Chapter 9
“We should have helped them!”
Ayshe gave an extra vigor to his polishing of a sword. As the weather grew colder and damper, the weapons carried by Dragonsbane needed more attention, and Ayshe spent the majority of his days below deck, hard at work in his smithy and armory.
It was four days since the Starfinder had left behind the ruins of Horend. When the dwarf closed his eyes at night, he could still see the rush of blood from the mayor’s chest, Tashara’s knife protruding from his chest. Ayshe could not sleep for thinking of Lara and her probable fate as the long, cold winter of Southern Ergoth closed in. Throughout the day, his eyes burned and his legs and arms felt as if they were fashioned of lead. But each night when he climbed wearily into his hammock and tried to let the motion of the ship rock him to sleep, a pair of bright brown eyes in a dark face rose before him.
Samustalen shifted on his stool, and the bowl of his pipe glowed red. “What could we do?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “We couldn’t spare supplies; we’ve only enough for ourselves to last the next month or two. We couldn’t take them with us. There’s not enough room aboard the ship. We couldn’t stay there. We would have been more mouths to feed.”
“We could have stayed long enough to help build them some shelters for the winter,” the dwarf retorted.
“And lost track of the White Wyrm? Not likely while Tashara commands the Starfinder.”
“Your captain’s revenge,” Ayshe said angrily, “means more to you than the lives of…” He paused and stared at Samustalen. “A village of humans.”
Samustalen shrugged. “What does it matter if they are humans? They’ll survive—most of them.”
“Would Tashara have been so quick to leave if they’d been elves?”
Samustalen didn’t answer.
Ayshe seated himself behind a grinding wheel and pumped it into action with his foot. “Because they were humans. Not elves,” he repeated, banging the words with his strokes.
Samustalen leaned forward. “Look, Ayshe. You’re not an elf, but you’re not a human either. Why do you care so much? Humans are short lived and short memoried. Death doesn’t mean as much to them as it does to an elf or a dwarf. Besides, for how many years did we elves rule Silvanesti and Qualinesti? We are the lords of Krynn! Not humans!”
Ayshe shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve lived among these people. They took me in when they could have turned me away.”
The elf snorted. “And from what you’ve told me, you slaved for them day and night. ‘Took you in’! Of course they did! And got an unpaid servant!” He knocked out his pipe. “Trust me, my friend. Don’t put yourself out for humans. You’re better than they are. The elves have helped them. before, and where are we today? Our cities destroyed, our treasure scattered, and our people penniless wanderers across the face of Krynn.” He leaned forward. “I was in a human city once—Palanthas. And do you know how humans looked at me? As if I were no one… less than no one. One boy called me ‘dirty elf’ and threw stones at me, while other children laughed. Do you want me to care what happens to them?” He gave a short bark of laughter and stood.
“Trust me, Ayshe. A world with a few less humans will only be a better world.” He went out, leaving Ayshe brooding over his grinding stone.
Malshaunt paced his cabin, fingers drumming restlessly. Rain slashed against the panes of the windows that looked out over the turbulent sea.
Before him was a small conch shell, magically enhanced, through which he could listen to any conversation anywhere on the ship. The shell was kept a secret from even Tashara, though the mage was never quite sure how much remained hidden from the captain. As her oldest companion, he knew her best of any of the crew, but even to him there were parts of her that were mysterious.
He had been listening through the shell to Ayshe’s conversation with Samustalen. The dwarf’s speech had confirmed to the elf mage all his prejudices against dwarfs; despite their reputation as tough, dour fighters, they were, at bottom, weak and foolish. It made it all the more galling that Tashara had taken the dwarf aboard. For some strange reason, she had taken a special interest in the dwarf, even speaking to the creature on occasion. He speculated on the possibility of the dwarf having an accident—a fall from the rigging, for instance, artfully arranged—but he dismissed the idea as too dangerous. Malshaunt didn’t dare visit any injuries on Ayshe. Somehow the dwarf fit into the captain’s plans for the White Wyrm, and it irritated the mage that he did not understand how.
The beating of the rain against the windows slackened and died. The rocking of the ship slowed. Malshaunt had been so long at sea that he scarcely noticed rough weather or calm. He paced without ceasing. The cabin was tiny, with books scattered here and there; several shelves held a collection of oddities magicians would have instantly recognized as spell components. A worn path across the floor showed the mage’s accustomed route when pacing.
He turned to brooding on the insult he had received from Feystalen. For the mate to have touched him—touched him—was unbearable. Malshaunt was Silvanesti, while Feystalen had come from Qualinost before the city’s fall. Though the elves might unite against humans and other lesser breeds, the antagonism between the elf sects remained smoldering not far beneath the surface.
In fact, none of the crew were worthy of their quest, the mage thought. None understood its magnitude. None understood the true heart of Tashara, though even she was capable of occasional weakness, such as her adoption of the insufferable Harfang. Malshaunt had spent many hours wondering at the foolishness of that decision.
The sound of the wind faded. The ship’s motion slowed. The mage looked up.
Something was different.
Something was wrong.
His conversation with Samustalen made Ayshe. even more restless and uninterested in sleep. He climbed to the deck, which was still damp and dripping with the recently fallen rain, and stood on the foredeck, breathing the air which had turned cold, still thick though dry.
Looking at the constellations overhead through the slowly parting clouds, he sought out Reorx of the forge, god of the dwarves, worshiped by all smiths.
Why? he prayed. Why did you send me on this journey? Was it to teach me the futility of vengeance? To show me how meaningless are the lives of mortals? To show me that no one can understand the ways of the gods? Why?
The stars gazed back through widening gaps in the clouds, cold and silent. Ayshe shivered. An oppressive feeling settled over him that something somewhere was wrong.
Harfang and Feystalen walked across the deck. The first and second mates halted by the rail. Both produced pipes and lit them. A whiff of the fragrant smoke passed over the sea and drifted aimlessly. The elves were silent for a space; then Harfang spoke.
“The night seems to go on forever out there.” He gestured toward the invisible horizon.
“Aye.” Feystalen nodded. “And still we pursue the dragon.”
“Perhaps. We grow closer, though. If Malshaunt is right, we’re scarce two days behind the White Wyrm. That’s as near as I can recall.”
“If the mage is right.”
“He’s studied these matters deeply. He seems sure.”
“He may well be. He’s a queer fellow and knows too much. The captain trusts him too deeply.”
Harfang shrugged. “She’s known him a long time—longer than any of us can imagine. Who else should one trust but the companion of many years?” He cleared his throat. “I heard what happened ashore. You did right, though, to stop him blasting his magic about. It would have made a bad situation worse.”
Feystalen shrugged. “It made him no friend of mine, and I don’t think he cared for me much before it. Now I’ll have to watch my back around him. Sad that I should have to say that of any member of Dragonsbane. Still, there’s something wrong in him. The endless years of this chase have twisted him.”
Harfang nodded. “Aye. But he is devoted to Tashara, you’ll grant that.”
“Too much so, perhaps. He’s lost the ability to think clearly where she’s concerned.”
“What do you mean?” the first mate asked.
Feystalen drew on his pipe. “How long, Harfang, have you chased the White Wyrm? Twenty years now, is it? I’ve pursued it by Tashara’s side for thrice that long. Ever we grow near to it, and ever it slips away. I’ve traversed the length and breadth of Ansalon five times over, and only twice did I catch so much as a glimpse of the beast.”
There was a pause; then Harfang said, “But Tashara seems more confident than I’ve seen her before. This time the signs are strong.”
“Tashara!” Feystalen removed the pipe from his mouth to spit into the sea.
“She is our captain,” the human said sternly. “We are bound by the oaths of Dragonsbane to follow her.”
There was a longer pause.
“D’you ever wonder, Harfang,” Feystalen said at last, “if our captain is…”
“Is what?”
“Entirely sane?”
A third silence ensued, one that seemed to stretch out to eternity. Then Harfang said, “Sane? Of course she is sane!”
Feystalen’s words came in a rush. “Do you remember when you first joined Dragonsbane, Harfang? When you first heard the name? I was a youth when my sire told me, as had his sire before him. My heart swelled with pride. I—I—was to be a dragonslayer, like Huma of old. We would free Krynn from this cursed plague of evil. I left my home in Qualinost and joined the band, battling dragons, slaying them in secret. I felt more alive than I ever have before. And then…”
“And then?”
“I met Tashara. She seemed a worthy leader. I learned of the Great White Wyrm—a worthy foe.
“But the years passed. We came no closer to our enemy. Other dragons ravaged the land, and we fought them now and again, but over time we paid them less and less mind. Our sights became set on one and only one.
“Then came Mina. My people were broken, enslaved, driven into exile. The city of my youth was destroyed and lies shattered beneath the Lake of Death. Now the elves wander, homeless, and we, we are homeless as well. Yet still we continue this endless pursuit, year after year, decade after decade. Would you not call that mad?”
“I would call it dedication.”
“An admirable trait. But taken too far it becomes something else.”
Harfang shifted against the rail and relit his pipe. “It’s true,” he said after a bit, “that the captain has changed in recent years. Since the fall of Qualinost, she’s become more silent. In fact, she will go for weeks now barely uttering a word. I make my report to her each day and she listens but says nothing. She barely eats; she never sleeps. The only person she spends time with is Malshaunt. And yet…”
Feystalen finished the sentence for him. “And yet still we drive south—farther south than we’ve ever gone. How long, Harfang? How long do we keep up this pursuit? Until the elves themselves turn gray with age and fall into dotage? Until the line of Dragonsbane has been broken and there are no more sons and daughters to follow the call?”
“What would you have me do? You know Tashara listens to no one and takes advice from no one—save perhaps Malshaunt, and the mage is as devoted to this quest as she is.”
Feystalen glanced about and dropped his voice so that Ayshe had to strain to hear his next words. “The crew would follow you, Harfang. They wait for someone like you to take her place, to lead them. Someone sane.”
The mate drew back in horror. “Are you suggesting… ?”
Feystalen said nothing.
“No. No, Tashara is my captain, still, and where she goes, I follow. You would do well to think hard on your own words, and do as I.”
“Very well. What about Malshaunt? You know as well as I that the mage stands behind Tashara, ever whispering in her ear, and that he drives her onward. Perhaps he is the real trouble, and if he were not here…”
“Malshaunt is a loyal servant of Tashara.”
Feystalen shook his head. “He is a servant to only one part of her: the mad part, the part that will not relinquish this quest even if it destroys her, him, and every one of us. But you are a loyal servant to the captain as well, Harfang. A servant to the best part of her. If the mage were not here, you could appeal to her. If she won’t relinquish the quest, perhaps she would agree to pause, turn from it for a time, and take it up at a future date.”
The first mate stared into the darkness. His pipe, grown cold, rested forgotten in his hand. At length he said, “I like the mage no better than you. And there may be something in what you say. But above all, I’m loyal to Tashara, and she is for the mage. I’ll never forget what she did for me, taking me in and giving me something to believe in. But…” He had some difficulty proceeding. “But I also have a loyalty to Dragonsbane.”
“A higher loyalty,” the second mate prompted.
“Aye. And if I decide she or the mage is endangering our noble tradition…” The first mate left the sentence unfinished.
Feystalen turned back to gaze into the night. “Well,” he observed, “nothing may come of it.” He stretched, catlike, and glanced up, and his hand went to Harfang’s arm.
“What is it?”
The ship continued to move through the water—elf and man could feel the gentle rocking motion as her prow charged forward—but something had changed.
Harfang cursed. “Bloody magic! I tell you, it’s no way to move an honest ship, using magic instead of wind. And right now it isn’t working. Call the crew!”
Feystalen stepped to the ship’s bell and tolled three strokes. Crewmen ran across the deck, and Malshaunt emerged from his cabin to join them.
Harfang spun around as Malshaunt approached him. “Well, mage? Why are the sails no longer full?”
Malshaunt shook his head. “Somethings gone wrong with my spell. I don’t know why.” The mage’s face, usually cold and solemn, was drawn in puzzlement. “I shall try to recast it. Stand back.”
He reached under his robe, brought out two small vials and a gull’s feather, and laid them on the deck. As the others watched in silence, he produced a piece of charcoal and drew a circle on the boards and another circle within it. The contents of one vial he sprinkled along the outer rim of the first circle, while the second vial was used in the same way on the inner circle. Finally, he laid the gull’s feather in the exact center of the double circle. Standing, he held out his hands and repeated a string of words in the ancient language of magic. The last word he shouted, and the gull’s feather disappeared in a puff of flame.
The crew looked up at the sails as they lay slack and useless. For a moment, hope sprang into their eyes, but it faded quickly as nothing happened.
Harfang cursed again. “What’s the good of your sea magic, mage,” he asked savagely, “if it doesn’t work?”
“Keep your tongue off matters of which you’re ignorant,” retorted the mage. “It’s not my magic that has failed.”
The mage glanced over the side of the Starfinder. “We are moving,” he observed.
Feystalen followed his gaze. “But without wind, apparently.”
“I know that, you fool!” Malshaunt snarled. “We must be caught in a powerful current of some kind.”
Harfang ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “All right. If we can’t catch a wind, we’ll have to unship the oars and row out of the current.” He turned to the assembled elves. “You there!”
“Aye, sir!” Samustalen and several other elves stood at attention, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
“Aloft with you,” Harfang snapped. “The wind’s died to nothing, and our good mage’s spell that fills our sails has apparently died as well. Loose every yard of canvas. I want to catch the least breath of breeze.”
“But, sir…” One of the elves stared about, stupid with sleep. “The spell…”
“Did you not hear me just now? The spell’s not working. And when magic fails, we must fall back on older, more reliable ways of passage.” Harfang raised his voice. “Helmsman!”
“Aye, sir!” The shout came from Samath-nyar, who stood at the wheel, his eyes fixed on the flickering needle of the compass.
“What bearing are we making?”
“South-southwest, sir, fourteen degrees.”
“What speed?” Harfang demanded of the second mate.
Feystalen snapped an order. A moment later Samustalen heaved overboard a piece of wood shod with lead at the end of a cord, tied in knots at regular intervals. He let the cord slip through his fingers while Amanthor beside him counted in a monotonous undertone.
“Six knots, sir,” Feystalen reported after a whispered colloquy with his two subordinates.
Harfang raised an eyebrow. “A strong current indeed. Helmsman, take a bearing four degrees east.”
Samath-nyar struggled with the wheel for a time then shook his head. “Huh! It’s no use, sir. The current’s too strong all of a sudden. The funny thing is that the bearing never changes. It’s straight and true as if the gods were steering us.”
Harfang glanced at the compass then at the mage but said not a word.
Meanwhile, other elves had rattled up the lines like monkeys, climbing along the spars, and were busy loosing every other sail the Starfinder possessed. Harfang, leaning over the rail, felt a breeze rushing by his face, but he knew it was nothing more than the wind caused by the ship’s forward motion. When he drew back his head into the shelter of the deck, he could feel the stillness of the air around them. He looked at the ribbons strung from the ratlines to tell the wind’s direction, but they hung motionless.
Malshaunt sat in the middle of his circle, muttering magic words. He tried casting the spell yet again but without results, and in obvious irritation he retired to his cabin.
A few hours passed before Feystalen acknowledged defeat. “It’s no good, sir,” he reported to Harfang. “We’ll have to break out the oars.”
“See to it, then.” Harfang strode back to his position by the wheel, where, at the shoulder of the Kagonesti steersman, he stared at the compass needle as if he could make it move by sheer force of will.
Gray dawn was beginning to show along the eastern horizon. Ayshe was ordered below with others to unship the great oars that were used to row the ship in calm waters or to maneuver her in case of battle at sea.
Four elves per oar sat side by side, stripped to the waist, arms resting on the shafts of the oars. Their eyes were turned to Feystalen, who stood before them, legs akimbo.
“Stroke!” he roared.
As one, the oars lowered into the water, and the elves and Ayshe pulled back on them, muscles straining and popping, eyes bulging with the effort.
“Stroke!
“Stroke!
“Stroke!”
Each seemed harder than the last. Ayshe could feel the sweat running in rivulets down his forehead and neck, trickling into his beard.
“Stroke!
“Stroke!”
“Enough!”
Harfang’s shout came down through the open hatchway.
“Very well. Ship oars and stand to.”
The dwarf felt his breath coming in quick, thick gasps. Next to him, Riadon, slender armed, rested lightly against the oar, completely at his ease.
“It’s no good. The current’s too strong and too wide. We’ll have to ride it out.” Harfang glanced at the rowers. “Good pull, lads. As you were.”
Daylight revealed a barren seascape. The Starfinder was beyond sight of land, and as far as the eye could see, peaceful waters stretched lone and far away. Gone were the crying gulls that had marked their progress south.
Harfang stood on the foredeck holding a cross-staff. Beside him, Feystalen and Otha-nyar pored over a mass of charts.
“We continue at the same rate and in the same direction.” Harfang lowered his cross-staff and made a note on a piece of parchment tacked to the top of a cask.”
Feystalen nodded. “Enstar should be due west”—he gestured vaguely—“but without wind, we’re at the mercy of the blasted current. This calm is like nothing in nature. It bodes ill for us.”
The little group stared at the charts. To the south of Southern Ergoth were two islands: Enstar and the smaller Nostar. Beyond that, only open sea lay to the south. To the west there was nothing but the Southern Sirrion Sea, unless one believed rumors that far, far to the west lay the land of Taladas.
Feystalen drew near to the first mate and lowered his voice. “Have you informed the captain?”
“Aye”
“And?”
“She says nothing. Sits alone staring at nothing with those eyes. I asked her for orders, and she said nothing. I asked her what to tell the crew, and she said nothing.” Harfang brought a hand down on top of the barrel. “Nothing!”
“What about Malshaunt?”
Harfang snorted, contempt in his voice. “He’s sulking in his cabin. Can’t imagine why his spell stopped working. That’s what it’s come down to—we’ve become reliant on his magic, and when that fails, we don’t know what to do. Well, I do!” He looked about. “Muster the crew on deck.”
Moments later the ship’s bell clanged, and the elf crew poured out onto the planks. Harfang and Feystalen faced them from the foredeck. Just as he began speaking, Malshaunt emerged and stood toward the rear of the crew. The mage’s face was once again drawn into a cold stare.
“Dragonsbane!” Harfang declared. “We’re becalmed. Until we gain a wind, we can do nothing but wait. We do not know how long we must wait so I’m imposing rationing. Each of you will receive two pints of water a day, with two ounces of dried beef, an ounce of cheese, and a pound of ship’s bread. Feystalen, you are responsible for proper allocation of the rations.”
There was a faint, disconsolate murmur from the assembled crew.
“Second mate, a barrel of wine. Each of you will receive half a pint to drink success to our long quest and to prepare for what may come.”
The murmured response to that was happier and louder, and Ayshe saw Harfang’s wisdom in tempering austerity with generosity. Feystalen and another elf rolled forward a small cask. The mate drew a tap from his breeches, and his companion handed him a mallet. Swiftly he placed the tap against the barrel and with a blow drove it through.
A cheer burst from the throats of the watching elves. They might have been hailing a great victory instead of initiating a period of belt-tightening.
“Long live Dragonsbane!” shouted one.
“Long live Captain Tashara!”
“Death to the White Wyrm!”
Someone handed Feystalen a tiny cup, and with an exaggerated gesture, he drew a draught. He held it aloft for a moment then lowered the cup to his lips.
The accompanying cheer faltered as he spat wine on the deck in a purple stain.
“Sour!” he gasped into the hush.
“You there,” Harfang snarled at Riadon. “Bring up the other wine barrels.”
In dreadful silence the crew carried up three more casks of the finest Solanthian vintage. Harfang tapped each one of them and tasted, spitting out each mouthful. Without a word, he hoisted one cask to his shoulder and, staggering slightly, carried it to the rail. He heaved, and there was a splash from below.
At a sign from the second mate, the crew disposed of the other wine barrels in like fashion. They floated by the side of the ship, carried by the current, clinging like offspring to their mother.
Harfang turned to Feystalen. “Check the water,” he said in a low voice.
The mate vanished belowdecks and returned shortly, a grim expression on his face. He spoke to Harfang in an undertone. The sailor nodded and gave some further directions.
Harfang approached Ayshe and bent over him. “Smith,” he said softly, “can you make a condenser?”
“A what?”
“A condenser! A condenser! For extracting fresh water from salt water. Can you make one?”
Ayshe shook his head. “I don’t know how. I’ve only seen one once before. And if I recall, it used glass or mirrors. Do we have any on board?”
Harfang’s silence was answer enough. The mate drummed his fingers against the rail.
“You see,” he confided, “most of the water barrels are spoiled as well. We’ve enough for a few days only, even on short rations.”
“If it rains…”
“Aye. If.”
They stared at the clear blue sky that seemed to mock them in its cloudlessness. The sun burned brightly in it, like an ominous eye that watched their plight.
“Somehow we must get out of this damned current.” Harfang struck the rail with the flat of his hand.
“What if we can’t?” Ayshe asked.
“If we can’t, Master Dwarf,” Harfang answered. “If we can’t…”
His eyes searched the horizon.
“Then the gods have pity on us.”