Chapter 2

The smoke from the fires spread like a dark stain across the flawless sky.

Too few villagers had survived to bury the dead. Some made half-hearted attempts to dig graves for friends or relatives slaughtered by the dragon’s attack, but they lacked the energy. Indeed, most of the remaining townsfolk felt drained and exhausted, as if their minds and bodies had exceeded the limits of mortal beings.

The stench of decay rose from the ruins, and folk knew it would soon attract the attention of tundra wolves and other scavengers. At last, under Gallipol’s direction, they dragged the bodies on improvised sledges to a spot on the pebbled beach left bare by low tide. They piled driftwood around the corpses, and Ayshe struck a spark from flint and tinder. Within minutes the pyre was ablaze, and coils of greasy smoke streamed upward to spread across the heavens.

Later the cleansing sea would wash away what remained. Gallipol overcame his grief by channeling his energies toward organization and survival. He sent a team through what remained of the village to search for food. Another pair of survivors—noted for being fleet of foot—were sent to the nearest large town to see what help might be obtained. An improvised hostel cared for the injured. Another group collected stones and bricks that had not been shattered in the attack and began construction of a rudimentary shelter. Though the days were warm, at night a chill breeze swept off the water and heralded the coming of winter.

The band that had been sent to the fields to bring in the harvest returned with bad news. The dragon’s attack had flattened the wheat fields, and its frosty breath had destroyed the rows of maize, cabbage, and beans. The villagers would have to survive the winter on what they could scrounge from the wreck of the town and on fish from the sea.

The fleet of fishing boats was gone, smashed to matchwood by the beast’s fury. Gallipol’s face grew longer with each bit of bad news brought to him.

Ayshe picked through the remains of the smithy, salvaging those tools he could find. The shack in which he’d found shelter was one of the few structures that remained standing, and the materials stored within it made it possible for the dwarf to reconstruct a crude forge in a few days.

He threw himself into the work. He spent his days standing by the blazing fire, red-hot metal turning on the anvil before him, muscles bulging as he hammered it into shape. There were times when he was hard at work when he could almost hear Chaval shouting orders and laughing at his own robust jokes.

Nights passed without sleep, and Ayshe found the combination of driving work and insomnia was wearing him thin.

Gallipol spoke to him about it a week after the attack. “You need rest, my friend,” he said, leaning heavily on his staff. “You’re the only smith we have, and we’ll need your skills if we’re to survive the winter.”

Ayshe ceased his blows on an iron chisel and plunged the metal into a bucket of cold water. There was a rush of steam and a hiss.

“I can’t afford rest,” he grunted. “Too much to do.”

“Not by one man.” Gallipol shifted his feet and lowered his voice. “The messengers have returned, my friend. With bad news. The harvest has been bleak elsewhere, and no one can spare much to help us. Nor can they send anyone to help in rebuilding the town. Our only hope, Ayshe, is to conserve our strength. We’ve barely enough food to ride out the winter. You’ll do no favor for us by working yourself to death.”

Ayshe let his hands drop to his sides. A great wave of weariness washed over him. “I still hear the beast’s roar,” he said bitterly.

Gallipol nodded. “As do I. As do we all. Even in our sleep.” His glance strayed involuntarily to the sky, as if seeking out a sudden cloud. “It sounded like some feral beast from the depths of the Abyss.” He shook himself, as if awakening from a bad dream. “But we cannot dwell forever on its power, Master Ayshe. We must—”

A scream split the air. Dwarf and man spun toward the sound. It rang again, and the pair ran toward it.

As they emerged from the rude shelter in which Ayshe had set up his forge, they saw other villagers sprinting in the direction of the screaming. Its source emerged a moment later when a young girl, perhaps eight or nine, came running from the beach. Her hands were pressed against the sides of her head, her mouth open, and her eyes wide with fear.

Gallipol caught her. “What’s wrong, Jalene?”

The girl gestured behind her wordlessly. Ayshe squinted into the bright sea. For a moment the sunlight glinting on the waves blinded him. Then he saw what the girl had seen and cursed.

“Pirates!”

Silhouetted against the horizon, a ship with black sails plunged across the waves. Ayshe’s sharp eyes could make out a line of brightly colored shields strung along the deck rail. The sails, filled with wind, bore the ship closer to the village.

Gallipol was shouting orders to the townsfolk who had gathered at the water’s edge.

“Hans! Get your bow and take a position in front of the schoolhouse! Majiis, you’re with him! Savail, have you got your sword? You’re with me. Ayshe…”

Ayshe, the moment he spotted the black sail, had dashed back in the direction of the forge. He ran forward as Gallipol called to him, his arms laden with recovered swords, knives, mattocks, and warhammers. A shield was slung across his back. Townsfolk seized weapons from him and scattered to their assigned places. Others, weaponless, picked up rocks and crouched, concealing themselves as best they could. Several gathered up children and led them back to the shelter of some standing walls away from the beach.

The ship hove to in the calm waters of the harbor. Ayshe could see the glint of a spyglass on the poop deck as someone surveyed the town—or what was left of it. As the villagers waited, the crew scurried about the deck like ants at harvest time. They lowered a longboat, and it pulled for shore.

From where he lay behind a partly demolished wall, the dwarf could see the rowers, sun glittering off their sweat-sheened shoulders. A tall, thin man sat in the stern, steering, calling out directions to the oarsmen.

A dozen more strokes beached the craft, and the crew sprang swiftly upon the sands. One threw out a grappling hook to hold the boat secure, while the others fanned out, hands on sword hilts and bows.

“Halt!”

Gallipol rose before them. Over his shoulder, a companion aimed a shaft at the pirate leader. Hans and his fellow archers stood among the ruins of the schoolhouse, bows raised, arrows at the ready.

The pirate leader raised his hands. “Peace, friend. We do not come to do harm.”

Hans’s arrow didn’t waver. Gallipol spoke again, his tone icy as seawater in midwinter. “Hands away from your blades.”

None of the seamen moved. The leader kept his hands in the air. “We are merely travelers, friend. Surely you would not have us give up our only protection?”

“I would have you show me why we should not lay out every one of you where you stand,” Gallipol growled. “We know how to deal with pirates in these parts.”

“I’m sure you do, but we are not pirates.”

“What are you, then?”

The man cautiously lowered his hands. His followers stood as still as stones. “Your village seems to have suffered a great calamity recently.”

Gallipol grunted. “Yes. What would you know about it?”

“Was it an attack from a dragon?”

The villagers’ bows and swords, which had begun to droop, snapped to attention.

“How did you know that?” Gallipol snarled.

The leader looked around. “We seek this dragon. With your permission, we’d like to look around to see if we can find clues that would enable us to better track and destroy it.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Ayshe could hear the labored breathing of the townsfolk as they watched their leader. At last, Gallipol nodded. “Very well.”

Ayshe returned to his work in the forge. The rest of the villagers scattered to their various tasks, leaving Gallipol, Hans, and a few others to keep an eye on the strangers.

Rather than men, it was clear they were elves, though of what nation, Gallipol could not say. They were tall and slender, carried swords and bows, and most seemed to have been scarred or injured in some way.

The leader was a human rather than an elf, though he was so gaunt he might have been taken for one. He did not volunteer a name, and Gallipol did not ask.

The elves walked slowly through the village, examining the damage closely. None spoke, leaving the talking to the human. When they came to the forge, they halted, and Ayshe had a chance to observe them more closely.

He’d had little contact with elves. Like most of his race, he held a prejudice toward the elder-born, a dislike that among most dwarves merged into contempt. Elves, common dwarf wisdom held, felt themselves above the other races of Krynn. They avoided contact with dwarves and men (to say nothing of kender and the like), preferring to isolate themselves.

The War of Souls had changed that isolation. The elf city of Qualinost had been destroyed, and as Ayshe knew from gossip and rumor, the elves had been driven from the Silvanesti kingdom by the minotaurs of the Blood Sea Isles. They were exiles, wandering in search of a kingdom, but misfortune had done nothing to lessen their arrogance.

Ayshe’s mistrust of elf folk had never spilled over into active dislike. Nonetheless, the visitors seemed to bear out the promise of haughtiness. It appeared to the dwarf that they looked on him with their noses in the air even as Gallipol explained that Ayshe had escaped death from the dragon’s breath by sheltering in the shed.

The human looked interested.

“This shed?” he asked. He and one of his companions—a female, Ayshe noted in some surprise—examined the structure thoroughly, tapping on the walls, studying the barred door. Ayshe watched in stoic silence, fighting down feelings of grief and shame.

His inspection concluded, the human turned to Ayshe. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he observed. “More than chance saved you. Once the dragon attacks, no structure, from shed to fortress, stands. in its way. The gods seem to have preserved you for another fate.”

Ayshe said nothing but clenched his hands until his nails dug into his palms and left scarlet half circles in the flesh.

Gallipol, whose irritation had been growing more and more visible, burst into speech. “All right! Fine! You’ve seen what the beast did. It destroyed our people. Now, what help do you bring?”

The human said nothing. He and the elves began to turn away, but the enraged town master slipped around to stand in front of them, his arms folded.

“No, dammit! Answer me! If you bring no help, at least you seem to know something about the creature. Will it return? Can we expect another attack? Where did it come from? And why attack here? We’ve nothing—no coin, no arms beyond those you’ve seen. Dragons covet wealth, so I’ve been told, but we have none. So why attack us?”

The man was silent for a moment then said, “You are safe from further depredations… for the moment.” He seemed about to say something more but held his tongue.

Ayshe joined Gallipol, carrying the axe on which he’d been working. Its blade, long and curving, was honed to a razor sharpness.

“Why should we believe you? You seem to know something of this dragon. Why can’t you tell us more?”

A faint smile touched the man’s lips. He reached out and ran a thumb along the blade of Ayshe’s axe. “You have a good weapon,” he told the dwarf. “Pray to all the gods that yet remain that you never have to use it against the White Wyrm.”

He turned away and shouted something in Elvish. His companions joined him, and the band made their way back to the longboat. Gallipol followed part of the way, hurling questions at their retreating backs, questions to which they made no answers. Silently they shipped their boat and pulled for the dark ship whose sails were outlined against a pale sky.

Dusk came more quickly since the year was waning. Ayshe stood by the forge’s fire, but his mind was not on his work.

Clearly the strangers knew what the great white dragon was. They might even know why it had attacked the town. Yet they would not tell the villagers.

A figure emerged from the darkness. Gallipol stepped forward to warm his hands at the forge. After an interval, he looked at the dwarf. “Well, Ayshe, what thought you of the strangers?”

The dwarf shrugged. “They’re elves—long of face and high of nose, ragged travelers though this bunch be. We should waste no more time on them.”

The mayor nodded. “True. Though they seem to know more of the dragon than they told us. And right now, we need to know as much as we can about the beast, so we can be ready if and when it comes back. I’ve never heard of a dragon attacking somewhere only once and then never returning. Usually the creatures come back, lay waste to everything they find, and gather what wealth they discover to themselves for their hoards.” He looked at the blackness of the sea. “Perhaps these elves would speak more freely between themselves than before us.”

The dwarf grunted. “Aye, perhaps.” He brought his hammer down on a long piece of hot metal. Under his blows, the metal curled around a jig. Later the smith would file one side of the curved iron to a sharp edge and attach it to a wooden handle. The sickle could be used to harvest crops. Assuming, of course, that the villagers survived the winter to plant crops in the spring.

Gallipol watched Ayshe’s actions in silence for some time. Then he said, “That dinghy of Chaval’s. Didn’t he store it in this shed?”

Ayshe nodded. “Aye. It’s there. Not very seaworthy, though, if you were thinking of it for a fishing vessel.”

The village leader shook his head. “No. I had in mind another use for it.”

“Well, I’d planned to patch it—” Ayshe broke off and stared at the mayor. “You’re not thinking of rowing out to that ship?”

Gallipol made an inexpressible gesture with his shoulders and head that showed his indecision. “I don’t know, Ayshe. We’ve got to learn more about the dragon, and these elves know more than they’re telling. If I can slip aboard and spy for a bit…”

Ayshe shook his head. “You’d be caught. And then the village would be without a leader. We don’t need that, what with winter coming on and, from what you’ve said, no help from anyone else. Besides, they’d like as not be speaking Elvish to one another. Do you speak Elvish?”

Gallipol shook his head, his face saying clearly he’d not thought of that difficulty.

Ayshe walked out of the circle of light cast by the forge’s fire and gazed into the night’s blackness. Far off he could see a spark, a mere glint of light that came from the ghostly ship where it rode at anchor.

He shook his head. “Aye. Well. I suppose I’d better go, then.”

“You? Now, wait a minute, Ayshe—”

The dwarf brushed Gallipol aside as he stalked to the shed. “Nay,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m the only one in this village that understands Elvish, though I admit I’m a bit rusty at it. And I expect I’m the only one light enough for the boat to carry me without sinking before she gets a hundred feet out to sea. I’ll see what I can find out and be back by morning’s break. Don’t be disappointed, though, if I learn nothing.”

Swiftly, lest hesitation make a coward of him, he strapped his axe across his shoulder. With Gallipol’s aid, he carried the dinghy and its oars to the beach. The shore was deserted. The surviving townsfolk huddled around fires in the ruins of houses, dining as best they could on scraps of food. The two men launched the boat, though Ayshe looked with concern at the water that swiftly gathered at the bottom of it. He fetched a tin can from the forge for bailing, fitted the oars into the rusted oarlocks, and nodded to Gallipol.

“By my counsel, say nothing of this to anyone until I’m back.”

The leader nodded. “Thank you, Ayshe. Be careful.”

“Oh, aye. I’ll be that. I’m already regretting letting you talk me into this.” Ayshe’s beard shook and wagged as he seated himself in the boat and pulled on the oars, disappearing rapidly into the darkness.

Though most dwarves dislike water, boats, and swimming, Ayshe had been around the sea long enough to develop some skill in a boat, even one as decrepit as Chaval’s dinghy. His arms were short but muscular, well suited for rowing, and his legs braced against the sides of the boat as he stretched and pulled, stretched and pulled. He was aided by the fact that the night was a calm one, and there were no waves to fight. He made rapid progress, even though he had to stop from time to time and bail the water from the bottom of his leaky vessel.

He was relieved when his fingers touched the wooden hull of the elves’s ship. Turning, he rowed along the length of the hawser. He reached out and grabbed it, breathing heavily, and hung in the water as the ripples drifted past the silent hulk.

Looking back to shore, he could see several of the villagers’ campfires and thought he could even make out a faint glow where the forge should be, its fire still burning. That would serve him well, he thought, as a landmark for his return journey.

No sound came from the ship. Either they kept no watch or no one had seen Ayshe’s journey. He tied off the boat and breathed a silent prayer to whatever gods were watching him it would still be there and above water when he was ready to leave. Very cautiously the dwarf began to haul himself, hand over hand, up the anchor rope, clinging to it with his feet and legs as well. He passed the name of the ship painted on the bow—the Starfinder—and went on. He saw the figurehead, an elf maid with flowing golden hair pulled back over her shoulders. Somehow he had a feeling he’d seen the image before, perhaps in an old book. He shook his head and bent again to his task. The rope was shiny with seaweed, and his progress was slow.

All at once he heard the sound he dreaded: the soft tread of feet on the deck. He halted, making himself as small as he could against the rope, and waited. He sensed someone at the rail and sent up a prayer to Zivilyn that the elf wouldn’t look down.

“Hail, Feystalen!” came a voice. “What cheer?”

There was a pause, then the watcher replied, “I thought I heard splashing a short time past.”

The first voice chuckled. “Mayhap you did. Some fish or other, I daresay.”

Feystalen sounded unconvinced. “It was big for a fish.” He paused again, listening. “Nay, it’s gone now.”

The two elves turned from the rail, and Ayshe breathed a silent sigh of relief. Fate, it seemed, was with him.

To be on the safe side, he counted very slowly to one hundred, doing his best to ignore the aches in his arms and legs. Then he resumed his climb uninterrupted.

There was a moment of awkwardness in clambering over the rail, but he managed it and crouched on the deck in darkness. Feystalen and his companion had moved to another part of the ship. It crossed Ayshe’s mind to wonder why two elves should have been speaking Common rather than Elvish, but he put the thought from him and concentrated on the task of the moment.

Using the rail as a guide, he edged along the deck. Another might have blundered forward, but the dwarf, with a familiarity with dark underground passages, was content to learn the ship’s geography before making any decisive move.

Before him, stairs led from the foredeck to the main deck, in the middle of which rose the mainmast. A tangle of rigging surrounded it, stretching up into the sky like a giant spider’s web.

To his right Ayshe could dimly see the bars of the capstan. Past the mainmast another stair led to the poop deck, at the top of which he could see the glint of the taffrail in the starlight, as well as the dark outline of the mizzenmast. The deck was piled with coils of rope, casks, boxes bound in iron, and a curious miscellany of tools, weapons, and junk.

The dwarf moved cautiously down the stairs. On his right, below the foremast, the forehatch was a patch of deeper black. Ayshe listened closely, but the only sound was the gentle slap of waves against the ship’s side. The moons of Krynn, riding high in a cloudless sky, illuminated the scene in red and white, casting double shadows across everything. Though the moonlight made it easier for the dwarf to navigate, he might have wished for a murkier night when an intruder would be less obvious to any watchers.

He had just started forward again when his ready ear caught the sound of voices coming his way. Without thinking, he ducked back and crept into the forehatch. He almost stumbled over the ladder head but caught himself just in time. Step by step he lowered himself downward until his feet reached solid planking.

Dwarf vision gave him some abilities to see in the dark, something he’d become acutely aware of during his sojourn in a village of humans. He could see the area he’d entered was lined with barrels, and a narrow passage led between them, ending in a stout wooden door.

The voices that had startled him grew louder, and to Ayshe’s alarm he saw the head of the ladder glow with the light of a lantern. Swiftly he cast about for a hiding place. At the last minute, as a leg appeared on the top rung of the ladder, he pushed behind the barrels, squeezing his body between them and the wall.

The two who descended into the room were elves and speaking Elvish. Ayshe picked up a few words: water, storage and, as he listened, he could make out the general outline of the conversation. It had to do with sufficient supplies of fresh water and what the captain and someone named Harfang would do if the ship ran short. The elves checked the barrels and conferred briefly. Then one went up the ladder. The other, to Ayshe’s alarm, leaned against one of the barrels, drew out a long, thin pipe, and began to smoke. He seemed in no hurry to leave, drawing on his pipe and, in between, murmuring softly to himself some fragment of an Elvish song.

Ayshe was beginning to feel his cramped limbs would never be able to straighten again when there was a rumble of feet on deck and a shouted order from above. Instantly the elf knocked out his pipe and leaped up the ladder.

The dwarf emerged from his hiding place and massaged his knotted arms and legs. Clearly there could be no question of returning to the deck, since all was astir there. He wondered if someone had found his boat, in which case, he’d have a long, cold swim back home. He heard voices shouting commands then, to his horror, a sound he dreaded.

With a creaking and groaning, the capstan turned, raising the anchor.

Ayshe could hear the rattle of sails as the canvas was loosened and made fast. The ship shifted beneath him and stirred along her keel. She was moving.

Only by a supreme effort did he prevent himself from running up the ladder onto the deck. He paced back and forth in the confined space. Every moment, the ship was carrying him farther from his home—or what was left of it. If he could just get a moment to leave the ship unseen, he might still be able to swim the distance back to Thargon. Perhaps he could make it unseen back to his own boat, if it had not been discovered.

Or…

The door behind him slammed open, and an elf, bare-chested and carrying a box on one shoulder, emerged. He gave the dwarf a startled look, shouted, dropped the box, and lunged.

Ayshe dodged and leaped for the ladder. Halfway up he felt the A elf’s hand grip his ankle. He kicked back, struck something that crunched, and heard the elf spit a curse. He clawed his way upward, willing to chance the upper deck.

The doorway of the hatch darkened, and Ayshe, looking up, saw a figure. He had just time to see a handspike descend when darkness overtook him.