The Veiled Dragon

One

Far across the surging dunes of moonlit sea, the dark wyrm wheeled and, with a deftness surer than any desert falcon, struck again at the distant and battered caravel. The serpent caught the topyard in its ebony claws and snapped the thick timbers like twigs; the topsail tore free and away it flew, a gift to the wailing salt winds. From the caravel’s distant decks rose a flurry of tiny splinters, arrows and spears hurled by men who looked like insects beneath the belly of the monster. The black shafts struck its thick scales and bounced away without causing harm. The beast swooped low over the stern, spun upon its leathery wing, and returned at once to the vessel. Its talons tore into the wooden hull as the claws of a lion tear into the flanks of a camel.

A great dune of wind-driven sea rose up before Ruha, robbing her eyes of the faraway caravel and the night-black dragon. She locked her arms around the starboard taffrail of her own vessel, a forty-foot cog hired out of Cormyr, and watched the black waters gather like a mountain beside the ship. The dune crashed down, and the froth roared over the wales and swirled about her waist, sweeping her feet from beneath her hips. Ruha hugged the rail as though it were a husband. The torrent raged on, and each second seemed a minute. The angry sea dragged at her long aba like a ravisher determined to disrobe her, and churning tears of foam beat at her face, soaking her veil and her shawl with cold briny water. Her arms trembled with the strain of holding fast.

At last, the cog heeled to the wind and rose on the heaving sea. The fierce waters rolled across the deck and poured overboard, carrying with them all the torrent’s rage, and Ruha’s smooth-soled sandals found purchase on the wet planks. She stood and looked toward the distant caravel and saw neither dragon nor ship, only the splintered tip of a mainmast swaying above the crest of a faraway dune of water.

Ruha released the taffrail and clambered down the listing deck, half sliding over the wet planks to where Captain Fowler stood at the rear of the ship. He was as much orc as human, with a jutting brow, swinish snout, and tough, grayish-green skin, and he seemed a strange sort of commander to the eyes of a Bedine witch not long absent from Anauroch’s burning sands. He hugged the tiller with one burly arm, and his gray eyes never strayed from the ship’s single bulging sail.

Ruha grabbed the binnacle, the wooden compass stand before the tiller, and asked, “Captain Fowler, why do you sail in the wrong direction?” She pointed over the starboard side. “Do you not see the dragon? Over there!”

“Lady Witch, I know the beast’s bearings well enough.” Though his voice was deep and gravelly, the captain spoke with a deliberate composure that belied his feral aspect. “But even I cannot sail Storm Sprite full into the wind. We must beat our way.”

Ruha had learned a little of the strange speech used by the men who lived upon the water, enough to know Fowler meant they had to follow a zigzag course to their goal, and she did not need the captain to explain why. Even a woman who had not set eyes on a ship until three days ago could see that the Storm Sprite could not sail directly against the wind. But she could also see that Captain Fowler placed a high value on his vessel, and he was certainly shrewd enough to make a great show of rushing to the caravel’s aid while sailing at angles shallow enough to ensure he arrived after the battle was done.

Ruha glanced over the starboard side and saw the caravel topping the moonlit crest of a rolling sea dune. High upon its poop deck sat the dragon, swatting at the faraway vessel’s indiscernible crew as a man slaps at stinging flies.

“Captain Fowler, we have no time for this sailing of a snake’s path! By the time we reach the ship, we shall find nothing but dead men.”

“What would you have me do, Witch?” Fowler demanded. “I cannot change the way the wind blows!”

“And if you could turn the wind, would you have it blow straight at the caravel?”

The captain scowled, suspicious. “Aye, but first I would call Umberlee up from the great depths and have her chain her pet.”

“That I cannot do. I know nothing of this Umberlee.”

Ruha released the binnacle and cupped her hands together. She blew upon her fingers and spoke the mystical incantation of a wind enchantment. Her breath shimmered with a pale sapphire glow, then it swirled in her palms, emitting a low, keening howl such as starving jackals make at night. From Captain Fowler’s throat arose a gasp of surprise, and his gaze swung from his ship’s flaxen sail to the whistling breeze she held in her grasp.

“Lady Witch, what have you there?”

“It is the wind, Captain Fowler.” Twinkling blue streamers spilled from Ruha’s hands and spun across the gloomy deck, each adding its own piercing note to the wailing of the gale. “I am determined to reach that ship before the dragon sinks it.”

“That I can see, but it is no simple thing to bring a ship like Storm Sprite around. It takes time.”

“The dragon will give you no time!”

Ruha raised her hands toward the distant caravel, which now lay hidden behind another black and looming water dune.

“Hold your magic, Lady Witch!” commanded the captain. “You may have hired this ship, but I am the—”

The dune broke over the starboard side, and a torrent of white foam came boiling down the deck. Ruha flung her spell at the distant caravel and saw a dazzling stream of blue-sparkling wind shoot from the side of her own vessel. She threw her arms around the binnacle, and the dark waters were upon her. The raging currents swept her feet from beneath her. Had her elbows not been tightly wrapped around the slippery wood, surely she would have tumbled overboard and drowned in the angry black sea. Instead, she locked her fingers into the cloth of her aba and held fast, and when the torrent had receded, she pulled herself to her feet.

A few yards off the starboard side hung Ruha’s spell, a glittering wedge of blue air that constantly whirled back on itself, yet steadily drove forth into the fierce night wind. As this wedge moved forward, its fan-shaped tail broadened and stretched back toward the Storm Sprite, until it engulfed the whole of the small cog. A fog of cold indigo vapor spread over the decks, causing the crew to give many shouts of alarm and promise offerings of treasure to Umberlee, and eddies of sapphire wind sprang to life atop the taffrail. Azure drafts raced along the wales and undulated through the ratlines, and pale glowing breezes twined their way up the mast to spread along the yardarms.

Then a magnificent flapping arose in the sail. The night wind spilled from its belly, pouring a cascade of swirling turquoise zephyrs down upon the crew, and the small cog slowed. The sailors wailed in fear, tossing many rings and earrings overboard to win the favor of their avaricious sea goddess.

“You wretched witch!” Fowler held the tiller at the length of his arm, and his gray eyes were staring in horror at the pale breeze spiraling along the lacquered surface. If it troubled the captain to have the scintillating currents swirling over his green skin also, he showed no sign of it. “What have you done to my ship?”

“I have done nothing to harm her.” Beyond the starboard taffrail, Ruha’s wind spell had stretched to twice the Storm Sprite’s length. The glowing breezes had lost much of their sparkle and swirl, and they were beginning to look like a flight of spears aimed straight across the churning sea. “Perhaps you should change course, Captain Fowler. The wind is about to shift.”

Fowler glanced at the shining wind spell, then looked at the great water dune gathering off his ship’s starboard side. “I hope you haven’t capsized us!”

Ruha met his glower evenly. “And I hope you are done with your stalling, Captain Fowler.”

Fowler’s face darkened to stormy purple. He looked forward, and his voice boomed over the main deck like a thunderclap. “Ready about!”

Terrified though the Storm Sprite’s crew might have been, the command sent every man lurching through the froth to form lines at the braces. So marvelous was their skill and balance that not one sailor lost his footing, though the raging sea would have hurled Ruha overboard in an instant. By the time the last man had taken his place, the final glimmers of blue light were fading from the rigging. The wind bent to the witch’s magic and swirled around to blow against the gale. The sail filled from the opposite side, and the Storm Sprite heeled farther into the dune and began to climb its face. The torrents of water pouring over her decks grew even greater.

“Loose the braces!” Fowler bellowed.

The crew freed the heavy lines that controlled the angle of the yardarms, leaving the sail to swing free and flap in the wind. The ship righted itself and slowed as it had earlier, but the starboard wales finally rose out of the water, and the sea drained off the decks. The captain gave no further commands and did not take his eyes from the dune’s moonlit crest. Ruha saw his lips moving in silence, and she wondered whether he was cursing her magic or offering some bribe to the faithless Queen of the Sea. The Storm Sprite drifted to a full stop, then heeled away from the heaving sea. It slipped sideways down the face of the great water dune, and Ruha thought they would capsize.

“Haul the braces!” Fowler commanded.

The crew hauled on the thick lines that trailed down from the yardarms, bringing the sail around to catch the wind. The flaxen sheet ceased its flapping, then bulged outward and snapped taut. The sailors grunted, straining to hold the braces steady, and several were pulled off their feet and left to dangle above the deck. The ship rolled back toward the dune, and the dark waters boiled over the decks, flinging strings of men about like beads on a thread. Somehow the crew held the yardarms in position, and the Storm Sprite lurched forward again.

The taffrail rose above the crest of the dune. In the moonlight, Ruha glimpsed the distant caravel, the dragon still standing on the poop deck. The beast had ripped the mizzenmast from its step and was using it like a spear to jab at its foes, almost too tiny to see, upon the main deck. The witch thought it strange that the wyrm fought with a makeshift weapon instead of spraying its enemies with fire or acid, but perhaps the creature feared sinking the vessel and losing its treasure.

The Storm Sprite’s bow cleared the top of the dune, and Captain Fowler shoved the tiller to one side. The ship’s bow swung neatly over the crest, and the sail sputtered as it lost the wind.

“Fill the sail!”

The command had barely escaped Fowler’s lips before the yardarms swung around. Once more, the sail caught the wind. The Storm Sprite lunged forward and slipped down the back of the dune so swiftly that it reached the bottom trough before the captain could give his next command. The prow slammed into the next rolling dune, and the ship groaned as though her spine would break. A wall of water roared over the forecastle and rolled down the decks to splash against the somercastle, then the bow pitched up and the flood drained overboard, carrying with it two screaming men.

Ruha cried out in alarm. Captain Fowler let out a long breath and fondly patted the Storm Sprite’s tiller.

“That’s a fine girl.” The half-orc made no remark upon the loss of his crewmen, but looked forward and, in a calm voice, ordered, “Fasten the braces.”

The crew tugged at the brace lines until the last flutter disappeared from the sail and, with the Storm Sprite rushing madly up the face of the heaving water dune, secured the lines to the belaying pins. The little cog crested the top and raced down the other side, then sped, pitching and crashing, toward the distant caravel. The sailors busied themselves with clearing away the great tangle of lines scattered over the decks, coiling the loose ends and hanging them in their proper places, and paid no heed to the misfortune of their two lost fellows.

“Captain Fowler, what of your lost men? Is there nothing you can do for them?”

The half-orc shrugged and did not look at Ruha. “Even if we could find them, I would not turn back.” His voice was sharp with restrained anger. “They’re the price Umberlee demanded for letting us come about, and she’d look harshly upon me if I tried to bring them back.”

Ruha felt a terrible emptiness in her stomach, feeling her spell had brought the Storm Sprite around too suddenly and caused their loss. “Then I am sorry for their deaths.”

“For their deaths?” Fowler snapped. “And what of Storm Sprite? She could have lost the rudder or snapped a yardarm!”

“You care more for boards and cloth than for men’s lives?”

The captain’s jutting brow rose, and his flat nose twitched uncomfortably. He squared his shoulders and looked forward and did not speak. The crew had finished the tidying of the lines and now stood in the center of the ship, clinging to whatever they could find to keep from being swept away by the cataracts that boiled down the decks each time the bow crashed into another water dune.

When Fowler finally spoke, his gravelly voice was again deliberate and composed. “I doubt the world’s going to miss those two. They were cutpurses and murderers both, and if Umberlee doesn’t take them for her own, I pity the shore they wash up on.” The captain peered at Ruha from the corner of his narrow eye, then added, “But I warn you, Storm Sprite is mine. Hiring her does not give you leave to disregard my commands. While a ship is at sea, the captain is lord and master, and those who cross him are filthy mutineers. I could sail into Pros with your rotten carcass hanging from my yardarms, and your friends would not question your punishment.”

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.

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.

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. “Give 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.