Chapter 5

“A dwarf!” snarled one of the taller elves, staring at Ayshe. “What next? We might as well take a kender aboard.”

One of his companions chuckled and spat. “Perhaps when we sight the wyrm he can walk beneath it and stab its belly. No need for him to crawl.”

“Nay,” growled the first one. “If we see the wyrm, I know where this one will be. Cowering on his belly below deck!”

The male tattooed elf said something in an Elvish dialect Ayshe didn’t understand to his sister, who laughed. The second elf looked at them in irritation.

“None of that. Speak so we can all understand. I’ve no need to hear that Kagonesti noise.”

The male Kagonesti—so Ayshe realized the tattooed elves must be—looked at the speaker coolly and said in accented Common, “It’s said that dwarves lead their battles from behind.”

“Aye, that’s so,” observed the first speaker. “First to retreat, last to advance.”

Ayshe felt anger building in his chest. “And what of the elves, now?” he snarled. “Wandering here and there like a pack of rabid, starving dogs. The mighty Qualinesti! The great Silvanesti! Where are your towers now?”

“Maybe still standing if not for the cowardice of the dwarves,” retorted the elf. “When the last war swept over our homeland, we fought Mina and the Knights of Neraka and died where we fought. We brought down Beryllinthranox!”

“Aye, and pulled down your own city of Qualinost in doing so. A fine victory! Many more such and there’ll be no more of you left to tell the tale of your heroism.”

The elf snorted. “Where were the dwarves? Cowering underground in your tunnels. When you weren’t trying to strike bargains with the knights to save your own hides.” He chuckled. “Tunnels like a warren. That’s true enough. Scratch a dwarf and find a rabbit.”

Something inside Ayshe snapped. Once again he saw the frozen, broken bodies of Chaval, Zininia, and their child. They stared at him, eyes wide with reproach. A red mist rose before him and obscured them. He was dimly aware of shouting and of something pulling his arms and legs, finally became aware that the shouts were his own.

He was astride the elf, hands at his throat. The other elves surrounded him, pulling him back and holding him. Feystalen watched the scene, a faint smile wreathing his lips.

Ayshe ceased to struggle against his captors, and the elf rose, massaging his neck and glaring at the dwarf.

“I cry Meet!” he declared. “This… creature… has insulted me and laid hands on me. I cry Meet!”

Feystalen rose briskly to his feet. “Samustalen has cried Meet on Ayshe, son of Balar,” he announced. “All hands on deck.”

One of the Kagonesti twins leaped up the ladder, and Ayshe heard his cry echoing across the ship, commanding the crew’s presence on deck. The other elves followed him up the ladder more slowly. Samustalen was the first to mount the ladder, followed by Feystalen. Ayshe was surrounded by the other elves as he followed them, his heart beating faster. Whatever was meant by “calling Meet,” he had a feeling it was no good to him.

On deck he found the crew mustered, with the notable absence of Captain Tashara. Feystalen stood by Harfang, speaking quietly to the first mate. The man listened, nodded, and raised his hand for silence.

“Ayshe, son of Balar! Samustalen of Qualinost has called Meet on you. How do you respond?”

One of the elves behind Ayshe muttered, “You accept.”

With the barest hesitation, Ayshe replied, “I accept!”

In his cabin in the forecastle of the ship, Malshaunt sat before a table topped with smooth stone. In its center was a shallow indentation. The mage picked up a bottle and poured a silver liquid into the indentation so it formed a pool. He lifted a hand and murmured something, and the ship’s motion smoothed to a gentle rocking that in no way disturbed the pool of silver.

The mage stared hard into the pool and passed his hands above it. He chuckled mirthlessly.

Meet already, he thought. The elves waste no time. Now, Ayshe, son of Balar, we’ll see whether you have what it takes to fight with the sons and daughters of Dragonsbane. Or more likely your corpse will float in the wake of the Starfinder as we pass on our way.

A slight wrinkle creased his forehead. The captain had implied the dwarf had some special role to play in the battle against the wyrm. But what that role was, she had not said, and it was beyond Malshaunt’s imagination that a dwarf could be a significant factor in defeating their enemy.

It was a puzzle, and he disliked puzzles.

“So be it.” The mate held out his hand, and one of the crew handed him a battered lump of chalk. With it, he traced a crude circle on the deck, roughly ten feet in diameter. Another elf, emerging from below deck, handed Harfang two iron tridents.

The mate beckoned the dwarf and elf to the middle of the circle, while the rest of the crew ranged themselves around the edges of the makeshift arena. It was approaching midday, and though the sun was shining brightly overhead, a chill breeze blew through the rigging, making a soft lament that framed the scene.

Harfang spoke to the opponents, his voice carrying so the rest of the audience could hear as well. “Who marks his opponent three times has won the Meet. Step outside the circle and you forfeit.” He handed each of them a trident and retreated. Ayshe and Samustalen stood opposite one another against the edges of the circle.

“Time!” Harfang shouted.

Samustalen darted sideways, scuttling like a crab, twirling the trident in one hand. Ayshe retreated in the other direction, his mind racing. He had little or no experience of this sort of fighting. He’d seen a trident match once or twice in his youth, and he knew enough to keep the edges of the tines slanted up. Beyond that, he was lost.

The elf had the longer reach and the greater height. That much was clear. The circle offered just enough room to maneuver, but the swaying of the deck made it hard for Ayshe to keep his feet, while Samustalen, the experienced sailor, rocked with the motion of the ship, as at home there as he would have been on dry land.

The elf made a sudden leap into the air, coming at Ayshe with the lithe grace of a dancer. As he sprang, he passed the trident from his right hand to his left and slashed.

Ayshe twisted away, trying to keep his face to his opponent, barely keeping his feet beneath him. He felt a burning along his right arm. Looking down, he saw the elf’s blow had torn a long gash in his flesh. Blood dripped onto the deck. From far away he heard Harfang’s voice.

“One!”

The watchers shouted, and their cries startled a pair of gulls from the mainmast. The birds flew away, shrieking a raucous complaint.

The elf bated his teeth at Ayshe. “Come to me, stinking dwarf!” he taunted. “I could fight you with my eyes closed, your smell is so strong.”

Ayshe wasted no breath in answering. His mind was busy turning over possibilities. He remembered a conversation with Chaval the previous year. The smith was mending a sword and used the occasion to give Ayshe an informal lecture on fighting techniques, spiced with anecdotes from his time serving in an army during the War of Souls.

“In any battle,” Chaval had said, “each side has advantages and disadvantages. The art of winning is to know your weaknesses and turn them into strengths, while doing the opposite to your enemy. You, for instance”—he looked critically at the dwarf—“are shorter by two heads than me. I have the advantage of height. But you’re smaller and more compact. Closer to the ground and your center of balance. That makes you harder to hit, and me easier. That is your advantage.”

Ayshe studied Samustalen. He’s faster than me, the dwarf thought. He’s more experienced with a trident. What’s my advantage?

The elf leaped again. This time he cartwheeled across the circle. His trident again passed from one hand to the other, and he slashed down at the dwarf.

Without conscious thought, Ayshe dropped to his knees and slid past the elf. He rocked to his feet and spun around. The elf’s blades had cut a slit in his shirt front, but the flesh beneath was unmarked.

There was a grudging murmur of admiration from the watching elves. Ayshe and Samustalen resumed their cautious circling.

Ayshe took the initiative on the next pass, darting forward to cut at his opponent’s knee. Samustalen twitched away and the stalking resumed.

Ayshe cudgeled his brains. Think! What can you do that an elf can’t? What do you know that he doesn’t?

You’re smaller than him but not by much. You’re slower. How is that an advantage? No, better not dwell on it. What else? What else?

Samustalen stopped circling and began to move slowly across the circle, passing the trident from hand to hand. Ayshe had nowhere to retreat. Any move to the side was quickly cut off by the relentless elf.

In desperation Ayshe dived, rolling himself in a ball. He felt the elf’s blades scrape along his back and heard Harfang’s shout.

“Two!”

Samustalen began the same slow movement back across the circle, the trident poised in his hand. The faces of the elves grew more intent as they watched for the end of the contest. Of the result, they clearly had no doubt.

The elf passed the trident between his hands, and the dwarf’s eye was momentarily distracted by the flash of the steel.

No, he corrected himself. Not steel. Iron.

Something stirred in his mind. Something Chaval had told him when he first came to work for the smith.

What do I know? I know about weapons. I know how to make them. I know their strengths.

And their weaknesses.

Samustalen jumped forward. Ayshe kept his eye on the elf’s trident. It was in his left hand… there! The elf switched it to his right hand. Ayshe struck hard. Not with the blade of his trident but with the wooden handle.

His blow caught the trident just below where the prongs extended from the iron shaft. The metal shattered as if it were glass, and the elf pulled his hand back with a cry. Ayshe brought his own weapon up and gave two quick strokes. Blood streamed from the elf’s arm where the trident’s blades had scored him.

“Two!” Harfang’s voice came across the circle.

Samustalen twisted away to the other side of the arena, staring in disbelief at the hilt of his trident. He looked at the advancing dwarf calmly reversed his weapon, and drew the sharp edge of the iron haft that protruded from the wooden handle across his hand. Then he stepped out of the circle.

Ayshe stopped, uncertain, as Harfang briskly entered the arena.

“Meet has been called, and Meet has been held,” he declared. “Ayshe, son of Balar, is the victor.”

The crowd dispersed to their tasks, some passing steel coins among themselves, settling bets. Ayshe started toward the stairs when an elf stopped him.

“Come with me,” she said.

She led him to a small cabin filled with bottles and jars. She said very little as she expertly bandaged his wounds. The dwarf was content with silence, using the opportunity to absorb what had happened.

He had defeated his opponent, but what would happen next? He was already mistrusted by most of the elves, actively disliked by many. Would someone challenge him again? He could not hope to win a second Meet as he had won his first. Nor would it do him any good among the rest of the crew. For better or worse, he had been taken aboard the Starfinder for the long haul, and he would have to find a way to make his peace with Samustalen and the rest of the crew.

She seemed to read his thoughts, and she smiled at him, bright teeth flashing in a darkened face. “You’ll be fine, Ayshe,” the healer said as she pulled the last wrap of cloth around his arm. “Your wounds will mend in a few days. This”—she lifted a powder she had sprinkled on his wounds before bandaging them—“should ease the pain and make you heal faster.” She looked over her work critically, pursing her lips. “Don’t worry overmuch. I’ve seen worse as the result of a first Meet. Now go.” She pushed him gently toward the door. “You’ve duties to perform.”

He left the healer and slowly made his way forward to his berth. As he entered, he was startled to hear a loud chorus of greetings. The elves gathered round, slapping him on the back, punching him in the shoulder.

“A fine fight,” observed one elf woman, her long hair braided and bound with a leather thong. “You move fast for a dwarf.” There was no malice in the remark, merely professional appraisal.

Another elf had retrieved the remains of Samustalen’s trident and was examining it. “How did you break it?” he asked the dwarf.

Ayshe took the handle and balanced the remains of the weapon in his calloused palm. “The way this was cast,” he explained, “there’s a weakness in the metal. Iron doesn’t have the same tensile strength as steel or even bronze. It’s much more brittle. If the tines strike with the flat or the edge of the blades, they’ll be fine. But a blow against here, where the tines are joined with the shaft—that’s the weak point in the weapon. A hard strike, precisely delivered, can shatter it.”

The elf nodded. “Can you make a weapon without that weakness?”

“Oh, aye.”

Chaval and Ayshe had forged many blades, including swords, daggers, and other, more exotic weaponry. The dwarf knew the process well. He took the hilt of the broken trident and examined it carefully. He could forge another weapon from it, stronger and more flexible than the one he’d broken. “The blades will hold an edge better as well,” he remarked.

The elf slid off the barrel on which he’d been sitting and offered his hand. “Amanthor.”

“Ayshe.” The dwarf gripped it.

The others crowded round, introducing themselves and laughing. They were a far different group from the ones who had before been hostile and surly, who had watched and jeered as Ayshe had been marked by Samustalen during the Meet. They were eager to speak with him, almost falling over each other in their efforts to welcome him aboard. Their voices faded as the ladder creaked, the door opened, and Samustalen entered.

Ayshe stood, hoping desperately that their fight would not be resumed in the confined space; To his surprise, the elf walked up to him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Samustalen’s teeth gleamed in the dim light of the cabin.

“Well done, dwarf. There are few who’ve bested me in a Meet.” He looked about, as if seeking confirmation of his words. There were nods from the assembled elves.

“You used a trick, but one that will serve well in battle.”

Ayshe still had his hackles up. “You spoke words about dwarves—” he began.

Samustalen brushed his anger aside. “Pshaw! That was but a way of provoking Meet. We do so with all who come aboard.”

“Aye!” Another elf pushed her way forward. She lifted her shirt, and across the smooth brown skin of her belly, Ayshe saw three long scars, the marks of a trident. “We’ve all had them. A sign of our membership in Dragonsbane.”

The others laughed, save for Samustalen. “Some of us,” he growled at the elf woman, “have scars from more than dueling in Meet.” He turned, pulling up his own shirt to show his back.

Ayshe caught his breath. The lower back and side of the elf were withered and scarred, as if caught in a fiery blast.

Samustalen laughed grimly and dropped his garment. “A present from a red dragon twenty years back.”

The other elves gathered round, chattering. Some displayed scars, won either in duels or from dragon attacks. They seemed absurdly proud of their mutilations.

“So now,” said Jeannara, the elf woman who’d spoken first, “Ayshe, son of Balar, you have your first scars and are welcome in our fellowship.” She pointed to his bandaged arm. “With luck we’ll soon find a dragon, and you’ll have a chance for more.”

The others nodded approval. Ayshe changed the subject.

“What about the captain? Her eyes? That scar? Did she… ?”

“Aye.” Samustalen nodded. “She lost her eyes to the very wyrm we seek now. But we know not how she lost them. As to the scar…” He lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard.

“It was a century and more past, well before I came aboard. Harfang, Malshaunt, Feystalen, and a few more have heard the full story, but no others. They say the wyrm dropped from the sky like a bolt of lightning from the clouds. She snapped the bowsprit and sent our crew flying. But the captain defied the beast, even without her sight. She knew just where the beast was because she smelled its foul vapors.”

“Nay!” another elf said. “She has sight now, as she did then, but all in her mind. She sees farther than any of us. They say she never sleeps, that she sits alone in her cabin, seeking the White Wyrm in her mind, tracking it, plotting its death.”

“True enough!” another chimed in. “She can see the future in a candle and the past in a pool of still water, eyesight or no.”

“I’ve heard,” said another elf, younger by his looks, “that she speaks with the dead, that Huma Dragonsbane himself comes to her in the night and tells her how to fight the White Wyrm.”

“Captain Tashara has no need of advice about how to fight dragons,” said Samustalen. “From the living or the long dead. None can match her skills.”

The forecastle filled with the silence of agreement. At last the elves scattered to their hammocks. Ayshe crawled into his berth. He was unused to it, and the breathing of the other elves, as well as the creaks and groans of the ship as it moved through the sea, kept him awake. Despite the promise of the healer, his arm stung beneath the bandage, and his head ached. He felt exhausted from the events of the day. It occurred to him he’d lost an entire night’s sleep, something that was probably contributing to his headache.

A week earlier, he’d been content, secure in his daily routine, ready, he thought, for what the world might send his way. He’d foreseen nothing beyond the confines of Thargon until he would gradually sink into old age, surrounded by those he loved. But now he was homeless, friendless, cast upon a strange sea with companions he barely knew, bound on a quest he scarcely understood.

He shook himself, turned over, and let the motion of the Starfinder rock him to sleep.