Chapter 6

Seven days and nights had passed since Ayshe had boarded the Starfinder.

In that time he’d learned to make his way about the ship with tolerable ease. At first, on waking, he felt detached, as if the whole experience were a dream, framed by the dragon’s attack and the death of Chaval and his family. Gradually, though, as the days passed, he found himself accepting his new situation as a member of the Starfinder’s crew.

All the elves, he noticed, had great pride in their craft, and in truth she was a clever ship. Ayshe knew little of the sea and its ways—even in the village he’d rarely gone on the fishing expeditions that were a daily part of the town’s life—but even he could see that the Starfinder was everything a sailor could want: small, light, quick to turn and maneuver, and running swift before the wind.

It occurred to Ayshe that those were all highly desirable qualities in a ship of dragon hunters.

Much of the dwarf’s time was spent in the smithy, where he was kept busy repairing the numerous fittings and tackle necessary to keep the ship afloat, as well as polishing armor, inspecting steel shields for rust spots, and sharpening swords, pikes, and lances to a razor’s edge. He acted as the ship’s fletcher as well, making arrows and fitting them with steel heads that had been forged by his predecessor. He found the armor intriguing. In his time he’d seen a fair amount of plate mail and chain mail, but what they had on the ship was of a different design altogether. It was lighter than most to lift, but it was strong and clearly would protect the wearer against many hurts. The goal of the maker seemed to have been to provide the maximum protection with the greatest maneuverability. Ayshe assumed it was of elf crafting, though some of the designs on it seemed to argue a more exotic origin.

The elves who formed his watch proved congenial companions. When their tasks were done, they often sang to one another. Sometimes the songs—mostly in Elvish—seemed raucous and cheerful, the kind of tunes sung in a rough seaside tavern. At other times they were slow and beautiful. Ayshe guessed some of those were love songs or laments.

For the most part, the elves tended to speak in Common. Ayshe realized that was both because they came from different nations—Qualinesti, Silvanesti, and Kagonesti—and because they accepted Harfang and him as equal members of the crew and had no desire to exclude the human and the dwarf from conversation. Ayshe appreciated the gesture.

Oddly enough, the elf to whom he drew closest was Samustalen, his challenger in the Meet. The elf seemed to go out of his way to make friends with the dwarf and often came and sat near the smithy while Ayshe worked, exchanging stories and information with the smith. That, in turn, helped Ayshe to gain acceptance among the rest of the crew since Samustalen was among the older sailors and was held in respect.

Feystalen, Harfang, and the ship’s mage, Malshaunt, formed the captain’s mess and ate with Tashara each day in the sanctity of her cabin. The other crew members messed together according to the watches they kept.

Malshaunt was gaunt, even for an elf, with somewhat darker skin than normal and large, staring eyes. Ayshe, who had an inborn suspicion of magic-users, found him difficult to speak to, and Malshaunt, for his part, seemed to hold himself apart from the other elves, as if his arcane knowledge had led him to walk paths the others could not understand or appreciate. Ayshe was vaguely aware that becoming a sorcerer meant taking a test in one of the Towers of High Sorcery that lay in various parts of Ansalon, and he further knew all sorcerers were members of one of the three orders: White Robes, adherents of Solinari and good magic; Red Robes, followers of Lunitari, goddess of neutral magic; and the Black Robes, who found their evil magic source in Nuitari, the unseen black moon that ceaselessly circled Krynn.

Ayshe assumed Malshaunt was either a White Robe or a Red Robe, but since the mage wore no robes of any kind but merely the ordinary clothes of a seaman, he was not sure. Nor did he care to ask.

The role the mage’s magic played in the ship’s daily life became apparent to Ayshe when he realized that even in relatively calm weather, the ship’s sails remained full as if by an unfelt wind that drove the Starfinder forward. The mage was plainly the origin of the magical wind, but how he created it remained a mystery. Malshaunt spent much of his time in his cabin. When he was on deck, he often walked on the poop deck at the rear of the ship, gazing back over her wake, watching the gulls that circled overhead.

One day, mid—morning, the ship plowed through the waves as usual. Malshaunt was in his spot, staring into the distance. He reached beneath his robes and brought out a small hunk of ship’s bread. Breaking it into pieces, he began to toss it to the gulls. They screamed and fought for the novel food, shoving one another aside with their wings.

The mage laid a large crumb of bread directly before him on the rail. The seabirds eyed it cautiously. A few approached it, only to circle away again in the air. One alighted on the rail and began to sidle forward, keeping one beady eye fixed on the mage. Malshaunt stood motionless.

The bird came within reach of the bread, and its neck darted forward. Just as swiftly, Malshaunt’s hand grasped it, clutching it to him. The bird screamed in rage and kicked its feet, but its wings were firmly imprisoned beneath the mage’s arm.

Swiftly Malshaunt brought out a glass vial from his robes. Then he drew a small knife. He stared at the bird’s eyes, which looked back in terror. Then, in a single motion, he cut the gull’s throat. A horrible gurgle came from its beak, and its blood dripped down into the vial. The mage twisted its struggling body as if wringing the blood from it. When the vial was full, he tossed the bird’s broken body over the side.

The few elves who witnessed the event moved aside as Malshaunt, after corking the vial and stowing it beneath his clothes, moved past them toward his cabin. One hand was still stained red with the seagull’s blood. The mage’s lips were curled in a meaningless grimace.

Among the rest of the elves was a rough companionship, as among those who together have looked into the dark valley of death and for whom it holds no terrors. Occasionally, something stronger intruded.

As the moons of Krynn rode their journey through a cloudy sky, gleaming palely on a silent sea, Harfang and Jeannara stood together at the taffrail, gazing at the water.

The elf woman spoke first, gazing over the rail at the star-filled sky that rose above the calm waters. “So beautiful. It reminds me of Qualinesti.”

Harfang followed her gaze. “Aye. We never have skies such as this in the north. Even when I was a lad in Palanthas, my heart always longed for the south.”

The elf woman turned to look at him and moved closer to him. “Where does your heart draw you now, Harfang?” she asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

The mate shook his head. “Think, Jeannara,” he said. “We are travelers on a mighty quest. What place in that is there for anything else?”

She looked away. “None, as far as you are concerned.” Her voice was bitter.

“And what of the difference between us? When I am an old man and in my dotage, you will still appear young and beautiful. You will live many lifetimes to my one.”

“Others have overcome that obstacle,” she said, still turned from him. “But you let it loom forever in the foreground of your thought. It is a sham, though. Don’t you think I know the real reason? You cannot turn from her.”

Her voice cracked, and she disappeared into the darkness. The mate stared after her then turned his face back to the moons and stars. Lunitari, the red moon of Krynn, was swinging low over the horizon, lost behind the clouds, while bright silver Solinari emerged into a clear sky and flooded everything with light.

Unseen by the mate, Malshaunt watched the scene from near the mainmast, his robes blending with the shadows. His face twisted in contempt as he watched the human; then he slipped away after Jeannara.

Malshaunt found her a few minutes later, crouching against the foremast. Her face was wet with tears, and her shoulders were shaking. He watched her silently then bent down beside her.

“He is right, you know.” The mage’s voice was-soft, carrying only to her ears. “There’s no future for an elf and a… human.” It would have been difficult to pack more loathing into a single word.

“Be silent!” Jeannara was angry in an instant. “You know nothing of the matter. And who are you to tell me what to feel? What are you doing, mage, spying on me?”

Malshaunt’s voice was cold. “It is my task, bo’sun, to guard this ship against any threat. I am the eyes of the captain. You’d do well to remember that.”

Jeannara stared at him, her eyes hot and miserable. “Stay… away… from… me,” she said, her voice biting off each word. She spun on her heel and vanished down the hatch.

Malshaunt looked after her for a long while.

With most of the crew, Ayshe quickly established terms of familiarity. None—save Malshaunt—seemed to possess the elf prejudice against dwarves that was common throughout Ansalon and that Samustalen had drawn on to provoke the Meet.

Qualinesti and Silvanesti elves worked side by side with no apparent friction. The dwarf was well aware of stories about the tensions between those two nations and the contempt in which each had long held the other. It surprised and impressed him that the shipmates had overcome age-old antagonisms to pursue a common foe.

The exception to that seemed to be the Kagonesti brother and sister, Samath-nyar and Otha-nyar. Their tattoos, Ayshe knew, were well in excess of the custom of their people, who sported oak leaves and other designs on their necks, cheeks, and shoulders. The Kagonesti aboard the Starfinder, on the other hand, were covered in colored inks from their necks to their ankles. The designs were beautiful and intricate, lines and shapes interweaving in a tangle of color. For the most part, the art was abstract, but on the rare occasions when he saw the pair unclothed, Ayshe could make out the shape of a dragon weaving over their bodies.

Brother and sister, who were on watches, kept themselves aloof not only from Ayshe, but from the of the crew as well. The other elves seemed to regard the wild elves with a touch of awe—something Ayshe found odd since he knew that before the War of the Lance, the Silvanesti had effectively enslaved many of the Kagonesti.

It was on his third day aboard ship that the dwarf came on deck for a breath of fresh, metal-free air only to find a small crowd of elves gathered on the poop deck. On the main deck, a space had been cleared, and two wooden targets had been set up. Each bore in the center a painted image of a white dragon, perhaps a little bigger than Ayshe’s hand.

The Kagonesti brother and sister emerged on deck, each carrying a long bundle of cloth bound with leather straps. They undid them and lifted lances, long and slender with broad-bladed heads. To the dwarf’s experienced eye, they seemed similar in make to the wyrmbarbs he kept below in his armory, and even from where he stood he could see the intricate engravings in running text on the shafts.

The elves around him began to shout.

“Five steel on the dragon’s snout!”

“Ten steel on the dragon’s left eye!”

“Done!”

Samath-nyar hefted the lance, ignoring the shouts. He balanced it in his hand for a moment then threw it. It flew like a shaft of sunlight and struck the target with a dull thunk!

Ayshe was too far away to see exactly where the blade had imprisoned itself in the painted dragon’s head. An elf vaulted over the rail and ran to the target to inspect it.

“Left eye it is!” he shouted, grinning.

Otha-nyar took her brother’s place, and again the shouts of the bettors came eagerly. She cast her shaft and struck the dragon’s right eye. Samath-nyar said something to her in Kagonesti, half challenging, playful, and she retorted briskly.

The dwarf noticed that each spear had attached to the haft a fine chain of closely joined links, much as he imagined was used for the wyrmbarbs. His professional eye could not identify the metal, but it was clearly strong, since both elves used it to jerk their spears from the targets and return them to their hands. They coiled the chains beside them so they would not become entangled in the throw.

Each Kagonesti made a dozen more casts, and each struck the intended target except once. Samath-nyar’s next to last throw was just shy of the tip of the dragon’s tail, and his backers groaned in disappointment.

Over the next few days, Ayshe saw more of these informal contests between the Kagonesti casters. They were, he realized, more than merely practice. They honed the casters’ skills while providing much-needed entertainment for the crew.

Alone among the crew of the Starfinder, the captain kept herself isolated. Tashara remained for most of the time secluded in her cabin. When she did emerge on rare occasions, it was to pace the deck, looking to the south.

Just atop the bowsprit where it joined the hull was a small rail, with several boards nailed beneath it to provide a perilous perch. The crew referred to it as “Tashara’s Nest.”

Tashara emerged from her cabin and, with no assistance but her own hands, felt her way across the deck, one ear cocked to catch the smallest sounds made by the vessel as she plunged through the waves. Then, with extraordinary agility, she sprang into her nest and turned her blind face to the fore, standing fixed like some strange figurehead. She remained motionless in that pose for several hours, drenched with spray, blown by the winds. As abruptly as she had appeared, she dismounted and retreated once more to her cabin.

Feystalen, who with Ayshe had observed her most recent performance, turned to his companion with a smile. “Our captain smells for the White Wyrm,” he said.

The ship passed through a strait with land lying some miles to either side and entered Sancrist Crossing, the body of water lying between Cristyne and Sancrist Isle to the west and Northern and Southern Ergoth to the east. Sheltered from the winds, Sancrist Crossing was calm, and the crew could see the great mountains of the northern parts of Sancrist rising from the sea. Somewhere there was Mount Nevermind, home of the gnomes, and home as well to a dragon, the mad Pyrothraxus.

To the east and north were the gentle slopes of Northern Ergoth, green and peaceful. Ayshe remembered enough of his history to know that once, centuries before, Northern and Southern Ergoth had been one and joined to the rest of Ansalon. Then the gods in anger had hurled a mountain down upon the great city of Istar, far to the east, and the resulting Cataclysm had shattered the land, burying Istar forever beneath the waves, swirling the great maelstrom of the Blood Sea into life, and breaking Ergoth into two.

No signs of the violent past appeared on the gentle slopes of the land to their north. But looking south, the dwarf was reminded that dangers were still present. Though the great white overlord, Frost, was no more, the effects of his rule on the southern part of Ergoth could still be seen and felt.

Once a land of temperate breezes and flourishing communities, most of Southern Ergoth was a frozen desert thanks to Frost. The land that had once been green and covered in forest appeared on the horizon as a frieze. A chill breeze blew from it across the decks of the Starfinder, and the elves shivered as they went about their tasks.

In a small, empty bay, the ship put in and sent a boat ashore for watering while others of the crew stayed behind to mend sails, weave ropes, and scrape the hull free of barnacles. Ayshe volunteered for the shore duty, as much as anything for the opportunity to stretch his legs on firm land.

They rowed past patches of ice floating in the water before the boat’s keel grated on a stony beach. The elves sprang out, bows at the ready.

“What are we afraid of?” the dwarf asked Feystalen.

“Thanoi. Walrus men.” The second mate scanned the frozen horizon with keen eyes. “Look alert!”

Others of the crew opened barrels they had brought and quickly began scooping snow into them, which could be melted for drinking water aboard the ship. Feystalen, his hand on his sword, prowled restlessly at the edge of the activity.

“Ayshe!” he called.

The dwarf joined him. “What is it?”

“See that?”

Fifty or sixty feet away, a dark patch was huddled against the snow.

“Come. And draw your blade.” The elf led the way.

As they drew near, the patch resolved itself into the body of an ungainly creature, eight feet or so tall when standing. Dark hair fanned out across the snow, obscuring its face. The hands were horny and calloused, with rough, torn nails. The creature’s skin, where Ayshe could see it, was of a yellowish hue. In one hand it grasped the haft of a broken spear.

Feystalen grunted. “Ogre!” He spat on the corpse.

“What’s it doing here?” the dwarf asked. Unspoken was the question, are there likely to be any more about?

“The ogres are all over Southern Ergoth,” the elf returned. “They did well under Frost’s rule, and he gave them the city of Daltigoth for their own.” He gestured vaguely to the south. “This might have been some quarrel among a band of ogres. Or—” He looked carefully at the creature’s remains. The cause of death was two or three deep gashes in the ogre’s back and neck. One had penetrated to the bone. The edges of the wounds were rough and torn.

“I thought as much. Thanoi. Those cuts were made by a tusk.”

Ayshe touched the blood that had pooled beneath the corpse. “Frozen.”

“Aye,” Feystalen agreed, “but there’s no point in taking chances.” He walked back to the watering party. Ayshe, with a single backward glance, followed him.

Swiftly they rolled the barrels on board and set out for the Starfinder. The rowers’ strokes came quickly, and the boat and its cargo glided through the waves.

“Hoy!” One of the rowers gave a shout and dropped his oar, pointing to the water. A thick furry head with gleaming ivory tusks rose above the surface, and a claw gripped the side of the longboat, cracking the wood.

“Row, damn you!” roared Feystalen from the stern. At the same time, quick as thought, he snatched up a bow and let an arrow fly. It bit into the creature’s neck with a chunk! The thanoi gave a gurgling cry and sank below the surface.

“Pull! Put your back into it!” the mate shouted.

The oars stroked as one while the mate’s keen eyes scanned the surface of the water. Another arrow was fitted to his string, ready to loose at a moment’s notice.

Ayshe, sitting in the gunwale, looked over the side down into the icy waters. For a moment he could have sworn he saw dark shapes flitting beneath him, but then they were gone.

Feystalen drove them to speed even after they reached the ship, hauling the barrels on board and hoisting the longboat to its accustomed position. The thanoi, however, seemed to have drawn off, and nothing more was heard from them.

Ayshe stood watch that night and saw the stars as big as robins’ eggs glitter in the velvet sky while thin clouds scudded across the moons.

“Well, dwarf?”

Ayshe started at the voice and turned to find Harfang contemplating him. As usual, when-A he was near the first mate, Ayshe was aware of the human’s great size and his forbidding presence.

“Well, sir?”

“I hear you encountered your first thanoi today.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Were you frightened?”

Ayshe started. He’d told no one of his cowardice during the dragon attack, though it hung like a millstone round his neck and haunted his dreams. Yet Harfang spoke as if he were aware of the secret the dwarf bore.

“No, sir,” he answered, hoping his voice sounded strong. and firm.

The mate’s mouth curved upward. “You should have been. Thanoi are savage and cruel. Their tusks can rip and tear flesh, and they torture their prisoners, it’s said, until they beg for death. Even the ogres, whom they serve, are afraid of them.”

Ayshe nodded. “The world is a bigger place than I imagined.”

“Aye. Than any of us imagined.” He turned to go and said over his shoulder, “Come to my cabin at next watch. There is something I would like to show you.”

The dwarf presented himself promptly at Harfang’s quarters at the appointed time. They were small and neatly kept.

Harfang sat on his bunk and from beneath it pulled a mass of parchment. “See you this?”

The pages were stained and torn, bound together by a piece of twine strung through their corners. On some pages Ayshe could see drawings interspersed amid the mass of script, which had been composed by many different hands. Some were weak and tremulous while others were firm, graceful, full of strength and power.

“What is it?”

Harfang’s hands caressed it. “This is our dragon book. All we’ve learned of the beasts in the many years we’ve been hunting them. They’re the most cunning, the wisest of all the races of Krynn, for they came from the beginnings of our world, when the gods themselves were young.”

He turned several pages, his lips moving as he read the words written on them. “ ‘The black dragons serve the Dark Queen out of fear rather than loyalty. Horns sweep back from the head. Hating all other beings, the black dragon is a solitary beast.’ ”

He turned a page. “ ‘The red dragon is the largest of all dragons, with a long, pointed snout. Skilled and cunning in battle, it desires wealth above all things.’ ”

He slapped the manuscript shut and handed it to Ayshe. “Study it well, and return it to me. You should know what we’re hunting and how to defeat them.”

Ayshe nodded. “Is there much about the storm dragon in here? The one we’re chasing now?”

Harfang looked sad. “Aye, there is, as much as is known. Captain Tashara, perhaps, could say more if she would. I’ve written what I could find, which isn’t much. Others have written from their observations. The beast breathes cold but can call down lightning from the clouds. It seems to travel between the planes, appearing from a storm. But it can only remain in the planes for a limited time before? it must appear in our world. There is no pattern to its attacks; it roams Krynn at will, slaying whom it wishes. Yet always it must appear first over water. That’s why we hunt it aboard a ship.”

“How can be defeated?” Ayshe asked. “If it disappears after each attack…? What if it’s a ghost dragon?”

The first mate gave him a disgusted look and stood. “It can be killed because it’s mortal and no ghost. Don’t listen to such nonsense. Study those pages, and learn the ways of dragons. There’s no room here for kender tales.”

The captain turned her blind face as Malshaunt entered the cabin.

“Ma’am,” he acknowledged her.

She waved a greeting. “Mage. Sit.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He swept aside his robes, tossed back his braid, and seated himself on the bunk.

Tashara turned back to the chart she had been fingering. “It is time we heard of another sighting,” she observed.

“Indeed, ma’am.” The mage glanced at the chart. “Do you know where it will be?”

She shook her head. “There is a veil sometimes, Malshaunt. At times the sight comes clearly to me, and at other times, less so.” Her blind face strayed toward the cabin wall. Malshaunt followed her gaze but said nothing.

“It is as if…”

“As if what, ma’am?”

“As if a thin curtain has been drawn down and everything goes dim. Perhaps when the wyrm is far away in another plane it finds a means to hide itself from me.”

The mage shook his head. “It can’t hide from you, ma’am. Not forever, at any rate. Sooner or later you’ll find its lair, or you’ll meet it in battle.”

Tashara turned her face to him. “Do you think so, mage? It is good of you to say so.”

“I believe you will succeed, ma’am. You’ve devoted your life to tracking the wyrm. Victory over it is assured. It’s simply a matter of time.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Malshaunt. You comfort me.”

Those familiar with Malshaunt would have been astonished to see his face turned toward his captain. It was full of love and devotion, mixed with the admiration of a young soldier for his captain. The expression was a fleeting one, but it Flared with an intensity that rivaled a burning sun.

The mage rose to go.

“Is all well with the rest of the ship?” she asked.

The mage’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Harfang has a new pet, it would seem.”

“Do you mean the dwarf?”

“Aye.” Malshaunt’s eyes glittered with malice, and his fingers drummed on his whip. “He’s taken to schooling Master Ayshe in the ways of dragons now. The dwarf reads from the book the crew has compiled. Much good will it do him when he meets one in person.”

He seemed about to say more, but the captain raised a hand. “Peace, Malshaunt. It’s as well Ayshe learn more of dragons. I’ve no quarrel with Harfang’s action.”

The mage shrugged. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” He turned toward the cabin door, hesitated, then looked back.

“A question, ma’am.”

“Well?”

“Why did you take the dwarf aboard? Dragonsbane has always been elves. Never a dwarf. ,Never since it began, a thousand years past. Why a dwarf now? It’s ill enough that we’ve a human aboard.”

Tashara gave a slight smile. “You’ve never cared for Harfang,” she observed.

The mage’s silence was assent.

“Master Ayshe has a role to play in our unfolding drama,” the captain said calmly. “Neither you nor I can see all the twists and turns ahead, but I believe his part will be an important one. You, above all others, should understand the importance of small things in large schemes.”

Malshaunt shrugged. “Your sight is so much farther than mine, ma’am; I’ve learned not to quarrel with it. But don’t expect me to like this dwarf any more than I like the man.” He nodded and went out.

Tashara turned swiftly to the wall and withdrew the sphere from its hiding place. She frowned at it.

“There is something… something that is in the way. I cannot understand why…”

Ayshe spent several days studying Harfang’s manuscript. Parts of it were difficult to make out. Plainly the crew of the Starfinder had scribbled the notes in odd moments between their duties, and at times they were so cryptic as to defy translation.

Nonetheless, the dwarf learned a great deal. He read of the great dragons of the past: of the silver dragon, Heart, who had befriended Huma and become his love; of Cyan Bloodbane, who had lived disguised among the elves before being slain by Mina during the War of Souls. He learned of the overlords, the great dragons who had come from some place without, who had imposed their reign of terror on Krynn: Malystryx the Red, Onysablet the Black, Beryllinthranox the Green, Khellendros the Blue—who loved the Dragon Highlord Kitiara and was her closest companion. He read about draconians, the horrid result of the corruption of eggs of good dragons, and of dragonspawn, created by the overlords who appeared in Ansalon shortly after the onset of the Age of Mortals.

He read notes about the chromatic dragons, servants of evil, and learned to identify each not only by its color, but also by the shape of its head and body. He studied the lore of the metallic dragons, servants of good.

At the end of a week, he returned the parchments to Harfang. The mate put him through a stern examination, and Ayshe answered most of his questions satisfactorily.

At the end of his interrogation, he emerged again on deck. It was evening, and great purple and golden clouds piled up against the horizon. When he first came aboard, Ayshe would simply have admired the beauty of the scene, but the beginning of a sailor’s instinct told him that the clouds meant dirty weather ahead.

Silhouetted against the sky, her face turned south, Captain Tashara rode in her nest. As he drew nearer, Ayshe could hear her singing softly, and he stopped to listen to the words.

Her voice faded. The wind blew back the words along the ship, and Ayshe felt his throat choke with emotion. Was that what was in store for him? To cut away the past, to forget people such as Chaval and Zininia had ever existed? Would that, and that alone, bring him peace?

He stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Ma’am—”

With a single jump, Tashara leaped backward out of her nest, landing beside him. One hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

“Ayshe, son of Balar.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You have done well, Harfang tells me. You have become one of the crew, and you have learned much of our foe.”

Since he had just come from Harfang’s cabin, the dwarf had cause to wonder how she knew that. “Yes, Captain.” He hesitated. “Captain, I was wondering…”

He paused, and Tashara’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Seen up close, her skin looked paper thin, and he could see the bones and muscles beneath it. “Yes, Ayshe, son of Balar? What were you wondering?”

“Your song…” He struggled to find the words. “Do you believe… the past… is there no going back?”

Tashara was silent for a moment. Then she turned her face to the south. Against the golden sunlight, the fine bones of her face stood out, and her skin seemed translucent. Though she was not beautiful, she had a strange, exotic beauty, the more powerful because she seemed unaware of it.

“Elves know more of the past than other races, Ayshe, because we can recall it. To us, the lives of humans are fleeting, dwarves only a little less so. For our memories can stretch back half a thousand years and recall things long forgotten. So we mourn that which has passed from the world, that which can never be reclaimed.

“Do you see, Ayshe, the waters that flow past the bow of the Starfinder? See how our ship cleaves the waves asunder, how we pass through them and behind us they reform, rolling on under the sky as they have rolled for five thousand years and more? So the River of Time flows around us, carrying us in its bosom to some great sea where all our ends shall meet.

“You can no more reclaim the past than you can reclaim a wave or a ripple in the river. It will slip through your fingers and be gone in an instant.

Ayshe bowed his head and felt his grief well up again. That was his fate, then. To be forever burdened with a past he could not change and could not forget. The decision of an instant, taken when death raged overhead, fatefully determined his life.

“And you, Captain?” he asked, emboldened by Tashara’s apparent willingness to speak. “Are there moments in your life you would relive differently? To change the past if you could?”

Tashara’s fingers traced her cheeks and moved up to stroke her blind eyes. “What is done… is…” She hesitated. “There must be a way,” she whispered more to herself than to the dwarf. “Malshaunt says there is. A heart that is true, a soul that is devoted and sacrifices everything without thought… surely the gods must answer her prayers.” She looked at Ayshe. “The past cannot be changed, but some few souls, ones who bear a higher destiny, can avenge it. But such a thing comes with a terrible price.” Again her hands touched her eyes.

“But surely—” Ayshe began. He broke off as the captain’s fingers gripped his arm, biting into his flesh. Her face was turned to the wind in an attitude of alertness. She looked like a dog, sniffing the wind at the first sign of danger.

“Dragonsbane!”

The roar from her throat startled the dwarf and sent an errant gull fleeting from the mizzen shrouds.

“Attack!”

There was a clamor of footsteps on the ladders, and Harfang burst through the door of the hatch, blade in hand. Malshaunt, in a whirl of robes, sprang from another hatch onto the deck, followed by a cloud of crewmen. The mage’s whip was in his hand. At the same time, Ayshe became aware of a peculiar scraping along the sides of the ship. A moment later a reptilian head, mottled green with horns flaring at the temples and a grinning mouth of razor-sharp teeth, popped above the rail.