Chapter 8

“It was spawn, ma’am.”

Feystalen stood with his feet akimbo, his hands behind his back, looking like an errant schoolboy reporting to his teacher. Before him in the narrow confines of the captain’s cabin, Tashara, Malshaunt, and Harfang were arrayed.

“You’re sure?” the mate asked.

Feystalen related the discovery of the spawn’s body.

Malshaunt stirred. “Why did you not bring it back aboard the Starfinder?” he asked.

Feystalen was taken aback. “It was dead and foul. We had no use for it,” he replied.

“I might have had a use for it, Second Mate. Did that thought never occur to you?” Malshaunt pressed his hands together until the blood left them and they were white as paper. “How many times must I explain this to all of you. I require certain things, things that can often be obtained from dragons and their kind when they are dead—”

“We’re warriors and sailors,” Feystalen snapped, “not your damned errand boys or carrion crows! Next time, come on the boat yourself and collect your own things. I’ve no urge to pick over the corpse of a seaspawn because you think you might use a bit of its ear or a piece of its tongue.”

Malshaunt turned away, his mouth still compressed in irritation.

Tashara spoke. “Did you see any signs of more of the spawn nearby?”

“No, ma’am. We kept a sharp eye out, but they were nowhere. I’d expect they were the same ones that attacked us the other day, in which case they’re probably lying low somewhere, licking their wounds.”

The captain nodded, and Harfang dismissed his subordinate. He turned back to Tashara. “Ma’am, we know that in the past where we’ve found bands of seaspawn we’ve sometimes found—”

“Yes, Harfang,” the captain interrupted. “I know. I can feel it. The wyrm must be somewhere close.” She rose and bent over the chart on the table. The mate and the mage arranged themselves at her sides as she spread a hand over the map, moving slowly and delicately as she probed. At last her finger dropped to the parchment.

“There. Make for that spot.”

The day after their discovery of the fishing boat, Harfang stopped Ayshe as the dwarf was taking his evening stroll along the deck. The weather was damp and drizzly. The dwarf had moved to the foredeck to avoid the stench from the rotting seaspawn heads.

“Come!” the mate growled. He led the way across the deck to the taffrail and gestured to the heads. “Look!”

It was not a pretty sight. Seabirds had plucked away the eyes and some of the flesh. On some of the heads, bits of skull gleamed white. The lifeless heads had sagged on their spikes and looked pathetic rather than menacing.

Harfang stared at them. Ayshe followed his lead, trying not to feel sick. Around them the gray mist swirled and eddied.

“Murderers!” Harfang’s voice cut through the fog like a knife through warm butter. “Murders of the innocent, that’s what they are! Them and all spawn of dragons.” He turned to face Ayshe. “There’s no room for sentiment when you’re fighting such creatures. You saw yesterday what they’re capable of Once”—he stepped forward and brushed one of the heads with his fingertips—“once this was a man. Once this was a baby, cooing in his mother’s arms. Once he ran and played with other little boys in the sunlight. Once these lips kissed a girl and made her promises beneath Solinari. No more.

“When he became a spawn, he ceased to be human, and you should harbor no feelings toward this creature save revulsion.”

The dwarf shrugged and tried not to think too deeply about the mate’s unsettling words. “But why is it necessary to spike these heads here?”

“To remind us of what we’re fighting.” Harfang bent, his face inches from Ayshe’s. “We fight,” he whispered, teeth clenched. “We don’t fight dragons for adventure. We don’t fight them for gold. We don’t fight them for revenge. We fight and kill them and their filthy offspring because they’re evil. Because they ought to be wiped off the face of Krynn. And as long as dragons remain, we of Dragonsbane will hunt and kill them.”

He drew his thumb along the spawn blood that had accumulated on the deck, slightly damp from the rain that was falling. Then he drew a line down his forehead, from the crest of his brow to the middle of his nose. The mark, a dirty greenish brown, gave him, somehow, a slightly feral look. He sent the dwarf a final glare and stalked away.

Jeannara watched the mate as he took his leave. A pace or two behind her, Malshaunt was also watching, his face solemn as usual. But in his eyes was a gleam of malice. Though it was raining, none of the rain seemed to fall on the mage, and his robes, face, hands, and hair were bone-dry.

Malshaunt glanced at Jeannara and said lightly, “It seems Master Harfang’s evening sermon is done.”

“He cares!” the elf retorted. “At least, Malshaunt, he doesn’t stand in the shadows, sneering at everything and everyone. He cares about Dragonsbane and what we stand for. That makes him a worthy companion.”

The mage raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me,” he said mildly. “I’d no idea companionship was what you were looking for. I’d supposed…”

Jeannara faced him, her tone icy. “What did you suppose, mage?” she asked.

“I?” Malshaunt held up a slender hand in a deprecating gesture. “No, no. It would be presumptuous of me to suppose anything about companionship between an elf and a… man. After all, it could be so much worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could seek companionship from our dwarf” He spoke of Ayshe, still within hearing distance, as one would of a despised mongrel dog.

Jeannara’s face reddened, but she made no reply.

Malshaunt said thoughtfully, “You are mistaken, though, if you think I do not care. I care very much.” His eyes gazed into the distance at the line between sea and sky, as if they were seeing things hidden from ordinary eyes.

“For what? For what do you care?”

The mage returned his gaze to the bo’sun, his expression cold again. “For that which I think sometimes the rest of you have forgotten. Rest assured, Jeannara, my devotion is unwavering.” He turned on his heel and disappeared.

Nights turned colder as the ship slipped south over the dirty gray sea. The sun rose lower and set sooner. It was dark by mid-afternoon. The stars swung slowly across the night-sky, and Ayshe, looking up at them, wondered what strange happenstance had mingled his destiny with that of the Starfinder.

They kept close enough to land to survey the coast of Southern Ergoth as it slid by. Harfang and Feystalen studied it constantly with the aid of a spyglass, and the keenest-eyed of the elves—usually the two Kagonesti—were sent aloft into the shrouds during the hours of darkness. Harfang reported regularly to Tashara as they approached the spot she had indicated. High above the’ deck in the crow’s nest, as the ship pitched uneasily in the waves, the Kagonesti elves stared unblinkingly into the darkness.

It was on one such moonless night, a fortnight after their battle with the spawn, that Ayshe, slumbering uneasily in his hammock, was roused by the distant cry of the Kagonesti lookout.

He hastened on deck, massaging his sleep-dulled eyes. Off to the east, a soft glow lit the horizon.

Samath-nyar, who had the watch, slid nimbly to the deck in front of Harfang and saluted the mate. “A village is burning, sir,” he reported.

“It might be pirates.”

“It might be, but that’s unlikely this late in the year.”

Harfang nodded and turned to Feystalen. “Very well. Put in and cast anchor. At first light we’ll unship the boat and investigate.” He knocked on Tashara’s cabin door and, with Malshaunt in his wake, vanished inside.

“Watch reports a burning village, ma’am. Just like the other. It would seem we’ve found the trail again.”

Tashara nodded. Her figure was erect and tall as she paced the narrow confines of the cabin, quivering with excitement.

“Very well. We put in here.” She turned to Malshaunt, put a hand on his robed arm, and squeezed gently. “We are close now, mage.”

“Aye, ma’am.” He stepped back from her touch as if burned. His lips were bloodless. In the long years of their service together, Harfang did not ever remember seeing the mage so agitated, so moved by anything. Once he considered it, he could not remember the captain herself ever touching the mage before.

He did not dwell on the thought. There were too many things todo.

To sleep was impossible. The crew stood on deck, watching as the ship drew inland. Samustalen crouched at the bow, calling off soundings to Otha-nyar, who skillfully guided the vessel closer to shore. Finally the ship was luffed, the capstan bars were unshipped, and the crew lowered the great anchor. Down it came slowly, with a creaking of ropes and a great splash as it entered the water. The longboat, once again, was swung out.

Captain Tashara emerged from her cabin. Ayshe noticed she wore the same clothes in which he’d last seen her and fleetingly wondered if she ever changed them.

“Harfang?”

“Ma’am?”

“Who are you sending ashore to investigate the burning?”

The mate glanced over the assembled crew. “Samath-nyar. Riadon. Jeannara. Samustalen. Feystalen. Me.”

She shook her head. “Nay, Harfang. Stay with the ship. I wish to go ashore myself this time.”

“But, ma’am—”

“No buts, First Mate. Malshaunt will accompany me.” She started toward the boat and stopped. “And send the smith.”

Ayshe felt a sudden lurch in his stomach. If he was going to see sights ashore such as the one he’d seen on the fishing boat, he was content to remain with the ship.

Harfang frowned. “With respect, ma’am, he has plenty of duties aboard the ship. No need to—”

Tashara lifted a hand. “I daresay you are right, Harfang. Nonetheless, I wish him to come ashore with me.” She smiled, an expression frosty as snow drops during Aelmont. “Come, old friend. Surely after so many years, you owe me a little indulgence.”

The mate looked torn between embarrassment and anger at having his orders contradicted before the crew. “Aye, ma’am,” he growled. “Smith! Make ready to go ashore with the party. The rest of you, look lively!”

As the longboat’s oars stroked the waters of the bay, the prow pushed through debris floating in the waves. Bits of lumber, splintered as if torn apart by a titanic explosion, bumped the hull of the boat as she approached the shore. Tashara sat in the stern, hand on the tiller, making straight for the village, as easily as if she had sight.

Malshaunt sat tall, dark, and enigmatic. But from time to time, his glance shifted from shore to the figure of the captain. With his left hand, he ceaselessly stroked his right forearm just above the wrist.

The shore was wreathed in smoke and fog. Tashara used the smell of burning to guide the boat to its destination. Through the mist they could see figures running to and fro. It reminded Ayshe of the reception his own village had given the sailors of Dragonsbane, and something caught in his throat.

Tashara grounded the boat expertly and sprang out, followed by the mage. She seemed imbued with a strange energy, and the crew followed her without a word.

“Hail!” she cried in a strong, loud voice. “Hail! I am Tashara of the Starfinder. What village is this?”

Silence greeted her.

“I am Tashara of the Starfinder. I come in peace. What village is this?”

From somewhere, a stone rattled, and someone coughed softly. Then, from behind a wall, a dark face rose. “This was the village of Horend.”, The man stepped into the open and eyed them. “Elves!” His voice bore all the contempt that could be packed into the single word.

Tashara ignored the implied insult. “Have you seen a dragon? Gray as a storm cloud? Lightning framed? Bending from sky to earth?”

The man stared at her, rage gathering in his eyes. “Do you see this?” he roared. “This is your dragon’s work!” He turned, and from other crannies and cracks in the rubble, ragged scarecrows crawled out. Some were bloodstained, some soot covered; all had wide, dark-rimmed eyes full of horror that stared at the elves.

Tashara turned her blind head from side to side, as if listening to them gather. “From where did this dragon appear?” she asked calmly. “From the sky, aye, but from where? North, south, east, west? Tell me that.”

The spokesman shrugged his indifference and pushed out a finger to the north. “There. Cut of a clear blue sky. Next minute it filled with clouds, and then it came down on us.” His hot eyes searched Tashara’s face. “Now, what do you know of this dragon?”

“And when it left?” The elf captain’s face was impassive, but her voice bore an underlying urgency. “Which way? In which part of the sky did it vanish?”

“Half our people are gone! Our homes are laid waste!” The headman reached into the crowd and plucked out a dirty-faced little girl with tangled hair and tear-swollen eyes. “Where are her parents? Her brother? Her grandfather? Where have they gone?” He hugged the girl to him fiercely. “The beast shattered our homes. Our hearth fires took flame and joined in the destruction. The fire has burned and smoldered now for two days. We have nothing left. Do you understand? Nothing!”

He pitched his voice to mock Tashara’s. “Where did it go? Which way?” Then he practically growled, “Why should we care?

“Which way?” Tashara’s voice gave nothing away.

The headman turned a sullen face south. “That way. It vanished in a thunderclap, drawing fire from the heavens after it.” He turned for confirmation to a pathetic figure who served as his deputy.

“Aye.” The younger man nodded. “It swept over the village. Its breath blasted our people with cold, but it seemed as if it could also call fire from the sky. It raged for ten minutes, perhaps more. When our last building fell, it hunted those it could find in the open. But it must have tired of the sport. We heard it give a mighty cry but from farther away. A short while later, the sky was clear.” His voice still held traces of terror. “What was it? I’ve heard of the great dragon overlords but never of such a beast as this. It must be a ghost that can vanish into the wind.”

A frozen smiled touched Tashara’s lips. “No ghost. Oh, no ghost indeed.”

“Aye!” snapped the mayor. “A ghost could hardly have done this.” He gestured at the destruction around them. “But perhaps it was something brought by you elves. We hear, even here at the edge of the world, what goes on in the rest of Ansalon. We know that you pulled down your houses about you in Qualinost when Beryl, the great green, died. We know you’ve been driven out of Silvanesti. Now, perhaps, you visit your anger upon the rest of Krynn by summoning up a beast such as this.” His eyes were black with suspicion.

Tashara made no answer.

After a moment, Malshaunt stepped forward and faced the mayor. “Your talk is baseless and foolish. We must examine your village,” he said calmly. “It may provide clues to the whereabouts of the wyrm we are hunting.”

The mayor looked him up and down. “A magic-user, eh. Can your magic fix this?” He gestured to the ruin of his village.

Malshaunt looked around idly. “More magic than I have at my command would be required to make this place livable,” he said. “My advice is to seek new homes elsewhere.”

“Now? With winter coming on? How do you suggest we do that?” demanded the mayor.

Malshaunt ignored the question. “We will examine your village.” None of the rest of the company moved.

After a moment, the mayor spat on the ground before the captain and the mage. “Elves!” he snorted. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you still ruled your kingdoms of Qualinesti and Silvanesti the way you talk. But no, now you’re just vagabonds, no better than some and worse than many.” He threw up his hands. “Fine. Look around. Much good may it do you.” He turned his back on the mage and strode off. The other villagers followed him, turning to cast sour glances at Dragonsbane.

The elves walked slowly through the trail of rubble that marked the former site of the village of Horend. Some townsfolk followed them. Others were too busy cleaning away debris or were wrapped in sorrow and ignored the newcomers.

“You’re not an elf!”

Ayshe looked around. The little girl, only a few inches shorter than he, was walking by his side, staring at him.

“You’re too short. And elves don’t grow beards. My pa says that.”

Ayshe nodded. “That’s right. I’m a dwarf”

“A dwarf?” The girl’s eyes grew big. “Really? I’ve never seen a dwarf. I’ve seen elves before. Some came here last year to trade with us, but Ma and Pa wouldn’t let me talk to them. Where do dwarfs live? Where are you from?”

“From—” Ayshe caught himself, realizing he didn’t have a -home anymore. “From far away, my girl. What’s your name?”

“Lara. What’s yours?”

“Ayshe.”

“That’s a funny name. Like what we sweep out from the hearth in the morning. Ma told me I was named for a very famous person. She was a great general who beat a whole army of evil soldiers and made them crown her queen. And she ruled for a hundred years in peace and goodness and then she went up into the sky and lived there.”

Ayshe momentarily wondered at the irony of elf-hating humans who named their daughter after the great elf hero Lauralanthalasa, the Golden General, Companion of the Lance.

Lara looked doubtfully at Ayshe. “Is that where Ma and Pa are now? In the sky? With Jaxal and Grandpa?”

The dwarf blinked. “Yes, I’m sure that’s where they are. In fact, they’re probably watching you right this instant.”

She smiled. “Well, I’ve been very good. I’ve hardly cried at all today.”

“There’s naught wrong with crying when you’re sad, Lara. Sometimes crying can make us feel better.” Ayshe felt his lips burning as he said those words and knew that for him it was untrue.

“But just now,” he told the girl, “I think what your ma and pa would like is for you to tell me what you remember about the dragon attack.”

Lara looked grave. “I was in school. Teacher was making us recite, when we heard a big thunder. Teacher went to the window to see what was going on. Then there was another thunder, an even bigger one. Then I don’t remember too much. Someone pulled something off me, and I saw the school had fallen down. That’s when I saw the… the…” She hesitated.

“The dragon?”

She nodded. Her brown eyes met his. “I was scared. I was really scared. So I ran, but when I got home, it wasn’t there anymore. And I called for Ma and Pa, but they didn’t answer.” Her voice cracked, and she melted into the dwarf’s shoulder in a storm of tears.

Tashara and Malshaunt walked through the village together. As usual, the mage walked a step or two behind the captain. The other elves had been detailed to make a complete search of the rubble, looking for anything that might give a further clue to the White Wyrm and its whereabouts.

The captain turned abruptly and faced Malshaunt. “Why is it, do you suppose, mage,” she asked, “that in all our time pursuing the wyrm we have never found a scale, never a shred of skin, a piece of claw?”

The mage shrugged. “The beast’s insubstantiality is among its greatest challenges, ma’am. Perhaps when it fades into the planes, whatever it leaves behind in its attacks fades as well.”

She shook her head. “No. There is something more. But I know that if only I could collect something…”

“Would that help us track it, ma’am?”

“I am sure of it. A dragon’s scales have a power beyond their owner, sometimes. That is why we search these sites so carefully. There must eventually be something.”

Ayshe rejoined his companions, having left Lara with a village woman who promised to look after her. The elves were standing by their boat conferring while some of the townspeople looked on.

“It continues south,” Malshaunt said.

Tashara nodded. “And so we follow.” She turned to Ayshe. “What news?”

The dwarf shrugged. “The little girl said she felt overwhelming fear when the beast attacked. It seems natural enough, this fear, but that’s mostly what she remembers.”

Tashara kept her face toward him. “And what of you, dwarf?”

Ayshe felt his face redden. “What of me?”

“When the dragon attacked your home, weren’t you frightened?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he almost shouted.

“Dragonfear.” The captain’s voice was unchanged. “All dragons inspire it. This one more than others, it would seem. It can paralyze the will of even the bravest warrior.”

She surprised the dwarf by putting a hand on his shoulder, as though comforting him, then turned to the other elves. “We return to the Starfinder.”

The crew busied themselves with the longboat, preparing to cast off.

“One moment!” The mayor stepped forward and addressed Tashara. “That ship—no doubt you have supplies? Food?”

The captain’s face was expressionless. “Well?”

The mayor gestured around him. “Look at these people—or listen to them, since you can’t see them. They’ve lost everything.”

Tashara’s voice was cold. “I have been in many dragon-devastated towns,” she told the mayor. “Think you not that you are the first.”

“Winter is coming on,” he replied evenly. “We’re midway through Hiddumont. Soon H’rarmont will be upon us. There will be ice and snow. We’ve no shelter, no food, no fresh clothing.” He paused for a reaction from Tashara and got none. “Stay!” he said, his voice rising. “Help us. If you’re chasing this thing, more power to you, but stay and help us through the winter. Take up your quest again in spring.”

Tashara ignored him. “Jeannara! Are you ready?”

Ayshe stepped in front of the captain. The picture of Lara’s tear-streaked face rose before him. “Captain, perhaps we could do as he asks. At least let’s leave some food for these people.”

Malshaunt interposed himself between Ayshe and Tashara. “Your captain has given her orders, dwarf!” he snapped. “Now obey them!”

“Jeannara!” Tashara gave no sign she had heard Ayshe’s appeal. She stepped around him toward the boat.

The mayor spoke bitterly. “Never mind, dwarf. What do she and her tame mage care if we starve? Like all elves-stiff-necked sons and daughters of darkness! It’s just as well a dragon fell on their city. They came crawling for aid, but now they refuse it to us. And why? Because we’re humans, not stinking elves!”

The mayor’s baiting was having some effect on the Starfinder’s crew. Jeannara, Samustalen, and others gave him harsh glances. Tashara, however, continued to ignore his words. The boat had been drawn into the shallows, and she splashed toward it.

The mayor gave a yell of fury. Reaching to his side, he drew a saber and lunged after the elf. Tashara spun at his approach, and Ayshe saw the blade of a knife glittering in her hand as the human’s momentum carried him into her.

He stopped, arms outflung. The saber fell from his out-stretched hand into the water. From the watching townsfolk came a soft, horrified moan.

Ayshe jumped to the man’s side as he sank to his knees, blood pouring from the stab wound in his chest. Tashara looked straight ahead, motionless, the bloodstained blade still in her hand. Then she bent her head toward her victim.

The mayor coughed into the silence and spat a gob of blood. “I… you…” He bent almost double, his face paper white.

Tashara shook her head as if unaware of what had happened. The other elves stood frozen.

“I… curse you… elf!” the man gasped. “In the… name of… Habbakuk… the Blue Phoenix… I curse you!” He bent forward again and fell stiffly into the shallow water.

Ayshe stood still, hands stained red.

“Kill them!”

The crowd raced forward. A stone thudded off the boat. Another struck Feystalen’s leg, eliciting a cry of pain. Malshaunt brought up his hand, pointing at the stone thrower with fingers twitching in a magical incantation, but Feystalen caught his wrist.

“No!” he shouted. “Enough!”

The mage’s face blazed with anger. He pushed the mate from him. His mouth moved to begin a spell.

“Feystalen! Malshaunt! Come!” Tashara’s voice cut through the confusion. The mate turned and ran for the boat. Malshaunt followed him.

The company tumbled into the longboat. Jeannara and the Kagonesti grabbed the oars and stroked for dear life. As the crowd continued to hurl rocks, sticks, and anything that came to hand, Tashara sat tall and unmoving. Her knife had disappeared back into her clothing, and her blind eyes were turned toward the Starfinder.

Ayshe leaned over the side to wash the blood from his hands. Behind him he could hear faintly the cries, the curses, the moans. He could no longer see the mayor’s crumpled body lying in the water at the edge of the sea.

“We should have helped them!” he said disconsolately. “We should have—”

“Silence!” Tashara rapped out the word.

Not another syllable was spoken until just before they had regained the ship. As the bulk of the hull loomed over them, Malshaunt leaned forward to whisper in Feystalen’s ear. Ayshe could not hear what the mage said, but from the expression on the mate’s face, it was not to his pleasure.

Ayshe’s heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest. They regained the deck, and the captain vanished into her cabin. The crew hoisted the sails, and, under a steady wind, the ship drew away from the sad, shattered coast.