The Singing Gull. Taking what one wanted, after all, ran in her blood.

  Huffing up the rope ladder, Skarlee halted midway up the foremast. He wheezed out a tired breath and set to uncleating the sail. “We can expect your crotchety father to drive us on like a gale after that last bout. Sharks take the man! He and his mates’ll will never let us be.”

  “Then we’ll just have to stay two leagues ahead of them, won’t we?” Livis moved panther-like forward and grabbed strips of torn sail as Skarlee cut them away.

  Skarlee looked to the sky and shrugged. “Easier said than done.”

  “We raid and keep growing our forces,” she said, tossing the rags aside. “Eventually we’ll be strong enough to make my father pause before he bothers us again. Not so complicated, is it?”

  Grins came from the mates.

  “I like the sound of plunder,” growled Kisten, the master gunner. “But Serle’s raiding the Black Claws. He’ll hardly appreciate the competition.”

  “Then we’ll raid the Red Claws whenever opportunity knocks,” rasped Maquia.

  “That’ll land us a net full of more enemies than friends,” croaked Farnoss.

  Livis unsheathed her sword and spun it with a flourish. “They’ve always been our enemies.” The stories she’d heard of her clans people hanged by the Red Claws in their public squares still rankled. The only good thing that had ever come out of the Red Claw Isles was Darek. The lithe islander and his dragon rode at the edge of her imagination; her heart quickened at the merest thought of him.

  Eight men on her own ship, and twenty more she’d recruited from Bonzai island and the Gull bluffs—lean, hardened seadogs to the last man, each as disenchanted as the next with Serle’s drunken rule. Three ships she’d added to their brigade. Krag’s, Drass’s and Numestis’s, all capable captains. For that she was proud.

  Mutiny and uprising was a stale crust to swallow, but she’d treated her crew with fairness, unlike the harsh justice of her father. For this reason alone, she hoped to forge a different path.

  Other ways existed to win the loyalty of the crew. Being the pirate chief’s daughter carried some authority and earned her a measure of automatic respect. She’d built on that through a series of sound judgments and by allowing each man a fair say and equal share.

  “Before we try the same tricks on the Black Claws, better call a war council,” muttered Maquia. “Kraton has blessed us so far, but we need to be ready when his favor shifts.”

  Livis sent the call to the captains and they rowed over to her ship with their quartermasters and immediate officers. Numestis, thin and wiry, rose a head taller than his crew with black eye patch and spiky ear bangles to go with it, dangling from both lobes. Drass smiled through his bad teeth, dressed in his ragged seaman’s smock, bagged at the knees and a black hat tipped on an angle. Krag lanced them all piercing glares, as if divining the purpose of the parley. The gray-maned ruffian had terrible scars on his left cheek. Black boots rose to his knees and a red sash curled at his waist; twined tattoos of anchors and exotic ships rode on his bare shoulders and forearms.

  “Gentlemen, I welcome you,” said Livis with a sober salute. She thrust jacks of ale in their hands and they gave gruff mutters at the offering. With a grand sweep of arm, she ushered them to the bow and seated them about an old, scarred table that had seen many games of dice and bloodier games still. Skarlee cracked out a keg of rum from her personal stock.

  Livis took a generous swig before she began. “We need more men—and more ships.”

  The men’s eyes followed her gaze as she peered out over the rail at the captured Black Claw ship rocking in the waves, hard at anchor. Only three men walked her decks: not enough fighting men to outfit her.

  “Where can we find loyal crew, experienced sailors who hate the Black Claws and my father’s rule as much as we do?” she mused aloud.

  Drass clenched a fist. “We sent the word out to the clans back on the islands. There’s unrest while Serle’s yet away. More ships and mutineers will join our cause.”

  “Not enough and too slow,” growled Maquia, quaffing his drink.

  “We could look for hired mercenaries,” offered Krag. “Let them share in the spoils.”

  “But where?” demanded Skarlee. “Black Claws will not fight Black Claws.”

  “With enough gold they might,” growled Krag. “Why not break into that pretty stash of gold the wizard gave you—”

  “No, I don’t like it. The wizard’s not to be trusted,” said Livis.

  “What? You’re just going to sit on a goldmine and let it rot—”

  Livis slammed her dagger point into the keg and hissed Krag to silence. “I said, no!”

  Skarlee gave a solemn mutter. “Shanghaiing men’s not as easy as trapping crabs.”

  The word ‘trapping’ gave her an idea. “Then why not recruit from the prisons? A man grateful for his freedom and given a chance at gold would be ready to fight.”

  “Eh?” grunted Skarlee.

  “The prison,” Livis repeated with impatience. “We raid the Black Claw town jails and collect dissenters, smugglers, thieves. None of those scum would think twice about slitting Black Claw throats.”

  Skarlee stroked his beard. “Not a bad idea.”

  “And not a good one either. They keep condemned men like that at Pearl Bay on Mee peninsula,” said Farnoss with a frown. “Off Serpent’s Isle. I know because my grandpappy was thrown in ther
e years ago. He never made it out. It’s guarded night and day with only one approach during high tide. I’ve heard the inside is like a labyrinth that you’d be lost in, even if you did escape. They call it Deadman’s Hold.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale,” snorted Skarlee.

  “How close is this prison?” asked Captain Numestis.

  “About twenty leagues.”

  “Then let’s heave ho,” he grunted. “A night raid. We could be there in an afternoon and out again as swiftly.”

  All but Krag seemed on board with the plan.

  Maquia fingered the edge of his sword with a sinister grin. “My blade is thirsty.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” said Skarlee. “Only thing you ever think about is a chance at splitting more Black Claw skulls.”

  Livis grinned. “You got that right.” But her smile faded. Darek’s warning quivered in the back of her mind. Foolish to risk using the wizard’s cursed gold. She thrust it and Darek’s strong, sun-browned calves out of her mind with an angry sniff. On their rendezvous in three days, what if he refused her?… what if he already dallied with another? Well, too bad for him.

  Chapter 13.

  Sabotage

  Cyrus gazed upon the burning wreckage of Bimsbrun Town with satisfaction. The Blue Claws would remember this day for many years to come: the ruined buildings, the floating corpses, the broken ships, and flaming piers. Flames licked unchecked through the town, courtesy of Windbiter’s breath. Their few ships would soon lie as sunken wrecks at the bottom of the shallow harbor.

  The simple farmers who lived here were no threat to him, but they provided the source of the supplies for his enemies. The peaceful seaside haven had minimal defense, making it an ideal first-strike for Dendrok. The mutated dragon had performed admirably during the raid. Coupled with Fercifor’s savagery and Valoré’s power, the three creatures had lain waste to the town.