Chapter 13

In fact, Tashara did change her mind but only regarding the Starfinder next port of call. Rather than proceeding directly to Donatta, they stopped first at Rigitt, on the northern edge of the Plains of Dust, a brief voyage they made without incident. Though the repairs made by the villagers to the Starfinder seemed strong and lasting, Harfang preferred to cling to the shore rather than sail into open water, and Tashara accepted his concerns as valid. Three days after the mate had confronted Tashara and Malshaunt, the shores of the Plains opened before them.

It was an area with which much of the crew of the Starfinder was entirely unfamiliar. The Plains were a vast dust bowl that stretched for nearly four hundred miles across the southern borders of Ansalon, separating the lush woodlands of Tarsis and Qualinesti in the west from Silvanesti in the east. There were only a few settlements, mostly along the edges of the Plains, and very few roads. Some years after the fall of Qualinesti and the destruction of Qualinost by Beryl, the Green overlord, the Qualinesti elves had undertaken a long journey on foot across the Plains, only to find that the Silvanesti forests were occupied by the Knights of Neraka. Afterward the elves were a broken nation, scattered over the face of Krynn. Many of the elves aboard the Starfinder had kin who had participated in the epic trek across the Plains only to find disappointment and death at the other end. A few had even participated in the battle of Qualinost and seen their city destroyed by the last throes of Beryl and the sacrifice of Laurana.

Since her confrontation with Harfang and his companions, Tashara remained isolated in her cabin and, more significantly, had taken her meals alone rather than in the company of Harfang and Malshaunt. The mate’s face grew longer, and he rarely; save to give an order. Malshaunt moved about the ship like a specter, eating little, saying less, collecting materials for his spells and brooding like a dark shadow over the crew.

Rigitt proved to be a bustling port town, free from any presence of the Knights of Neraka. The streets were filled with humans and the odd centaur trotting calmly among them. There were even a few elves, though they kept to themselves and were none too kindly regarded by the town’s inhabitants. Still, the townsfolk looked easily at steel, and, for the price Harfang offered, they readily agreed to overhaul the Starfinder and refit her.

As well, among the inhabitants of the town were Plainsfolk. The townspeople here were not much different from those Ayshe had met in Than-Khal or even in his own village. Their skin was a bit darker than among folk of the north, and blond hair was comparatively rare among them. They were tall and spare, but they drank, laughed, shouted, and sang much like the men of the north.

Among the Plainsfolk were others—physically resembling their brethren but standing apart from them by reason of their silence and solitude. They were the nomads of the Plains. Clad in animal skins, often with feathers and beads in their long hair, they preferred to camp outside the town and enter it only to trade. They bore great knives with intricately decorated handles, and from them their hands rarely strayed, for they trusted no one outside their tribe, folk to whom they were bound by ties of blood.

Even fewer in number were some wearing heavier clothes—bear furs or seal skins made into cloaks and capes. Their faces were paler and stood in sharp contrast to their reddish hair and green-gray eyes. They were Ice Folk, who dwelled amid the snows of Icereach to the south. Even their brethren of the Plains thought them strange and did not mingle with them. The Ice Folk ebbed and flowed through the town depending on the seasons, coming in the summer to trade and leaving in the winter months to scour the barren wastes for furs and ivory. With winter fast approaching, there few enough of them in Rigitt, and those were preparing to depart.

Tashara went ashore with the crew and, like them, mingled in the narrow, winding streets of Rigitt. The town’s buildings were of a kind of brick made of baked clay, and their roofs, for the most part, were thatched with heather. Smoke from countless fireplaces coated the walls in soot before escaping into the crisp, clean air above. To the west, Ice Mountain Bay gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight, but to the east, the lands stretched away, bare and hard. A single road led north to the once-great city of Tarsis, which in ancient times had been a thriving port. But the Cataclysm had stranded it in the midst of dry land.

While the elves of Dragonsbane frequented the taverns, seeking out fellow elves for news of their people, Tashara looked for Plainsmen, especially the nomads who had ranged to the eastern edge of the Plains or to the south. Them she questioned intently regarding the Great White Wyrm. Occasionally Harfang and Malshaunt accompanied her on her expeditions, though she made it clear to them they were not to speak.

Ayshe found Rigitt a lonely place. There were no dwarves in the town, and he found that the human blacksmiths did not welcome his presence. Once again he was oppressed by the feeling of being an outsider, cut off from his own race and regarded as an alien by those surrounding him. After exploring the town, he withdrew to the ship and spent his time polishing weapons and armor. Only once or twice did he venture into the town.

The captain seemed oblivious to the strange glances she drew. in town. An elf of any kind attracted attention, but her blind eyes if and close-cropped hair warranted more than the usual number of sidelong glances. Still, she carried with her such an air of reserve that none dared interfere with her, and what catcalls and jeers might have followed another elf died on the lips of those who saw her. Harfang and Malshaunt, plodding in her wake, listened as she patiently trolled for stories of her prey.

Some of the nomads had heard of the White Wyrm. Others claimed to know people who had seen it, though none themselves had been witness to its devastating attacks. Among the Ice Folk, from-what Harfang could tell, rumors and stories of the beast were more prevalent. Several repeated versions of the verse Barbas had related to them. In each of those cases, Tashara questioned the tribesmen intently, but she gained no fresh information.

Whomever she spoke to, Tashara asked repeatedly about the Mountains of the Moons. Though a few claimed to have heard of great mountains far to the south, the name Barbas had given touched no chords of memory or legend. Harfang wondered if the strange dwarf thief had made up the name or if indeed they were chasing nothing more than a myth.

Once only did the captain learn something new. On a day when rains and mist floated in off the bay, mixing with the dust from the Plains to cover the streets of Rigitt in mud, Harfang accompanied Tashara to a down-and-out tavern on the edge of town. Malshaunt had chosen to remain in his cabin, studying one of the leather-bound tomes he carried with him, tracing with a slender finger the strange characters and runes that filled its pages.

To call the building a tavern was to be overly complimentary. It consisted of a clay-and-wattle hut with a single room. Rough stools lined the walls, and Plainsfolk lined the room, sipping from mugs, partaking in the powerful liquor that was doled out by a one-eyed barman through at tiny window in the wall of an inner room.

Tashara entered with the mate, ordering drinks for both of them. Harfang put his aside after a single sip; the beer tasted as if it had been brewed in a horse’s trough. They looked about slowly. A tall young man sat down next to them and emptied half his mug in a single draught. Next to him was a thin woman, covered in dust, her hair and skin much the same color as the brick interior of the tavern. There were circles under her eyes, and her hair was the consistency of straw. She turned her tired eyes on Tashara.

“You are the one? The one who wants to learn of the shamath’la’hassan?”

Tashara’s reply was cautious. “I wish to learn of the White Wyrm—a great white dragon that appears amid storms. Is this the beast you speak of?”

The woman said something to the man, who laughed and spat forth an explosion of syllables in a tongue that sounded familiar to Harfang but which he could not identify.

“My brother says if you look for the—White Wyrm, you call it?—you should arrange for your burial here and now. But you are blind, sister, so perhaps you do not care about death if you cannot see it.”

She and her brother laughed.

Tashara ignored the sally. “Yes, the White Wyrm,” she repeated. “What have you heard of it?”

The woman looked cunning. “What will you give?”

At a signal from Tashara, Harfang pulled out his purse and counted out five steel coins. He laid them on the bench. The woman looked at them and spat.

“What are those to me? I cannot eat them. I cannot burn them for warmth. Do you imagine we are fools?” She pulled a lump of dark, crushed leaves from a leather pouch and stuffed them into her mouth. She chewed, and a dribble of dark juice ran down her chin. She handed the pouch to her brother, who followed suit. Others in the tavern, the mate noticed, were chewing portions of the same leaf, stopping now and then to spit. The floor was slippery with spittle.

Not at all disconcerted, Tashara replied, “No insult was intended, sister. What will you prefer for information?”

The woman looked them over searchingly. Her hand shot gout. and plucked Harfang’s dirk from his side. He gave an exclamation, and his hand flashed out to retrieve it, but Tashara stopped him.

The woman examined the dirk and tested the blade against her hand. She passed it to her brother, who also examined it and nodded his satisfaction.

“We will take this.”

“Very well,” the captain answered. “And now tell me, please, sister, what you and your brother know of the wyrm.”

The young man spoke again, and the young woman translated. “The shamath’la’hassan has no permanent home. It lives between the…” She hesitated. “The echphinam, the places without. But it cannot remain there for long. It must reappear in our own world, where it attacks with terrible fury.”

“You have seen it?” Tashara’s voice was very gentle.

“Yes, I have seen it.” The woman translated, but it was clear she was also telling her own story. “It was years ago, in Donatta, when there was a Plainsfolk settlement there. We roamed over the Plains, but in the winter we returned to Donatta and lived by the edge of the sea. There, on a clear winter’s day, it came from the skies. It brought storms with it, and it was wreathed in fire and in serpents. Its breath was frozen death. It killed our people and destroyed our homes. Few were left to bury the dead and pay tribute to the gods so their souls might find their way into the next world.

“When the beast had done attacking us, instead of vanishing again into the clouds, it soared away to the south. That was the last we saw of it. But the Plainsfolk did not return to Donatta. The place is accursed because of those who died there. Their spirits wander the ruins and do not suffer those who disturb their peace.”

“Where to the south?” Tashara’s voice was intense. “Where did it go?”

“Across the Mallsenshiva.” The girl hesitated, and the man repeated the word. “The… Snow Sea, they call it here.”

“What is it? This Snow Sea?”

“A plain of snow, where it is always winter.” The woman and man laughed without humor. “If you go there, blind one, you will lose your bones in the sea. It is vast, and there is no shelter for those who try to cross it. There the wind blows ever from the south and freezes the blood.”

Tashara ignored the comment. “How do you know that the White Wyrm lives between the planes?”

The woman translated, and the man shrugged his shoulders and replied. “So it was said by the wise ones of our tribe,” his sister translated. “That was passed down from father to son to son. So it must be true.” She coughed, doubling over and spitting a stream of black and brown phlegm onto the floor. The other patrons ignored them; plainly that was common custom. The woman spat out the plug of leaves and took a new dose of the drug from her pouch. Harfang, nauseated by the smell, turned away, but Tashara seemed unaffected.

The woman lifted the steel coins Harfang had first offered and turned back to her brother, whispering. She stowed them away on her person and turned from the elf and human. Together the brother and sister rose and staggered to the tiny window where drinks were dispensed and demanded ale. Tashara and Harfang rose and made their way out into the street. Even the dusty air of Rigitt seemed sweet and fresh after the tavern.

Tashara strode along the street and plunged into the door of a more respectable drinking house. Harfang followed her as she sat down at a rough-hewn table, unaware of the startled glances she received from the other drinkers. She ordered an ale for the mate and water for herself and sat until Harfang found the silence uncomfortable.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, Harfang?”

“You have been hunting this White Wyrm for a century.”

Tashara said nothing.

“I’ve been at your side for twenty years now. Back and forth we’ve sailed, along every coast of Ansalon, around every bay, up every backwater. We’ve visited cities, towns, hamlets—places like this. Again and again. Sometimes the same places, sometimes new. But I’ve seen more of land and sea than I ever thought existed.”

“Well?” The captain’s voice had the same icy quality Harfang remembered from the argument in her cabin. Nonetheless, he pressed on.

“Ma’am, every man and woman aboard the Starfinder is loyal to you. Every one would die for you.” He hesitated. “Myself included.”

Silence.

“But what if we never find this elusive, mythical creature?”

The silence after that question was almost unbearably long. Then, abruptly, the captain turned to him. Her blind eyes stared at his. She placed both hands on his shoulders, and for the first time in their long companionship, he could feel himself trembling.

“Faith!” she whispered so softly he could barely hear her. “All the other voices of the tavern faded, leaving only hers. “Faith, Harfang! You must have faith. You must believe in me and in my visions. They hold us to this course, which was set for all of us before we were born. Believe me, my friend, they will carry you to everlasting glory. But you must believe! When all else fails, we have that left to us.”

She rose and left the tavern. Harfang sighed. After the confrontation in the cabin and after his many years aboard the Starfinder, he should have expected such an answer. He rose and was about to follow her when someone tapped his arm.

“Master?”

An old man stood by the table. His hair was white and thinning, his face lined with age. He was short and wore a cloak of rough cloth stained and stiffened with the salt of many harbors. Despite his age, he stood straight and tall. His voice was low.

“May I sit, master?”

Harfang gave assent with a nod. “Why not?”

“You are from the elven ship, are you not?”

“I am,” the human agreed.

“What, if I may ask, is a human like yourself doing in the company of elves?”

Harfang looked at the old man through narrowed eyes. “Why should I confide in you?” he growled.

The old man said nothing but sat rocking back and forth in his seat. His hands twitched at his robe.

Harfang’s sense of duty finally overcame his reticence. “Hunting dragons,” he growled.

The old man chuckled. “Aye. Sol hear. I wanted to hear it from your lips. And not just any dragon. You seek the White Wyrm, the great storm dragon.”

Harfang felt his heart beat faster but kept his voice casual. “So? What have you heard of it?”

“You have been warned, I believe,” his companion whispered. “Oh, yes. I think you have been warned. Yet you go on. Why?”

The mate shrugged. “We follow our captain’s orders.”

“But you.” The old man’s eyes glittered. “Why you? Surely you know your quest is in vain? You have questioned it. You have sought to turn your captain from her purpose, yet she will not be turned. Why do you not leave now, I wonder. Why not be done with this madness and return to the world of the living rather than the walking dead?”

Harfang stared, and the old man laughed again. “Uh, yes,” he said in answer to the unspoken question. “Every one of you who follows the captain on her quest for the White Wyrm is doomed. Your bodies do not know it yet, but you are the dead. You walk as if among the living, but you are the dead.”

Harfang drew back, but some part of him recognized his interlocutor was asking the very question he’d been asking himself. Why not leave? Ashore it would be an easy matter to slip away and hide until the Starfinder had raised anchor. Surely the quest that drove Tashara had turned into madness. Harfang could hide until the ship was gone. Malshaunt would be happy to see him gone. The mage and the captain would drive one another forward in their search for the White Wyrm, a search that, as the peculiar dwarf and the old man warned, could only end in death. Why should the mate, who prided himself in his down-to—earth practicality, hold to that fatal course?

His thoughts turned to Feystalen and to his last conversations with the second mate. “The crew is loyal to you,” Feystalen had said. “They will follow you.”

But would they? No, Harfang knew that their first loyalty was, above all, to Tashara. The blind captain had bound them to her with hoops of steel, bonds nothing would break. Feystalen had been wrong. If Harfang was to break from Tashara, he must forget loyalty and forget leading. He must leave the Starfinder.

For just a moment, he had a vision of himself tramping the road to Tarsis, the Starfinder and Tashara behind him and fading into memory. He saw himself wandering the streets of Tarsis, making his way across Ansalon to a port, finding berth aboard a ship, sailing the seas with no lingering fears of death or insanity surrounding him. Free of the malignant presence of Malshaunt, who for twenty years had been a black shadow lingering on the edge of his life.

He saw himself in old age, retired from the sea, happy and at peace, surrounded by children and grandchildren, sinking slowly into the quiet contemplation that comes before death, looking back on a life well spent.

If he remained in Rigitt, he could travel northwest and make his way back to the Kharolis Mountains. From there it would be an easy journey by foot to one of the centers of civilization. There would be no difficulty in finding a ship to take him on. He could invent some explanation for his past and leave the two decades spent with Tashara behind him.

Yet he wouldn’t travel in peace. That road was closed to him, and he answered the old man. “I have a debt to pay.”

“Have you not paid it already?”

The mate shook his head. “No. I begin to see my way, but I still owe. And so I’ll go on.” He could not tell the old man his long history with Tashara, of the bonds and memories that bound him to her, of what she had done for him in taking him from the streets of Palanthas and, at last, giving him something to live for. To leave her in Rigitt was out of the question.

His questioner sat back in his chair, and for a moment his face seemed to grow even older. Then he reached into a leather pouch he wore at his side. “Has anyone ever read charon cards for you?”

Harfang shook his head. He’d heard of that method of fortune telling, popular among humans in the west of Ansalon. Charon was derived from the Ergothian word for fate. The cards were laid out on the table in a certain order, from which the fortuneteller purported to read the future.

“I pay no attention to such nonsense.”

The old man’s hands shuffled his worn deck, his motions precise and economical. Harfang realized he was watching a ritual, practiced for years, that had been brought to perfection. The cards combined, divided, and recombined as the pale fingers manipulated them.

“Nonsense,” the old man said calmly, “is sometimes in the eye of the beholder, master. If you open your mind, you may find the cards are a useful guide to you. You need not pay any attention to them if you wish, but they can occasionally foretell and perhaps point you between two courses of action.”

The old man dealt five cards: four in a square and one in the middle. Across the top of the square, he laid a further three. Then he placed the deck facedown to the left of the assembled cards.

He looked at the mate. “The cards—despite what you may have heard—do not always tell what will happen. Rather, they show what may happen. All beings have free will and can change their fate, though few will do so.

“Now, let us see what the gods have in store for you.” He turned over the middle card of the square.

Despite his cynicism about such things, the mate found himself interested.

“This is you.”

The card showed a man, sword in hand, staring into the distance. Despite himself, Harfang was impressed. He’d watched the old man closely and had seen no evidence of trickery. Yet somehow the dealer had made his first card mirror the mate.

The old man indicated the four cards that formed the square. “These are the fates that circle round you. Like the sun, they travel from east to west, so that which appears here is ascendant”—he touched the upper left-hand card—“while the others appear in ascending order. The three cards above stand for the three moons: Solinari, Lunitari, and the dark moon, Nuitari. There are nine cards in all, nine for the moons, the fates, and the elements.”

“But there are only eight cards,” Harfang protested.

The old man’s finger hovered over the deck. “The top card is turned last of all. All the rest must be read in its light.”

Swiftly he turned over the four cards that made up the square. The top card was an elf. It was followed by a man, a forge, and a ship.

“These are the things that surround you now,” the old man explained. “The elf is dominant, but the first of the moon cards will suggest if that dominance is for good or for ill.” He turned over the top left card of the three that lay above the top of the square.

A scarlet phoenix burst from a goblet of flames.

The old man’s brow creased. “Lunitari!” he exclaimed. “The color of neutrality. The potential of this card”—he pointed to the elf—“has not yet been revealed.”

He turned over the second card, in which a black knight stood, arms crossed over his sword, a shield blocking his legs. The third card depicted a silver dove in flight against a rising sun.

The old man looked closely at Harfang. “It would seem your fate has not yet been decided by the gods,” he said. “The phoenix signals life renewed from fire, perhaps death or hope regained from tragedy. Sometimes it can show one saved from sure death. The knight is violence, while the dove is peace and tranquility, so these cards balance one another. Now for the last.”

His hand reached for the deck. Harfang knew, with a sudden shrinking in his stomach, what the image would be on the final card.

A dragon.

A white dragon.

Silence seemed to have fallen over the tavern’s boisterous patrons, as if a shadow had crossed the midday sun. Harfang gazed fixedly at the cards spread out before him.

The old man’s voice came as from a great distance. “Remember, Harfang, the cards show only what may be.”

The noise resumed. The mate shook his head to clear it and looked suspiciously at his ale. Then he raised his head to ask a question.

The old man had gone.

The cards lay spread out across the table. Next to them was the leather case in which their owner had stored them. But of the old man, there was no trace.

Harfang waited a bit then slowly packed the cards in their case. He pulled the strap over his head and approached the master of the house.

“Who was that old man I was speaking to just now?” he asked.

The master looked blank. Harfang repeated the question, and the man shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, master. Don’t remember seeing an old man in here today.” He bustled off to visit other tables, leaving behind a puzzled Harfang.

The mate stepped into the sun-dappled street. The newly acquired charon deck rested against his hip with a comforting weight. He began to make his way back to the Starfinder; but one question more than any other revolved in his brain.

When had he told the old man his name?

Repairs and fittings to the Starfinder were swiftly completed. The day after the workmen finished, Tashara mustered the crew on deck. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the air was full of seabirds’ cries.

The blind elf spoke without preamble, her voice clear and ringing, reaching every point of the ship.

“Dragonsbane!” she cried. “For centuries we have battled our foe. Many are the wyrms fallen by our hand. Many are our brave ancestors who gave their lives in this fight. We remember B’ynn al’Tor, the greatest warrior of all, who created Dragonsbane during the Third Dragon War.

“Now you face your greatest challenge!”

She drew breath, and her sightless eyes seemed to move slowly over the assembled crew.

“The White Wyrm! A dragon beyond all others. Beyond the dragon overlords. Beyond Malystryx, the great Red Bitch-Queen. Beyond Khellendros the Blue, companion of the Highlord Kitiara. Beyond Beryllinthranox the Green, who destroyed the city of Qualinost. Beyond Cyan Bloodbane, who betrayed and destroyed the Silvanesti people.

“All these monsters are no more. Yet the Great White Wyrm remains. It is the last great foe of the dragon hunters. All others are dead, but this one, sent by the gods to challenge me, this one remains.”

She gestured south. “We have learned now the location of the lair of this beast. There, across the Snow Sea, lies the last great foe of mortals on Krynn. It is my dream to slay it. It is my destiny to slay it. Did not the gods proclaim this the Age of Mortals? Should not all living things be subordinate to us?”

Again she paused. Again there was silence.

“This is the last road,” she said finally. “Tomorrow we take the path to the south—to the last battle.

“If some of you fear this fight, turn back. If you fear the White Wyrm, turn back! If you fear everlasting glory, turn back!

“But those of you who have no fear, those in whose breast hearts beat as strong as that of Huma Dragonsbane, I say to you that you are welcome. And that we band of dragonslayers, we who will live through the ages in songs of our descendants, we shall go south knowing that our quest can only end in victory!”

A cheer came from the elves, full and hearty. Ayshe found his mouth open, his voice roaring acclamation. The elves pounded staves and handspikes on the deck and stamped their feet. Alone among them, Harfang and Malshaunt remained silent. Malshaunt stood slightly behind the captain, his dark face turned toward her in admiration, his eyes gleaming. He swept up a hand, and a cloud of sparks flashed across the sky, turning different colors and bursting in a rainbow that showered down upon the upturned faces of the elves. On the other side of the captain, Harfang stood, tall and silent, but with worry lines creasing the flesh around his eyes.

The crew was in a good mood that night, fortified by an extra barrel of wine the captain had ordered served out. Some sang; some told stories of past exploits of Dragonsbane. All seemed happy, save the mate, who sat on deck and brooded over a small fire that burned in a brazier to keep off the evening chill. Ayshe saw Harfang sitting but forbore to approach him. Later Jeannara joined Harfang at the fire, and they seemed to be taking some comfort from each other’s presence, or so the dwarf imagined.

Unseen by anyone, when Harfang at last went belowdecks, in the solitude of his workshop, he took out the charon cards. His calloused hands had difficulty shuffling them, but at last he dealt them as he had seen the old man do. One by one he turned them over. One by one they appeared the same as they had in the tavern.

And the last was the dragon.

At the rising of the sun, the Starfinder moved out of her slip and turned her head south. Despite the early hour, many from the town had turned out to see her departure. Word of the strange elves and their ship had spread throughout Rigitt, and in that remote place, folk were eager for anything out of the ordinary.

The elves swarmed up the rigging and along the masts to release the repaired mainsail and mizzen. The topsails were loosed to catch the wind, while the jib flapped in the wind and grew taut. That near land, Harfang did not care to use Malshaunt’s spell for filling the sails with wind. There was enough suspicion among the townsfolk of Rigitt of the strange elf vessel with its black sails and blind captain without adding to their concerns. Later, when they were well at sea, the mage could cast his enchantment; for now, they would rely on nature.

Ropes creaked and Otha-nyar, standing at the wheel, spun it in response to a command and stood upon a spar to hold to their course. Harfang, standing next to her and calling orders, had one eye on the compass and with the other surveyed the crowd that lined the dock. Some shouted words of encouragement, others less friendly advice.

Harfang stiffened. There, hidden behind a man and a small boy, stood a thin, white-haired figure. The old man’s hand lifted in ironic farewell as the Starfinder’s sails filled with the morning breeze.