Chapter One
Far across the surging dunes of moonlit sea, the dark wyrm wheeled and, with a
deftness surer than any desert falcon, struck again at the distant and
battered caravel. The serpent caught the topyard in its ebony claws and snapped
the thick timbers like twigs; the topsail tore free and away it flew, a gift to
the wailing salt winds. From the caravel's distant decks rose a flurry of tiny
splinters, arrows and spears hurled by men who looked like insects beneath the
belly of the monster. The black shafts struck its thick scales and bounced away
without causing harm. The beast swooped low over the stern, spun upon its
leathery wing, and returned at once to the vessel. Its talons tore into the
wooden hull as the claws of a lion tear into the flanks of a camel.
A great dune of wind-driven sea rose up before Ruha robbing her eyes of the
faraway caravel and the nightblack dragon. She locked her arms around the
starboard taffrail of her own vessel, a forty-foot cog hired out of
Lormyr, and watched the black waters gather like a mountain beside the ship. The
dune crashed down, and the froth roared over the wales and swirled about her
waist, sweeping her feet from beneath her hips. Ruha hugged the rail as though
it were a husband. The torrent raged on, and each second seemed a minute. The
angry sea dragged at her long aba like a ravisher determined to disrobe her, and
churning tears of foam beat at her face, soaking her veil and her shawl with
cold briny water. Her arms trembled with the strain of holding fast.
At last, the cog heeled to the wind and rose on the heaving sea. The fierce
waters rolled across the deck and poured overboard, carrying with them all the
torrent's rage, and Ruha's smooth-soled sandals found purchase on the wet
planks. She stood and looked toward the distant caravel and saw neither dragon
nor ship, only the splintered tip of a mainmast swaying above the crest of a
faraway dune of water.
Ruha released the taffrail and clambered down the listing deck, half sliding
over the wet planks to where
Captain Fowler stood at the rear of the ship. He was as much ore as human, with
a jutting brow, swinish snout, and tough, grayish-green skin, and he seemed a
strange sort of commander to the eyes of a Bedine witch not long absent from
Anauroch's burning sands. He hugged the tiller with one burly arm, and his gray
eyes never strayed from the ship's single bulging sail.
Ruha grabbed the binnacle, the wooden compass stand before the tiller, and
asked, "Captain Fowler, why do you sail in the wrong direction?" She pointed
over the starboard side. "Do you not see the dragon? Over there!"
"Lady Witch, I know the beast's bearings well enough."
Though his voice was deep and gravelly, the captain spoke with a deliberate
composure that belied his feral aspect. "But even I cannot sail Storm Sprite
full into the wind. We must beat our way."
Ruha had learned a little of the strange speech used by the men who lived upon
the water, enough to know
Fowler meant they had to follow a zigzag course to their goal, and she did not
need the captain to explain why.
Even a woman who had not set eyes on a ship until three days ago could see that
the Storm Sprite could not sail directly against the wind. But she could also
see that
Captain Fowler placed a high value on his vessel, and he was certainly shrewd
enough to make a great show of rushing to the caravel's aid while sailing at
angles shallow enough to ensure he arrived after the battle was done.
Ruha glanced over the starboard side and saw the caravel topping the moonlit
crest of a rolling sea dune. High upon its poop deck sat the dragon, swatting at
the faraway vessel's indiscernible crew as a man slaps at stinging flies.
"Captain Fowler, we have no time for this sailing of a snake's path! By the
time we reach the ship, we shall find nothing but dead men."
"What would you have me do, Witch?" Fowler demanded. "I cannot change the way
the wind blows!"
"And if you could turn the wind, would you have it blow straight at the
caravel?"
The captain scowled, suspicious. "Aye, but first I would call Umberlee up from
the great depths and have her chain her pet."
"That I cannot do. I know nothing of this Umberlee."
Ruha released the binnacle and cupped her hands together. She blew upon her
fingers and spoke the mystical incantation of a wind enchantment. Her breath
shimmered with a pale sapphire glow, then it swirled in her palms, emitting a
low, keening howl such as starving jackals make at night. From Captain Fowler's
throat arose a gasp of surprise, and his gaze swung from his ship's flaxen sail
to the whistling breeze she held in her grasp.
"Lady Witch, what have you there?"
"It is the wind, Captain Fowler." Twinkling blue streamers spilled from Ruha's
hands and spun across the gloomy deck, each adding its own piercing note to the
wailing of the gale. "I am determined to reach that ship before the dragon sinks
it."
"That I can see, but it is no simple thing to bring a ship like Storm Sprite
around. It takes time."
"The dragon will give you no time!"
Ruha raised her hands toward the distant caravel, which now lay hidden behind
another black and looming water dune.
"Hold your magic, Lady Witch!" commanded the captain. "You may have hired this
ship, but I am the—"
The dune broke over the starboard side, and a torrent of white foam came boiling
down the deck. Ruha flung her spell at the distant caravel and saw a dazzling
stream of blue-sparkling wind shoot from the side of her own vessel. She threw
her arms around the binnacle, and the dark waters were upon her. The raging
currents swept her feet from beneath her. Had her elbows not been tightly
wrapped around the slippery wood, surely she would have tumbled overboard and
drowned in the angry black sea. Instead, she locked her fingers into the cloth
of her aba and held fast, and when the torrent had receded, she pulled herself
to her feet.
A few yards off the starboard side hung Ruha's spell, a glittering wedge of blue
air that constantly whirled back on itself, yet steadily drove forth into the
fierce night wind. As this wedge moved forward, its fan-shaped tail broadened
and stretched back toward the Storm Sprite, until it engulfed the whole of the
small cog. A fog of cold indigo vapor spread over the decks, causing the crew to
give many shouts of alarm and promise offerings of treasure to Umberlee, and
eddies of sapphire wind sprang to life atop the taffrail. Azure drafts raced
along the wales and undulated through the ratlines, and pale glowing breezes
twined their way up the mast to spread along the yardarms.
Then a magnificent flapping arose in the sail. The night wind spilled from its
belly, pouring a cascade of swirling turquoise zephyrs down upon the crew, and
the small cog slowed. The sailors wailed in fear, tossing many rings and
earrings overboard to win the favor of their avaricious sea goddess.
"You wretched witch!" Fowler held the tiller at the length of his arm, and his
gray eyes were staring in horror at the pale breeze spiraling along the
lacquered surface. If it troubled the captain to have the scintillating
currents swirling over his green skin also, he showed no sign of it. "What have
you done to my ship?"
"I have done nothing to harm her." Beyond the starboard taffrail, Ruha's wind
spell had stretched to twice the Storm Sprite's length. The glowing breezes had
lost much of their sparkle and swirl, and they were beginning to look like a
flight of spears aimed straight across the churning sea. "Perhaps you should
change course, Captain Fowler. The wind is about to shift."
Fowler glanced at the shining wind spell, then looked at the great water dune
gathering off his ship's starboard side. "I hope you haven't capsized us!"
Ruha met his glower evenly. "And I hope you are done with your stalling, Captain
Fowler."
Fowler's face darkened to stormy purple. He looked forward, and his voice boomed
over the main deck like a thunderclap. "Ready about!"
Terrified though the Storm Sprite's crew might have been, the command sent every
man lurching through the froth to form lines at the braces. So marvelous was
their skill and balance that not one sailor lost his footing, though the raging
sea would have hurled Ruha overboard in an instant. By the time the last man
had taken his place, the final glimmers of blue light were fading from the
rigging. The wind bent to the witch's magic and swirled around to blow against
the gale. The sail filled from the opposite side, and the Storm Sprite heeled
farther into the dune and began to climb its face. The torrents of water
pouring over her decks grew even greater.
"Loose the braces!" Fowler bellowed.
The crew freed the heavy lines that controlled the angle of the yardarms,
leaving the sail to swing free and flap in the wind. The ship righted itself and
slowed as it had earlier, but the starboard wales finally rose out of the water,
and the sea drained off the decks. The captain gave no further commands and did
not take his eyes from the dune's moonlit crest. Ruha saw his lips moving in
silence, and she wondered whether he was cursing her magic or offering some
bribe to the faithless Queen of the
Sea. The Storm Sprite drifted to a full stop, then heeled away from the heaving
sea. It slipped sideways down the face of the great water dune, and Ruha thought
they would capsize.
"Haul the braces!" Fowler commanded.
The crew hauled on the thick lines that trailed down from the yardarms, bringing
the sail around to catch the wind. The flaxen sheet ceased its flapping, then
bulged outward and snapped taut. The sailors grunted, straining to hold the
braces steady, and several were pulled off their feet and left to dangle above
the deck. The ship rolled back toward the dune, and the dark waters boiled over
the decks, flinging strings of men about like beads on a thread. Somehow the
crew held the yardarms in position, and the Storm Sprite lurched forward again.
The taffrail rose above the crest of the dune. In the moonlight, Ruha glimpsed
the distant caravel, the dragon still standing on the poop deck. The beast had
ripped the mizzemnast from its step and was using it like a spear to jab at its
foes, almost too tiny to see, upon the main deck. The witch thought it strange
that the wyrm fought with a makeshift weapon instead of spraying its enemies
with fire or acid, but perhaps the creature feared sinking the vessel and losing
its treasure.
The Storm Sprite's bow cleared the top of the dune, and Captain Fowler shoved
the tiller to one side. The ship's bow swung neatly over the crest, and the sail
sputtered as it lost the wind.
"Fill the sail!"
The command had barely escaped Fowler's lips before the yardarms swung around.
Once more, the sail caught the wind. The Storm Sprite lunged forward and slipped
down the back of the dune so swiftly that it reached the bottom trough before
the captain could give his next command. The prow slammed into the next
rolling dune, and the ship groaned as though her spine would break. A wall of
water roared over the forecastle and rolled down the decks to splash against the
somercastle, then the bow pitched up and the flood drained overboard, carrying
with it two screaming men.
Ruha cried out in alarm. Captain Fowler let out a long breath and fondly patted
the Storm Sprite's tiller.
"That's a fine girl." The half-ore made no remark upon the loss of his crewmen,
but looked forward and, in a calm voice, ordered, "Fasten the braces."
The crew tugged at the brace lines until the last flutter disappeared from the
sail and, with the Storm Sprite rushing madly up the face of the heaving water
dune, secured the lines to the belaying pins. The little cog crested the top and
raced down the other side, then sped, pitching and crashing, toward the distant
caravel. The sailors busied themselves with clearing away the great tangle of
lines scattered over the decks, coiling the loose ends and hanging them in their
proper places, and paid no heed to the misfortune of their two lost fellows.
"Captain Fowler, what of your lost men? Is there nothing you can do for
them?"
The half-ore shrugged and did not look at Ruha. "Even if we could find them, I
would not turn back." His voice was sharp with restrained anger. "They're the
price
Umberlee demanded for letting us come about, and she'd look harshly upon me^f I
tried to bring them back."
Ruha felt a terrible emptiness in her stomach, feeling her spell had brought the
Storm Sprite around too suddenly and caused their loss. "Then I am sorry for
their deaths."
"For their deaths?" Fowler snapped. "And what of
Storm Sprite? She could have lost the rudder or snapped a yardarm!"
"You care more for boards and cloth than for men's lives?"
The captain's jutting brow rose, and his flat nose twitched uncomfortably. He
squared his shoulders and looked forward and did not speak. The crew had
finished the tidying of the lines and now stood in the center of the ship,
clinging to whatever they could find to keep from being swept away by the
cataracts that boiled down the decks each time the bow crashed into another
water dune.
When Fowler finally spoke, his gravelly voice was again deliberate and
composed. "I doubt the world's going to miss those two. They were cutpurses and
murderers both, and if Umberlee doesn't take them for her own, I pity the
shore they wash up on." The captain peered at Ruha from the corner of his narrow
eye, then added, "But I warn you, Storm Sprite is mine. Hiring her does not give
you leave to disregard my commands. While a ship is at sea, the captain is lord
and master, and those who cross him are filthy mutineers. I could sail into Pros
with your rotten carcass hanging from my yardarms, and your friends would not
question your punishment."
Ruha had reason to be glad she still hid her face behind the modest veil other
people, for it would do much to conceal her shock. The Harpers had paid a steep
price for her passage, which, having observed the effect of gold on people in
the Heartlands, she had expected to make her master of the ship. She considered
challenging
Fowler's claim, but saw by his composure and firm manner that he was speaking
the truth. Not for the first time, the witch cursed her ignorance of the strange
customs in this part of the world and wondered if she would ever learn them all.
The Storm Sprite crested another dune, and Ruha saw they had closed half the
distance to the ravaging dragon.
The dark wyrm stood upon the caravel's main deck, facing sternward and digging
through the somercastle like a pangolin after termites. The wings upon its back
were flapping fiercely, knocking aside the cloud of arrows and spears assailing
it from behind. The vessel itself had begun to list, but the bow continued to
slice neatly through the heaving sea, giving Ruha hope that the ship would
survive until they arrived to help. Yet Captain
Fowler had not ordered his men to take up arms. Even with a magic wind driving
his vessel to the rescue, the half-ore still did not mean to give battle.
The Storm Sprite pitched downward, and Ruha lost sight of the battle. "Captain
Fowler, I did not mean to challenge your authority," she said. "I was told that
you are a Harper friend and, despite your mixed blood, a man of honor. I can see
now that my informant was mistaken."
The half-ore's face grew tight. "I have as much honor as any human captain!" he
snapped. "And would I have
Storm Silverhand's name upon my ship if I were not a friend of the Harpers?"
Ruha shrugged. "I know only what my eyes show me—and I can see that you have
not called your men to arms.
You have no intention of aiding that ship."
"You'd do well to worry less about my intentions and think of your assignment.
The Harpers are not given to hiring private ships unless the matter is urgent.
Do you think Lady Silverhand would want you to risk your mission over a fight
that's none of your concern?"
"Storm Silverhand is not here."
The witch's reply was evasive because she did not know the answer to Captain
Fowler's question. Storm Silverhand had told her only that she was to sail to
the port village of Pros, where an important Harper named Vaerana Hawklyn would
be waiting to take her to the city ofElversult. Presumably, Vaerana would
explain Ruha's assignment, but even that was not certain.
Ruha looked toward the distant caravel. "I do know one thing: neither Storm
Silverhand, nor any other
Harper, would turn a blind eye on so many people in such terrible danger. If you
are truly her friend, you know this as well."
The sea was piled high before the Storm Sprite, blocking all sight of the
caravel and its attacker, but Captain
Fowler's gray eyes looked toward the unseen battle and lingered there many
moments.
"It will go better for us, and them, if we arrive after the battle," he said.
"If that dragon sends the Storm Sprite to lie in Umberlee's cold palace, we'll
be of no use to the survivors—or to those waiting in Pros."
Ruha laid a reassuring hand on the half-ore's hairy arm. "Captain Fowler, you
may tell your men to arm themselves. I will not let the dragon sink your ship."
"Lady Witch, sea battles are wild things." The captain's tone was overly
patient, as though he were speaking to a little girl instead of a
desert-hardened witch.
"Even with your magic, you might find you can't keep such a promise."
"Captain Fowler, I have fought more battles than you know. It is true that I
have not won them all, but never have I abandoned someone else out of fear for
myself."
These last words Ruha spoke with particular venom, for she was offended by
Fowler's condescension. "But if you truly value your ship above other men's
lives, the Harpers will guarantee my promise. If the dragon sinks the Storm
Sprite, we will buy you another."
Fowler's face hardened. "And why are you so keen to fight the drake, Witch? Do
you think to redeem yourself for the Voonlar debacle?"
Ruha felt her cheeks redden, and her anger evaporated like water spilled upon
the desert floor. "At least I know why you lack faith in me."
The Voonlar debacle had been Ruha's first assignment.
Storm Silverhand had sent her to work in a Voonlar tavern, where she was to
serve as a secret intermediary and messenger. On her first day, a slave smuggler
had crossed her palm with a silver coin. Ruha, failing to understand the
significance of the gesture, had accepted the offering with thanks, then balked
at delivering the expected services. Feeling slighted, the furious slaver had
refused to accept the coin's return and drawn his dagger. He would certainly
have killed the witch if one of his own men, a Harper spy, had not leapt to her
defense. As it was, she and the spy had been forced to fight their way to
safety, leaving the smuggler free to sell a hundred men, women, and children
into bondage.
"I am sorry for the misery I caused the slaves of Voonlar. Not a night passes
when my nightmares do not ring with their cries." Ruha raised her chin and
locked gazes with the half-ore. "But I assure you, my shame is as nothing
compared to the disgrace of a coward who turns from those he can save."
The half-ore's arm slipped free of the tiller, his lips curling back to show
sharp tusks and yellow fangs, and he stepped toward Ruha. The witch did not back
away, nor did she avoid his eyes, and when there came on the wind a distant roar
and the splintering of ship timbers,
Fowler was the first to glance away.
"Do not fear the dragon," Ruha urged. "My understanding of magic far exceeds
my knowledge of Heartland customs."
Fowler shook his head as though trying to rid himself of some evil thought, and
when he spoke, his voice was as low and guttural as a growl.
"As you wish, then!" He thrust his leathery palm under
Ruha's face. "But give me your pin. I wager this battle will go harder than you
think, and if Umberlee takes offense at your gall, I'll want proof of your
pledge."
Ruha started to object, then thought better and turned away. She reached inside
her aba and removed the
Harper's pin hidden over her heart. It was a small silver brooch fashioned in
the shape of a crescent moon, surrounded by four twinkling stars with a harp
in the center. The pin had once belonged to Lander ofArchenbridge, a valiant
scout who had died helping the Bedine tribes resist an army of rapacious
Zhentarim invaders.
The witch handed the brooch to Fowler. "Guard it well. This pin was once worn by
my beloved, and I cherish it more than life itself."
"That makes the risk the same for both of us." Fowler pinned the brooch inside
his tunic, then hooked his arm around the tiller and turned his attention to the
main


deck. "Man the harpoons! Break out the axes and spears!
Ready yourselves for the attack!"

Every man upon the decks turned an astonished eye toward their captain, and the
crew grumbled its displeasure in one voice. A greasy-haired youth in a thin
cotton tunic and gray, brine-stiffened trousers rushed up the stairs, stopping
at the edge of the half deck.

"Cap'n, sure ye canno' mean to strike that dark thing first?"

"I can and do!" Fowler pulled a key from a chain around his neck and passed it
to the man. "Now, you alley-spawned son of a tavern hag, open the weapon lock
ers before the witch calls the squids to drag us all down to Umberlee!"

The youth's eyes darted toward Ruha. Though the witch did not know who the
squids were or how to summon them, she took some lint from her pocket and
tossed it to the wind, making many strange gestures and reciting her lineage
in the lyrical tongue of the Bedine. The sailor leapt off the stairs and ducked
into the somercastle. Two of his fellows followed him inside, while several
others struggled forward to the forecastle, fighting their way through the
churning froth that boiled over the bow twice every minute.

The magic wind continued to drive the little cog onward. At intervals, Captain
Fowler adjusted the tiller or ordered the crew to tighten a line, and each time
they crested a dune, Ruha marvelled at how the distance between the Storm Sprite
and her goal had closed. The sailors who had gone into the somercastle returned
with boarding axes and spears for their companions, and those who had struggled
forward to the forecastle also reappeared, laden with thick-braided skeins and
barbed harpoons twice a man's height. They tied lines about their waists and
clambered onto the foredeck, where they pulled the oilskins off three ballistae
and, fighting against raging waters and the ship's mad pitching, set to work
stringing the heavy weapons. By the time they fin-


ished, the caravel lay a hundred yards ahead, lumbering forward at a shallow
angle that would present her starboard side to the Storm Sprite.

The battered caravel stretched to five times the length of the little cog. Her
hull, looming dark and sheer in the night, rose from the sea like a cliff. The
wales were crowned by a crest of white railing, broken in many places and draped
with shredded rigging. Her foremast, all that remained of three, could have
scraped a cloud, and carried more cloth than three of the Storm Sprite's sails.

Having torn the somercastle completely off the caravel, the dragon now
crouched on the stern of the ship.
All that could be seen of the dark beast were fluttering black wings as large as
sails, an immense ebony flank, and its serpentine tail sweeping back and forth
across the main deck to keep at bay the warriors behind it.

The wyrm raised a black claw above the starboard wale and flung overboard a
handful of refuse. Among the debris were a pilot's table and three screaming
women.
The witch gasped and would have asked if all sea dragons were so large, except
that she feared the question would alarm Captain Fowler. Instead, she watched as
the Storm
Sprite and the caravel continued to crash toward each other. Already, the two
ships were so close that even when the sea heaved up between them, Ruha did not
lose sight of the wyrm's black wings.

At last, Captain Fowler said, "If that wyrm's not the largest ever to fly the
Dragonmere, I'm the Prince of
Elves." The Storm Sprite's bow crashed into the trough between two great sea
dunes, and the water poured over the forecastle and came frothing down the main
deck. "I
hope your magic arrows are powerful ones. A dragon like that could make short
work of us."

Ruha thought it wiser not to mention that, unlike most sorcerers Fowler had
seen, she could not create magic arrows. Heartland wizards used expensive and
exotic ingredients to cast their spells, but desert witches seldom had access to
such components. Instead, they fashioned


their enchantments from the elements that ruled their lives: wind, sun, sand
and stone, and, most preciously, water. Ruha was particularly adept at sand and
sun magic; unfortunately, water was her weakness.

The witch rummaged through her aba until she found a small piece of obsidian.
"My spell will cut through the wyrm as a scimitar cuts through a camel thief."
She displayed the black sliver. "But your men must also be ready, for the
first blow does not always kill."

Fowler glowered at the dark shard suspiciously. "On my command, Witch." He
flashed a menacing scowl that left no doubt about the consequences of
disobeying. "Not a second before."

Ruha inclined her head. "Of course, Captain."

The Storm Sprite pitched upward. The boiling waters crashed against the
somercastle and poured over the wales, and the little cog rose on the water
dune. Thirty yards off the bow loomed a great wall of dark planks, the hull of
the mighty caravel. The witch raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Fowler shook his
head.

"Harpoons, let go atop!"

They crested the dune. Ruha cried out in shock, for the caravel lay only twenty
yards ahead, with the dragon's mountainous figure still hunched over the stem. A
dozen astonished sailors stood at the great ship's wales, staring down at the
Storm Sprite.

From the bow of the little cog sounded a trio of sonorous throbs. Three barbed
harpoons arced away from the Storm Sprite's ballistae, a long braided rope
trailing from each. The first shaft sailed high over the wales of the devastated
caravel and passed through one of the wyrm's flapping wings. The other two
harpoons dropped lower, piercing the mighty serpent's black scales and sinking
to their butts. The dragon gave a furious roar. Its sinuous neck undulated in
rage, and clouds of roiling black fog shot from the caravel's portholes.

The Storm Sprite started down the rolling dune, and the dragon disappeared
behind the caravel's looming

hull. Ruha thought surely they would smash into the great ship.

Captain Fowler pushed the tiller to port. The Storm
Sprite swung around, though not quickly enough to prevent her bowsprit from
splintering on the other vessel.
The little cog completed her turn, then a tremendous boom filled the air when
she slammed hulls with the great caravel. The impact hurled Ruha to the deck,
and she felt the sliver of obsidian shoot from between her fingers. A terrible
rasping arose between the ships as they rubbed hulls, and the witch knew it
would not be long before they were past each other.

A powerful hand closed around Ruha's wrist, and she felt herself being dragged
toward the tiller. "This is no time to lie about!"

"No, wait!"

Ruha's protest went unheeded, for already Captain
Fowler had pulled her to his side and set her on her feet.
Her eyes darted toward the deck. The planks were wet and as dark as the night
and, even if the obsidian had not washed overboard already, she would never have
found it in time to attack the dragon.

"Ready, Witch!" Fowler ordered. "It's almost time."

Ruha looked forward, raising her eyes toward the wyrm. She found her view
blocked by the huge flaxen square of the Storm Sprite's half-filled sail.
Beneath the sheet's fluttering edge, she could see harpoon lines playing out,
and also the cog's bow slipping past the caravel's massive rudder. The witch
thrust her hand into her aba and found several small pebbles.

Fowler hauled on the tiller, bringing his ship smartly around the stern of the
caravel. The flaxen sail filled with wind and, like a proud stallion spurred to
the gallop, the Storm Sprite leapt forward. The harpoon lines snapped taut,
and a tremendous shudder ran through the cog.

Fowler flashed his tusks. "Now, Lady Witch! Slice that terror out of the sky!"



Ruha pulled the pebbles from her pocket and pivoted around to keep her gaze
fixed on the looming caravel.
Over the stern came a great mass of writhing darkness, the wyrm being dragged
along by the sturdy harpoon lines. The dragon beat the air with its wings,
struggling in vain to right itself and wheel on Its attacker. Its wings were
tattered and strewn with holes, while its dark scales looked strangely tarnished
and dull. Even the serpent's tail ended in a long section of gray, weathered
bone, as though it were suffering from some wasting disease or festering
wound.

Bracing herself against the binnacle, Ruha rolled her pebbles between her palms
and called upon her stone magic. The rocks began to buzz and shake, vibrating so
violently that it hurt her bones to hold them. She tossed the stones up before
her face, and there they hung, sputtering and whirling around each other like
angry wasps.

Recovering from its initial shock, the dragon ceased its flailing and stopped
trying to wheel on its attacker. It beat its wings more slowly and contented
itself with staying aloft.

"I said now, Witch!"

Fowler's eyes were locked on the dragon, and Ruha knew what concerned him.
Smaller wyrms than this could spew fire and acid twice the length of the Storm
Sprite's harpoon lines, and the witch had no illusions about what would happen
if such a spray caught the little cog. The serpent's neck began to curl toward
the
Storm Sprite.

"Wait no longer!" Fowler pleaded.

At last, a faint sapphire gleam appeared inside the pebbles. Ruha blew upon the
swirling stones, at the same time breathing the incantation of a wind spell.
They sizzled away, screeching like banshees and trailing a ribbon of blue
braided light. The dragon had almost brought its head around when the pebbles
tore through its wing and blasted its flank, spraying shards of shattered scales
in every direction. The wyrm stiffened and dropped


toward the water, but when its belly touched the heaving sea dunes, it roared
and once again lifted itself into the
air.

Fowler's face paled from green to yellow. "I was a fool
to listen to you, Witch! To think a woman who'd take a slaver's coin could
know dragons—"

"Captain Fowler, wait." Ruha wrapped an arm around the binnacle, then pointed at
the wyrm. "The spell has
only begun its work."

The half-ore narrowed his eyes and turned back to the dragon, still being
dragged along by the harpoon lines.
The wyrm had curled into the shape of a horseshoe, with both its head and tail
pointing away from the Storm
Sprite. Its wings were fluttering so slowly and sporadically they could barely
keep it aloft, while its serpentine body shuddered with erratic convulsions.

"My pebbles have not stopped moving," Ruha explained. "They are flying about
within the wyrm, tearing it apart from the inside."

"A quick kill would've been better," Fowler grunted.

The captain kept his gaze fixed on the dragon, as though he would not be
satisfied until the thing dropped into the sea and sank out of sight. Behind the
serpent, the battered caravel was lumbering away, rolling wildly from
side-to-side as her crew struggled to bring her under control. Atop the stern,
Ruha saw twenty men standing amidst the wreckage, some holding lanterns while
the rest waved amulets and talismans at the Storm

Sprite.

"That seems a strange custom. Captain Fowler." Ruha
pointed at the men on the caravel's stern. "What does it
mean?"

Fowler shrugged, barely glancing at the display. "Who can tell? She's a foreign
ship. They're probably telling us to mind our own business."

A tarnished scale fluttered off the dragon's back, followed by the spiraling
blue streak of a pebble. Ruha watched closely for more such flashes, as they
indicated


the tiny rocks had demolished the internal organs and were beginning to find
their way out of the body. A second stone shot from the wyrm, then a third and
a fourth, and still the serpent trembled and convulsed but somehow kept from
falling into the sea.

Ruha scowled. Most victims were dead by the time four stones left their bodies.

Captain Fowler must have seen her brow furrow. "How long's it going to take that
wyrm to die?"

"It is a big dragon. Captain."

Another pebble escaped the serpent's body and sphraled away into the heavens,
and Fowler cast an impatient glance toward the departing caravel.

"I'd like to catch her if we can," he said. "A prize like that… If her captain's
a good man, he'll reward us well."

"Captain Fowler, what is this obsession of yours?"
Ruha demanded. "Do you expect treasure for—"

Ruha's question was interrupted when the dragon finally went limp and plummeted
into the water, raising such a splash that buckets of dark sea rained down upon
the Storm Sprite. The harpoon lines throbbed sharply, and the cog nosed into the
water and heeled toward the wyrm. Fowler shoved the tiller to port, bringing his
ship around so sharply she seemed to pivot on her bow.

"Loose the braces!" he boomed. He turned to Ruha and, more quietly, asked, "If
you'd be kind enough to call off your wind. Lady Witch."

Ruha uttered a single syllable, and the magic breeze died away. The crew loosed
the brace lines, leaving the yardarms to swing free, and the sail snapped and
popped as it flapped loose in the wind. The drag of the wyrm's enormous body
quickly brought the Storm Sprite to a halt. She swung around and began to roll
wildly in the churning sea, still pitching toward the bow and listing toward the
wyrm.

All at once, the crew broke into a tremendous cheer, many of them calling
Umberlee's favor upon the witch's head. A great swell of pride filled Ruha's
breast, and for

the first time since the debacle in Voonlar, she felt worthy to wear the pin
of a Harper.

A loud, sonorous gurgle sounded just off the starboard side. Ruha looked over to
see the dragon's corpse sliding beneath the churning black waters. The Storm
Sprite gave a long groan and listed even farther to starboard, the harpoon lines
swinging toward her hull. Several of the crew lost their footing and would have
fallen overboard had it not been for the quick hands of their comrades.

Ruha looked to Captain Fowler. "Why is the wyrm sinking? Shouldn't it float?"

"Aye, it should." A larcenous gleam filled the half-ore's eyes, and he glanced
toward the bobbing lanterns atop the stern of the departing caravel. "Unless its
belly is filled with foreign gold!"

The Storm Sprite continued to heel, and Ruha shook her head emphatically. "No,
Captain Fowler! Cut it free, or you'll sink us!"

"Cut it free?" the half-ore scoffed. "My crew would mutiny!"

"They would prefer losing the treasure to dying, I am sure."

"Don't be," Fowler said. "It takes a lot of gold to sink a dragon. And there's
the bounty to think of, too. Cormyr pays a thousand gold for each wyrm head
brought to port, and every man gets his share."

"All the gold in the Heartlands will not buy their lives back."

"Aye, but men sell themselves for less every day."
Fowler lifted his chin toward the crew. "If you think they'll forgo their chance
to live like kings, you know less about men than you do about the Heartlands."

Ruha studied the men. As Fowler had claimed, their expressions were more greedy
than fearful, and despite the Storm Sprite's increasing list, not a single
sailor was moving to cut the wyrm free. The cog continued to tip farther,
until at last the harpoon lines ran vertically from the wales into the water.
The heaving sea dunes crashed


over the bow with thunderous force, and the decks sloped so steeply that it
was impossible to stand without holding a halyard or shroud. Still, the crew
made no move to free the ship.

"What's all this standing about?" Fowler yelled.
"Secure the lines to the anchor windlass and prepare to haul!"

An excited murmur filled the air as the crew leapt to the task with surprising
agility, dangling monkeylike from lines and belaying pins. The sea continued to
batter the Storm Sprite, spraying white foam over the decks and threatening to
capsize her all too often, but it took only a few moments for the men to wrap
the lines around the windlass and start winching. Their efficiency did little to
soothe Ruha's nerves. In the desert only fools tempted fate, especially for a
prize as petty as gold.

"What of your reward, Captain Fowler?" The witch glanced toward the departing
caravel. The lanterns atop its stern were still visible whenever the great ship
crested a dune, but the gray outlines of the vessel itself were rapidly fading
into the night. "I thought you wanted to catch the caravel?"

Fowler did not even look over his shoulder. "Not if the dragon pilfered all its
gold."

Several wails of surprise sounded from the windlass;
then the Storm Sprite righted herself so suddenly that half a dozen men fell
flat on the deck.

"What happened?" Fowler boomed. "Why are those lines slack?"

"It—it just happened," came the reply. "The harpoons must have pulled free!"

A chorus of disappointed groans rumbled through the crew, but Fowler's gray eyes
shined with alarm. "All of them at once? Never."

The sailors looked at each other with baffled expressions, as though they
expected one of their number to confess to some mistake that explained the
mystery. A
babble sounded ahead of the Storm Sprite and to both

sides of her bow. The little cog fell abruptly silent, and every head aboard
swiveled toward the noises.

Ruha slipped a hand into her aba. "Perhaps the men should retrieve their
weapons, Captain—"

A curtain of black wings rose from the sea ahead, eclipsing the moon's
reflection on the water and casting a shroud of murky darkness over the ship.
The crew gasped in alarm and retreated toward the somercastle, giving no
apparent thought to the spears and axes that lay stowed around the deck.

"What's the matter?" Fowler demanded. As he spoke, a pair of ebony talons shot
from the water on both sides of the bow. There was no hide over the gnarled
fingers, and even the wrists exhibited bare patches of gray, weathered bone. The
claws dug into the wales, and the little cog's bow dipped into the sea. The
half-ore released the tiller and stepped forward. "Cowards! Stand and fight!"

For the first time since Ruha had boarded, the captain's words seemed to have
no effect on his crew. The bravest of them watched over their shoulders as they
opened a hatch or door, but most simply screamed in terror and hurled
themselves through the nearest opening.
Their panic surprised the witch, for until now they had exhibited the unwavering
discipline of men who knew their lives depended upon working together. She
pulled a small crystal of quartz from her pocket, at the same time catching
Fowler's arm with her free hand.

"Your men are braver than this," she said. "It is only the dragon's magic
frightening them."

"Only?" the half-ore scoffed. "It will be enough to sink us!"

Ruha pointed her crystal over the ship's bow. "I am not frightened."

The dragon's head rose into view and, despite her claim, the witch was so
shocked she could not keep the syllables other incantation from fleeing her
mind. She found herself staring not into the slit pupils of a wyrm's diabolic
eyes, but into the vastly more sinister void of two


black, empty sockets. Though a thin layer of shriveled black scales still
clung to the beast's brow and cheeks, its snout was a fleshless blade of cracked
bone and cavernous nostrils. Even the creature's curved horns, once as sturdy
and long as horse lances, were mere splintered stumps of their ancient
magnificence.

"Umberlee have mercy!" Fowler ripped a golden ring from his ear and hurled it
overboard, a piece of bloody lobe still dangling from the clasp. "Save us!"

The dragon's empty-eyed gaze followed the arc of the glimmering earring as it
plunged into the sea, then snapped back to Fowler.

"If you wish mercy, do not throw your gold to Umberlee." The dragon spoke in a
voice as raspy as it was loud, and the mere sound of it made Ruha's legs shake
so that she could hardly keep her feet. "Give it to me, and perhaps your death
shall be quick!"

When Fowler made no move to produce more gold, the dragon opened its jaws,
revealing a hundred broken fangs and a scabrous white tongue, and the Storm
Sprite^s sail billowed toward its mouth. A loud rasp rustled down the length of
the ship, and Ruha realized the serpent was gorging itself with air. She
squeezed the quartz crystal between her thumb and forefinger, at the same time
summoning her spell back to mind.

The rasping ceased, and wisps of dark fog rose from the dragon's nostrils. Ruha
called out the words of a wind spell. The quartz crystal evaporated in a searing
flash, and a bolt of white lightning leapt from her hand. It struck the wyrm's
head with a thunderous bang, hurling desiccated scales and shards of gray bone
high into the air. The creature's neck snapped back, and from its shattered
maw shot a plume of boiling, turbid vapor.

The dragon roared in pain, shaking the Storm Sprite from stem to stem, and the
sea sputtered with the sound of its torn flesh dropping into the water, but the
beast did not slip beneath the surging dunes. Instead, it dug its ebony talons
deep into the ship's wales, then laid its neck

over the bow to display the smoking, mangled crater that had once been its
face.

"Who would do this to me?" the dragon rumbled. "Cast yourself to Umberlee, or
you shall wish you had."

Captain Fowler glanced back at Ruha. His lips were as white as the moon. "Well,
Harper, c-can you k-keep your promise?"

Ruha thrust her shaking hands into her aba and, fearing her efforts would come
to naught, fumbled through her pockets. Live wyrms could be killed, but what
could she—or anyone—do against this dead beast?

The turbid vapor that had spilled from the dragon's maw earlier began to settle
over the front part of the ship. As soon as the dark fog touched the rigging,
lines started to snap and fall, hissing and smoking as though they were on fire.
The sail broke free of the yardarms and fluttered to the deck, as sheer and full
of holes as old lace. The mast, and then all the wood from midships forward,
began to sizzle and fume.

Fowler sank to his knees. "Wretched witch! What have you done to my ship?"

The dragon turned its shattered face toward the captain. "Did she give the
order to interfere with me? Or was it you, thinking of Cormyr's filthy bounty?"

With that, the wyrm withdrew its head and slipped beneath the sea's dark
surface. Ruha stepped to the taffrail and saw the shadow of one huge wing
gliding through the water toward her.

"Captain, did I not promise that the Harpers would buy you another ship?" She
stepped toward the half-ore.
"How can they do that if we perish with this one?"

Fowler looked at Ruha with disbelieving eyes. "You think we've a choice in the
matter? If you could destroy the dragon, you'd have done it by now."

The yardarms broke free and crashed down upon the deck. The thick planks gave
way as though they had been rotting for a hundred years, and the spars struck
several barrels stowed below decks. One of the casks split in two,


spilling a viscous liquid that filled the air with a bitter, caustic stench.
The babble of swirling water sounded behind the Storm Sprite.

Without glancing back, Ruha pointed into the hold
"What is in those casks?"

The half-ore looked puzzled, as though he found it a strange time for Ruha to
question the cargo. "Lamp oil
We've got to have ballast, and it might as well pay—"

A sharp crack sounded from the rear of the deck. Ruha glimpsed the tiller
disappearing through its housing, then three black talons rose into sight and
hooked themselves over the taffrail. The witch grabbed Fowler's arm and jerked
him off the poop deck, pushing him toward a boarding axe down on the main deck.

"I cannot save your ship, Captain, but I can save us.
Go and smash those oil casks."

The half-ore jumped down and retrieved the weapon, then leapt into the hold.
Ruha ducked down beside the somercastle and emptied her pockets of all the
brimstoni powder she possessed, piling it upon the deck before her
A sharp crack sounded from the stern of the ship, thei the Storm Sprite pitched
to her rear. The witch shape< the heap of yellow powder into the figure of a
tiny bird and uttered a wind spell.

The brimstone vanished in a brief flash of yellow, and in its place appeared the
diaphanous form of a yellow canary. Ruha pointed toward the ship's hold, where
Captain Fowler was busy smashing oil casks, and made a quick sweeping motion.
The little bird flitted off to circle the area she had indicated.

A tremendous crackling sounded from the poop deck, and Ruha peered over the edge
to see the dragon's claws ripping into the stern of the ship. She withdrew
another quartz crystal from her aba, then jumped onto the ladder and pointed it
at the creature's pulverized face, yelling a series of nonsensical syllables
that she hoped the beast would mistake for those she had used to cast her first
lightning bolt.


The dragon's head swiveled toward Ruha. She felt oilladen air swirling past
her head and heard the unmistakable rasp of the creature filling its chest.
The beast sucked the diaphanous yellow bird she had created earlier into its
throat. The witch dropped behind the somercastle, squeezing the quartz crystal
and uttering the incantation of a fire spell.

A fiery spark shot from the tip of the crystal, igniting the stream of air being
sucked into the dragon's throat.
Ruha threw herself through the somercastle door. She felt a jolting crash; then
there was a searing fulguration, the smell of wood ash, and finally the cool
bite of saltwater.

Two

Once the numb ringing inside
Ruha's skull abated and it occurred to her that she was still alive, her first
thought was not that she would choke on the saltwater she had swallowed, nor
that the weight of her sodden aba would drag her beneath the dark waters, nor
even that she might bleed to death from her many lacerations. When the witch
opened her eyes and saw the sea heaving all around her, her first thought was
that she would never be found.




The dunes loomed as high as mountains, with rolling, moonlit faces that blocked
Ruha's sight in every direction, making her feel immeasurably alone and
insignificant in the stormy vastness of the Dragonmere. They were maddeningly
inconstant, now lifting her toward the stars, now dropping her into the abyssal
gloom, now carrying her along on steep, tumbling slopes of water. The witch
knew she could not let the sea have its way with her. She had to free herself of
its capricious grasp or die, but her chest was pumping water from her lungs in
racking coughs, and she could barely keep her head above the surface, much
less hold herself steady on the crest of a surging dune long enough to… do what,
Ruha did not know.

In all likelihood, she was not the only one to survive the disintegration of the
Storm Sprite, but there had

been no time to put the little shore boat into the water.
The others would be in the same predicament as Ruha, and no doubt anxious to
blame her for their troubles.

The caravel crew would have every reason to treat the witch more
kindly—providing they came back. Certainly, they had witnessed the explosion
that destroyed the dragon, but would they realize what had happened to the Storm
Sprite? Was their captain an honest man who would turn back to help those who
had helped him?
Ruha could only allow herself to believe that the answer to both questions was
yes; to assume anything else was to lose hope, and to lose hope in Umberlee's
domain was to die.

Still, the caravel would not arrive soon. It would take time for the great
vessel to come around, then she would have to beat her way against the
wind—using only one of the three masts she had once carried, and probably rely
ing upon a tiller half splintered by the dragon attack. By the time she arrived,
the Storm Sprite's wreckage would be strewn across a square mile of heaving sea,
and Ruha knew better than to think any lookout would spy her dark head bobbing
amongst all the oil casks, splintered timbers, and shreds of dragon floating
upon the surging waters.

A large, curved timber appeared atop a nearby dune, its end briefly jutting over
the crest like a great scimitar.
Ruha fixed her eye on the beam. As it glided down the watery slope, she started
to swim, reaching forward and kicking her legs in the fashion Storm Silverhand
had taught her. The witch's shawl and veil had vanished, but her aba remained
securely wrapped about her shoulders, and she had to struggle against both its
clumsy cut and sodden weight to make headway. Nevertheless, she did not even
consider slipping out of the garment. Its pockets were loaded with exotic dirts
and rocks useful for her stone magic. More importantly, all of her spells were
sewn into the interior lining. In the desert, paper and ink were precious
commodities, but there was always plenty


of thread to spare for embroidery.

By the time Ruha reached the timber, she could do no more than throw her arms
over the top and hang there gasping. Though she had not realized it until the
exercise had warmed her body, the water was deceptively cool.
Her joints began to stiffen, and she recalled Fowler's stories of pulling his
sailors aboard, blue and dead after only minutes in the water. But that had been
in northern seas, and the Dragonmere was in the south. The temperature here
could not be so dangerous—or so the witch hoped.

Ruha fought back her growing panic, reminding herself that the sea was not so
different from the desert: it was vast and empty and lonely, with most of the
life lying hidden beneath the surface. True, the dunes moved faster and they
were made of water, but not water that one could drink. That was as precious
here as it was in the sandy wastes. And there was one other similarity, one the
witch did not want to consider: the sea, like
Anauroch, was hospitable to those who knew its ways—and merciless to those who
did not.

Ruha contemplated her growing chill and decided it probably would not kill her.
She was not shivering, she still felt her toes and fingers, and her teeth were
not chattering. All in all, the witch had spent more frigid nights in the
desert, and she suspected that the cool water was keeping her from bleeding to
death. There were dozens of cuts on her body, some both long and deep, but all
stinging bitterly from the salt. The witch could feel her blood swirling about
her, warm and viscous against her skin, but she could not tell how much she had
lost. Had she been on dry land, she would have examined her cuts and bandaged
them all, starting with the worst one first. But in the dark, heaving sea, she
had to content herself with running her fingers over each wound in turn, feeling
for a heavy flow that suggested a severed vein or artery.

Ruha found no rushing streams or pulsing tides, but

she could count her inspection only a partial success. The swirling saltwater
made it difficult to distinguish an oozing flow from a gushing one. In the
end, she decided the mere fact that she did not feel light-headed was proof
enough that she was not bleeding to death. And she thought of at least one good
thing about being adrift: in the desert, some hungry jackal or lion would smell
her blood and come running, but such a thing could not happen at sea. No
creature she knew could follow a scent through water.

Having convinced herself she would not be dead by the time the caravel returned,
Ruha turned her thoughts to making certain she would be found. Her own people,
the
Bedine, used large, curled horns called amarats for such purposes. The witch did
not have an amarat, since only the men were allowed to use them, but she did
have wind magic.

Ruha drew a deep breath. Then, speaking from her belly, she uttered a wind
spell. Within her chest, she felt a tremendous sensation of expansion, as though
her torso were growing as large and round as an oil cask. She tipped her chin
back and cupped a hand around her mouth.

"I am here!" The voice that came from her lips sounded like that of a giant,
deep and resonant. It was so loud that it made the water reverberate like a
drum. "Come and help me!"

Ruha pulled her hand away from her mouth and silently counted to a hundred, then
repeated the message. As before, her voice was that of a giant. The witch
counted again, then fell into a regular pattern of silence and calling. She was
always careful to keep constant both the strength of her voice and the duration
between her cries, hoping that would help the caravel captain determine
whether he was moving closer to her, or farther away.

Ten calls later, Ruha's cries became thunderous croaks, for her throat had begun
to ache from the sheer power of

her booming voice. Nevertheless, she continued to shout, determined not to
vary her routine until her windpipes burst—though she was starting to fear the
cold would kill her first. Goose bumps were rising all over her body, and she
felt a cold numbness creeping into the marrow of her bones. To make matters
worse, the flotsam from the
Storm Sprite was drifting apart faster than she had expected. She could see
nothing close by except a handful of splintered deck planks, an oil cask riding
low in the water, and several slabs of rotten dragon flesh.

As Ruha watched, one of the scaly chunks vanished beneath the sea. The slab did
not slip gently under the surface, as though the meat had become too waterlogged
to float. It plunged downward with a sharp swish, leaving nothing on the
surface except a small circle of swirling water.

Ruha was not entirely puzzled. She had seen fish take insects swimming on the
surface of oasis ponds, but the slab of dragon meat had been as large as her
head. The witch could not even imagine the fish big enough to swallow such a
morsel. She thought other bloody legs dangling in the water and wished for a
larger piece of timber—one onto which she could crawl entirely. Ruha pulled
herjambiya from its sheath and prayed it would not slip from her grasp. The
long, curved dagger was not particularly valuable, but it had once belonged to a
man to whom she had been married for two days. He had died fighting a band of
brutal invaders, and thejambiya was all she had to remember him by.

The time to call came again. "Please hurry! Something is under the water!"

Ruha forced herself not to think about her dangling legs and tried to study the
sea around her, watching to see if the dragon meat continued to disappear. The
task was an impossible one, for no sooner would she glimpse a slab than a dune
would heave up in front of her. When the water subsided, the scaly chunk was as
likely as not to be gone. The witch never glimpsed any telltale circles

to indicate the morsel had been taken by a fish, but she knew better than to
assume she would in such dark, rough water.

Ruha felt herself rise on a dune, then something bumped into her knee and rubbed
past her thigh. Her scream filled the sky with a cry that boomed like thunder.
She thrust herjambiya into the water and sliced into a sinuous body, her
knuckles brushing along a gritty hide. A huge tail fin slapped her arm, and the
creature flitted away.

The witch let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. It had only
been a fish—one as large as a man, but a fish nonetheless—and apparently it
intended her no harm.

A distant voice came to her on the wind. "Keep yelling,
Witch! Do you think I can see you in this murk?"

Ruha glanced toward the voice and saw the blocky silhouette of a small,
makeshift raft cresting the next dune.
On top of it kneeled two figures, both digging into the water with short
sections of deck planking. One of the men appeared rather lanky and gaunt, but
the other was stocky and stout, with the jutting brow and swinish snout of a
half-ore.

Ruha slipped from the crest of her dune and lost sight other rescuers. "I am
here, Captain Fowler! One dune ahead!"

"What was… booming about?" Now that the sea had risen between Ruha and Fowler,
the wind rendered his voice almost inaudible. "Are… hurt?"

"I am well. Something bumped my leg, but it was only a fish."

Fowler's voice remained silent for a brief moment, then suddenly rose above all
the other sounds: "… yourself!
That fish could be a…"

Ruha scowled and tried to pull herself farther onto the beam, but it only
twisted and dumped her back into the sea. She tried again, kicking her feet to
help lift her weight out of the water. Something slammed into the


thick part of her leg. Her arms slipped free of the wet wood, and she felt
herself spin and glide away from the timber. She heard a peal of thunder and
realized it was her own wail of agony, magnified a thousand times by the magic
of her wind spell. A keen, crushing ache erupted in her thigh and raced through
the rest of her body, and finally she noticed the teeth. They were clamped
around the thick part of her leg, driven deep into her flesh.

Ruha thrust her free hand into the water and caught hold of a gritty dorsal fin.
The fish began to work its jaw back and forth, scraping the points of its
serrated teeth across her thigh bone. She pulled herself toward its tail and
plunged herjambiya into its flank, then dragged the curved blade back toward
herself. A torrerrtTofcool, greasy blood gushed from the wound, covering her
hand.

The fish dove, dragging Ruha into the black stillness beneath the sea. She could
not see its lashing body, but it seemed to be the same creature that had bumped
her earlier, about six feet long, with a slender, lashing body and a plethora of
long, pointed fins. She twisted herjambiya in the wound and pushed it toward
the creature's underside, praying she would find something that resembled a
throat.

The blade struck bone, and the jaws other attacker closed more tightly,
threatening to crush her thigh. The fish whipped its head from side-to-side.
Ruha's flesh tore, and her lungs burned with the need for fresh air. She thrust
Yierjambiya into the side of the beast's head and slashed through something
soft. She felt a rush of frothy water, but the creature seemed to feel no pain.
It whipped its body around and went deeper, jerking her after it. A
sharp crack reverberated up her spine, followed by a brutal, stabbing pang
that seemed to spring from her bone marrow itself. The witch opened her
mouth—she could not stop herself—and screamed.

A deafening roar throbbed through the water, striking
Ruha's eardrums with such force that it seemed her entire skull had shattered.
Without realizing she had

raised them, the witch found her hands clamped over her pulsing ears, the hilt
other dead husband's jambiya pressed against her temple. The sound had a much
greater effect on the fish. The creature's body went slack, its jaws opened, and
it began to squirm about drunkenly, nearly tangling itself in her aba before it
scraped its gritty tail across her cheek and vanished into the black waters.

Ruha had a fierce urge to cough and realized that her body had been trying to
fill its air-starved lungs with seawater. She clamped her jaws shut and kicked
toward the surface—then nearly forgot herself and screamed again when a sharp
jolt of pain shot through her thigh bone.
Continuing to kick with her good leg, the witch lowered a hand and found a
mangled circle of flesh just below her left hip. The water felt alarmingly warm,
and she could feel a steady current of blood flowing from the wound.

When Ruha's head finally broke the surface, her ears were still ringing from her
underwater scream. She could not hear the wind wailing, but she did feel its
cool touch upon her skin and immediately started to gasp and cough, causing such
a roar with her booming voice that she felt it in her feet. Already, she was
growing dizzy from blood loss, and she feared she would die before her coughing
spasm ended.

Ruha slipped her jambiya into its sheath and set about unbuckling her belt. As
simple as the task was, she could hardly accomplish it. With only one leg able
to move and both hands required to undo the clasp, she could barely tread water.
Her sodden aba kept dragging her beneath the surface, and she feared that if she
allowed herself to sink too far, she would not have the strength to swim back to
the surface.

From behind Ruha came the muffled, distant-sounding murmur of a man's voice. She
spun herself around and, less than twenty yards away, saw a ragged section of
hull planks lashed to three, low-floating oil casks. Atop the makeshift raft
stood Captain Fowler and the other man,


both shouting at the witch and waving her toward the raft.

"I am unable to swim!" Ruha's voice roared like a falling wall inside her own
head, and both Fowler and his crewman cringed at its volume. "A fish attacked
me. My leg is—"

Ruha's explanation ended in a strangled cry of alarm as a huge, gritty snout
bumped into her back. The witch took three deep breaths while the body of the
great fish brushed along her flank, its dorsal fin harrowing the water like a
ship's prow. At last, the creature passed, drawing a sharp hiss when its massive
tail slapped the witch's mangled leg.

Ruha stopped fussing with her belt and filled her lungs, at the same time
glancing in Captain Fowler's direction. The half-ore's eyes were bulging out of
their sockets, and he was frantically tying a rope around the waist of his
trembling companion.

A mountainous dune rose beside Ruha, and she saw the dark line of a dorsal fin
emerging from its face. She closed her eyes and buried her head in the water, at
the same time voicing the mightiest, deepest bellow her aching throat could
manage. Again, the water throbbed, hammering her eardrums with a terrible,
pulsing ache.

Before the witch could pull her head from the water, the enormous fish hit
her—but she did not feel its long teeth tearing through her torso. Instead, the
beast's nose slipped beneath her hips, and she slid along its spine until the
creature started to roll toward her. With one hand, the witch caught its dorsal
fin and pushed away, narrowly escaping being forced beneath the surface. The
monster floated belly up for a moment, then slowly writhed down into the sea.

The snout of a smaller fish nosed Ruha's shoulder;
then she felt the rough skin of yet another creature rasping across her
foot. "There are more?" she shrieked. "By
Afar, I hate this sea!"

Over the roaring of the dunes came the alarmed mur-


mur of Captain Fowler's voice, so muted by the ringing in
Ruha's ears that she could not understand what he was saying. She looked up and
saw him only ten yards away, pointing in the direction in which the monstrous
fish had vanished a moment earlier. Beside him stood the sailor with the rope
tied around his waist, staring into the dark waters and stubbornly shaking his
head.

The witch filled her lungs with air and spun around to see a huge black fin
slicing toward her, albeit on a somewhat crooked course. She pushed her head
beneath the water and, summoning her voice from deep down in her bowels,
bellowed. Again, the sea pulsed with her fear and anger, and again the great
fish rolled on its back.

Ruha turned toward her rescuers and saw six more of the beasts floating with
their bellies toward the sky. They all had wedge-shaped snouts and small,
pitiless black eyes and shovel-shaped mouths. She began to pull herself through
the surging waters. Her head was spinning from the loss of blood, and she did
not know how she would find the strength to reach the raft before the monsters
recovered and swarmed her again.

The witch had taken no more than three strokes before
Captain Fowler grabbed the reluctant sailor by his collar and belt, and pitched
him into the sea. The man splashed down two yards away. Ruha expected the fellow
to turn away and swim for the raft, but instead he cast an angry glance in her
direction and thrust out his hand. She stretched forward and caught his wrist,
digging her fingernails deep into the flesh of his forearm. The sailor
scowled, but rolled onto his back and started to kick his legs. Captain Fowler
hauled on the rope, pulling them back toward the raft.

Ruha looked over her shoulder and saw the stunned fish already beginning to
twitch and squirm. She wrapped her hand into the short length of rope holding up
the sailor's dingy trousers.

"Cover your ears!" The man cringed at the sound of
Ruha's booming voice. "And keep kicking!"



After the sailor put his hands to his ears, the witch pushed her face beneath
the surface and let out another bellow. The concussion once more stunned the
small fish into inaction, but the monster was too far away. Its fins continued
to flutter, and its immense body slowly rolled in the water.

Ruha felt Fowler's thick hand in her hair. He twisted his fingers into her
unbound tresses and lifted her out of the water. It was a painful way to be
hauled from the sea, but the witch did not complain. She grabbed a lashing and
scrambled completely aboard, hissing in pain as she dragged her savaged leg
across the wet planks. She rolled onto her back and saw the sailor clutching the
edge of the raft, struggling in vain to pull himself aboard.
Behind him, the huge fish had righted itself and was already swinging its snout
toward the raft.

"By the burning face ofAt'ar!" Ruha snarled, swearing her oath in the name of
the fiery Bedine sun goddess. She thrust her hand into her aba and rummaged
through its blood-soaked pockets. "That monster has troubled me enough!"

The sailor looked back toward the great fish. The creature was half-submerged,
snaking a slow, crooked path toward the raft. Captain Fowler reached past Ruha
to grab the man's shoulder, but the fellow shook his head and swam away. At
first, the witch did not understand what he was doing; after his initial
reluctance to help her, he hardly seemed the type to draw a sea-monster away
from his companions. Then, when the beast did not change course, she noticed the
slippery red ribbon she had left on the raft planks. Perhaps lions and jackals
could not follow blood trails through water, but they did not breathe the stuff.

Fish did.

Ruha withdrew two small packets from her pocket, one filled with sand, the other
with lime. She poured the contents of both packages into her palm and spit on
them.
As the witch mixed them together, Captain Fowler took a

boarding axe from his belt and stepped forward to meet the advancing fish. She
grabbed the half-ore's leg and pulled him roughly back.

"This fish belongs to me. Captain." Though Ruha was trying to speak quietly,
Fowler flinched and instinctively retreated from her thunderous voice. She drew
him to her side. "Help me stand."

The captain glanced at the approaching monster, which had now submerged almost
completely. Only the tip of its dorsal fin still showed, slicing across the face
of a heaving dune. Fowler slipped a hand under Ruha's arm and pulled her up.

The dorsal fin was only five yards away when the rising dune swallowed it.
With Fowler's help, Ruha retreated to the back of the raft. A dull buzz started
to drone in her ears, and swirls of dark fog swam along the edges of her vision.
The witch had lost too much blood to be standing. Her knees buckled, and, had it
not been for the captain's support, she would have fallen.

As Ruha struggled to call her spell to mind, a huge gray snout burst from the
water and crashed down on the corner of the raft. A pair of tiny, wide-set eyes
flared briefly; then the monster squirmed forward. The raft listed toward the
trough of the dune, and the witch feared they would flip over. Her vision
narrowed to a black tunnel. She reached out and slapped the fish on the nose,
smearing the sand mixture over its rough hide.

The fish twisted sideways, temporarily preventing the raft from tipping farther,
and opened its mouth. The beast's teeth were as large and ugly as spearheads,
and
Ruha knew they would tear her into bite-size pieces with a single snap. She
uttered the incantation of a stone spell, at the same time hurling herself
backward into
Fowler's arms. They fell onto the deck together, leaving their attacker's great
jaws to clap shut on empty air.

A pearly sheen swept over the head of the great fish and down its huge body. The
creature squirmed farther onto the raft, forcing Ruha and Fowler to the very
edge of

the vessel's high side. It slapped the water with its tail, driving itself
forward, and the magical luster of the witch's spell suddenly drained from its
gritty skin. The beast grew as drab and gray as ash, and the duller it became,
the slower it moved. By the time its jaws were within striking range, the
monster's entire body had grown as drab and motionless as a mudstone sculpture.

Captain Fowler stretched a tentative leg toward the gaping jaws and, when his
foot did not get bitten off, pushed the monstrous head off the raft. The fish
slipped from sight and vanished beneath the dark water as swiftly as a stone.
The witch slumped onto the deck and began fumbling at her buckle, praying she
could stay conscious long enough to tie her belt around her bleeding leg.

Ruha had barely unlocked the clasp before her head thudded onto the planks and
her vision went entirely black. She felt Fowler's stout fingers tugging at the
belt, then the tinny sound of a man's fading voice: "Hey! These sharks…"

Sometime later, the witch awoke to a throbbing leg and the sound of arguing
voices.

"… witch for?" whined the sailor. "She's the reason we're here, I say!"

"I don't give a squid's lips what you say, Arvold! I order a man to swim, I'll
not have to throw him!"

Ruha tried to open her eyes, found the effort too tiring, and settled for
reaching down to feel her savaged leg. Her thigh was girded by a crude
tourniquet, and her aba was torn clear to the hip—that would cost her the use of
a few sand spells, depending upon how easy she found it to reconstruct the torn
symbols. Her flesh was not yet numb and still warm to the touch, so the witch
guessed she had been unconscious no more than two or three minutes.

"There'd have been no need to throw me, if it were worth going in," growled
Arvold. "But there was no call to swim for the witch. We should've let the
sharks take her."

"That's for the captain to say, not you!" Captain


Fowler's declaration was followed by the creak of a weapon's blade being torn
from a plank. "I've no use for cowards, sailmender!"

"Captain Fowler, you have little room to be calling other men cowards." The
spell ofloudness had lapsed when Ruha fell unconscious, so her voice sounded as
weak and frail as that of any woman who had nearly bled to death. "I fail to see
how a man who hurls another into danger is any braver than his victim."

The witch forced her eyes open and raised her head.
Her two companions sat on the front of the raft, each facing the other from
his own corner. Captain Fowler, who was holding a boarding axe in his fist,
brought the weapon down and buried its head in the edge of a plank.

"It's a good thing you were the one in the water, not me." Fowler glared at his
sailmender. "Do you think
Arvold would've pulled us back? He'd have left us to the sharks and thanked
Umberlee for the chum."

Ruha let her head fall back to the deck, then rolled it to one side so she could
study Arvold's face. The sailmender had a sharp-featured face with a hawkish
nose and dark, glistening eyes, and in his expression there was no denial of
anything Fowler claimed. Still, whether he had done it willingly or not, Arvold
had saved the witch at the peril of his own life, and she was not so far gone
from Anauroch that she had forgotten what such an act meant to a Bedine.

"Perhaps what Captain Fowler claims is true, Arvold."
Ruha said. "But even so, you saved my life at the risk of your own. Until I have
done the same, I am yours to command."

Captain Fowler winced at the statement. Arvold's lips curled into a lecherous
grin, and he ran his dark gaze up the witch's exposed leg, over her bare hip,
and up to her dark, ripe lips.

Ruha's cheeks burned with embarrassment, for she was unaccustomed to having men
ogle her naked face.
Save for her short tenure as a spy in Voonlar, she had

ignored the Heartland women's custom of baring their visages in public,
preferring to keep her own face concealed beneath a heavy scarf. All that she
usually showed were her brown eyes, her aquiline nose, and, when her veil
slipped low, the tribal hash marks tattooed on her cheeks.

"Well now!" Arvold continued to leer. "That changes things."

Ruha turned away, raising a hand to cover her face. "I
did not mean I would…" The words caught in her dry throat. "My words did not
imply what you think. In
Anauroch, they are a pledge of allegiance and debt."

"We're not in the desert, witch!" Arvold snarled. "We're in the middle of the
bloody Dragonmere—and I say you owe me something for that, too!"

The raft bounced gently as Arvold crawled across the deck. Ruha let her hand
drop to her jambiya, both angered by the fool's lechery and frightened she would
have to slay him to save her honor. He could not believe she had meant to offer
herself as a woman—or could he?
She raised herself on an elbow and looked toward the sailmender. He stopped just
beyond her reach, his gaze fixed on the curved dagger at her belt.

As Arvold contemplated his next move, a dark fog began to gather at the edges of
Ruha's vision. The sharp angles of the sailmender's face seemed to soften before
her, and his rough complexion grew smooth and yellowish. His hawkish nose
shrank to a more graceful size and curved upward at the end. Folds of skin
appeared at the corner of his eyes, giving them a narrow, slanted appearance,
and his hair turned black and silky.

Ruha's hand loosened around her dagger, but she did not gasp, or even worry that
she was falling into unconsciousness again. She had been suffering visions
since before she could walk, so she recognized the change in
Arvold's face for what it was: a mirage from the future.
Sometime soon, she would meet a man with the face that had appeared over the
sailmender's. She could not say

what would happen then, but she doubted it would be anything good. It was
never anything good.

Ruha's first mirage had been of thousands of butterflies. Later that year, her
tribe had been forced to camp at an oasis infested with moths, and soon every
piece of cloth in the khowwan was full of holes. Later, the face of a handsome
stranger had appeared over that of her husband, Ajaman. Ajaman had died that
night; the handsome stranger had arrived soon after to help Ruha's people
fight the ones who had murdered her husband.
She had eventually taken the stranger, the Harper named Lander, as a lover—only
to see him felled by the same enemy that had slain Ajaman.

Noticing Ruha's distraction, Arvold slid forward, still wearing the face of a
slant-eyed stranger. When he stretched a hand toward her dagger, his fingers
suddenly changed into sharp talons. The flesh of his arm turned black and scaly,
and the pupils of his eyes narrowed into vertical slits with irises as black as
obsidian. A crest of jet-colored fins sprouted along his back, and the long,
lashing tail of a dragon appeared at the base of his spine.

Ruha tried to pull her jambiya, but the sailmender's claw lashed out quick as a
serpent and caught her wrist.
She cried out and slammed her forehead into the strange face. Arvold raised his
free hand to slap her, and it, too, was a black claw.

Captain Fowler appeared behind his sailmender and caught the man's scaly arm.
Arvold's dragon tail disappeared instantly, as did his scales, his talons, and
his crest of dark fins. His pupils grew round, the yellowish tint vanished from
his skin, his nose grew hawkish again, and Fowler continued to hold his wrist.

"Arvold, you know what the witch meant to say. Do you really want to hold her to
the letter of what she said, knowing what she's liable to do if you anger her?"

The sailmender continued to stare at Ruha's bare face, his leer more angry than
lustful. Though she felt bashful and naked without her veil, the witch forced
herself to

return his gaze with an icy glare.

At last, Arvold released the witch's arm. "Ah, Umberlee take you!" He pushed
himself to his corner of the raft.
"If that's how you repay your debts, I'll have nothing to do with you."

Ruha let her head fall back onto the deck, weakened by both her vision and the
trouble with Arvold.

Captain Fowler's swinish face appeared over her.

"Sorry I didn't move faster, Witch," he whispered. "But after you nearly called
me a coward, I—"

Ruha raised a hand. "Do not apologize, Captain. You warned me before not to
question your judgment—and I
should have been able to handle Arvold without your help."

Fowler nodded. "Aye, any Harper should've, but you hesitated—and why you let him
grab your dagger arm,
I'll never know."

"I have lost a lot of blood," Ruha said.

The witch balked at telling Fowler about the mirage, for she had long ago
learned that few people understood her visions. Her own tribe had banished her
from their camps, believing her wicked magic caused the calamities she foresaw.
Even in the Heartlands, she had twice been stoned for warning people of
disasters about to befall them, and once she had been accosted for not
foreseeing a catastrophe that befell the flirtatious young daughter of the mayor
ofTeshwave.

The witch rolled her head away from Fowler. "Perhaps
I was just too weak."

The captain checked the tourniquet on her leg, then laid his leathery palm on
her forehead. "You're losing no more blood, but you do feel cold as a barnacle."
He grabbed her chin and pulled it around so he could look her in the eye. "You
wouldn't be thinking of dying on me, would you Witch?"

Ruha tried to chuckle and failed. "Not without your permission, Captain."

Fowler glared at her from the corner of one eye. "Aye,

that's good." He grabbed the collar of his tunic and turned it inside out,
displaying the Harper's pin Ruha had given to him. "I've every intention of
collecting on your promise—and don't think you can squirm out of it, like you
did with Arvold."

Ruha managed a weak smile. "Get me to Pros, and you shall have your ship."

"That I shall, Witch—and it'll be easier than you think." The captain grinned
broadly, then stood and turned toward the front of the raft. "Arvold, man your
paddle!"

Three

The caravel's bowsprit shot over the dune crest, less the twenty yards from the
raft. Beneath the giant spar, illuminated by the pearlescent sphere of a
silver glass lantern, hung the magnificent sculpture of a square-snouted
dragon. With its delicately curled horns, ball-shaped eyes, and lustrous green
scales, the beast looked nothing like the wyrm that had destroyed the Storm
Sprite. The figurehead's glowering face appeared more reproachful than
vicious, and there was nothing in its expression to suggest bloodlust or
insatiable greed. Still, the thing was clearly a dragon, and that was enough to
give Ruha pause.




The caravel's great prow burst through the back side of the dune, hurling
curtains of spray high into the air.
Ruha pointed at the figurehead.

"Do you see that, Captain Fowler? Is that not a dragon's head?"

The witch sat near the back corner of the raft, her mangled thigh extended
before her. During the twenty minutes it had taken Fowler and Arvold to paddle
into the caravel's path, everything below the tourniquet had grown numb and cool
to the touch, and now the leg was beginning to turn blue, as she could tell
whenever the moon's silver light flashed across her bare flesh.

When Captain Fowler did not comment on the figure-


head, Ruha asked, "Why does the caravel carry such a thing on its bow? Could
that be the reason the dragon
attacked it?"

Fowler set aside the plank he had been using as a paddle. "I think not, Witch.
Half the prows on the Dragonmere bear figureheads of such fiends, to scare off
monsters of the deep."

Ruha studied the figurehead more carefully, then shook her head. "That carving
does not look frightening
to me."

The captain had no time to answer, for the bow of the great caravel was already
slipping past. Along the wales stood a dozen dark figures, all shining storm
lanterns over the rail. Both Fowler and Arvold jumped to their feet and waved
their arms in excitement. From the shadows behind the lantern bearers emerged
a figure holding a large bow nocked with a white, round-nosed arrow.

The man loosed his bowstring. The white shaft sailed over the raft, trailing a
thick dark cord. Fowler let the line fall upon the planks, then grabbed it and
pulled the arrow aboard. He snapped the shank at its base, then he and Arvold
started to thread the rope through the raft lashings. As they worked, the
caravel continued to lumber past, taking up the rescue line's slack at an
alarming pace. The lantern bearers walked toward the great ship's stern, trying
to keep their lights focused upon the raft.
The heaving sea made their task an impossible one, forcing Ruha's companions
to labor in an irritating kaleidoscope of flashing beams. By the time the pair
finished, the rescue line was stretching taut and the lantern bearers were
standing atop what remained of their ship's battered poop deck.

"Hold fast!"

Resuming his place at the front corner, Arvold fell to the deck and grabbed the
edges of the planks. Fowler dropped beside Ruha, flinging one arm over her
shoulders and pinning her to the wet planks. The witch had barely twined her
fingers into the lashings before the


rescue line snapped tight and jerked the raft so violently it left the water.

The flimsy vessel splashed into the water an instant later. From that moment on,
it seemed to Ruha that they spent as much time traveling beneath the surface as
they did above it. Every time they came to another sea dune, the rescue line
would drag them through its steep face, burying the raft under a foamy torrent
that threatened to sweep the witch and her companions into the Dragonmere. A
moment later, they would emerge on the other side and drop into the trough, then
slam into the face of the next dune and disappear beneath the raging sea.

Between dousings, Ruha gasped, "Surely, there is a—"
She grunted as they slammed into a trough. "—a better way to bring us aboard!"

The caravel pulled them through another sea dune.
When they came out the other side, Fowler asked, "Can you fly, Witch?"

"That is bird magic," Ruha answered. "If I could fly, why would… ugh!… why would
I have hired you to sail me across the Dragonmere?"

After they plunged through another dune. Fowler said,
"Then this is the only way. In a Sea this rough, a big ship like that can't be
stopping to take aboard passengers!"

They slammed into another trough; then the ride smoothed out as they entered the
caravel's wake. The ship's crew hauled the raft up to the stern corner and
lowered a rope. Fowler tied Ruha in first, and the line tightened around her
chest. She rose alongside the rudder more than fifteen feet before she reached
the somercastle and began to scrape along its back wall. The witch bit her lip
to keep from crying out. Though her mangled leg was too numb to feel anything,
she had many other cuts and bruises that protested the rough treatment.

After a painful ascent of another ten feet, several pairs of hands caught her
beneath the arms and pulled her into the ruins of a luxurious officer's cabin.
The walls, or rather what remained of them, were draped with silken

tapestries depicting fanciful scenes of domestic bliss, and the floor was
covered by wool carpet as plush and finely loomed as those woven by Ruha's own
people.

A pair of rescuers leaned over the witch, and she gasped. Both men had smooth,
yellow-tinted features, with small noses and narrow, slanted eyes. Neither face
matched the one she had seen in her vision, but they obviously belonged to the
same race as the man in the
mirage.

The elder of the pair, a distinguished-looking man with graying hair and a
yellow patch over one eye, spoke to the other in a Kiting language of short
syllables and fluctuating pitches. Both men were slight of build and no taller
than Ruha herself, and they wore high-necked tunics with long sleeves and hems
that swept the floor.

When the first man finished speaking, the second bowed to him, then bowed to
Ruha. "Please to allow me to present Mandarin Hsieh Han Liu, Imperial Minister
of Spices to Emperor Kao Tsao Shou Tang, Jade—"

The one-eyed man hissed at the speaker, who continued his introduction with
barely a pause, "Jade Monarch of Shou Lung and of all Civilized Lands."

The one-eyed man bowed to Ruha, who sat upright and dipped her chin in return.
Across the cabin, several more small, yellow-skinned men were hauling up the
other end of the rescue line, which they had tossed down to the raft once she
was aboard. Anxious to avoid being dragged overboard if their hands slipped, the
witch began to untie herself.

"I am called Ruha." She spoke directly to the one-eyed man, who could hardly
have corrected his translator without himself understanding Common. "I thank you
for saving my life, Minister Hsieh."

"Many thanks to you, also. You save Emperor's ship, and lives of many humble
servants." Hsieh bowed again, letting pass his facade of not speaking Common. He
motioned to a corner behind Ruha, and an old man with a knobby, shaven head
stepped out of the shadows.



"Please to allow physician to see leg."

"Physician?"

"The mandarin's healer," explained Hsieh's assistant.

When the witch nodded, the physician kneeled at her side and set a box of carved
ivory upon the floor. He pulled her tattered aba away to inspect the savaged leg
The constant deluge of sea water had kept the wound surprisingly clean, so Ruha
saw that the fish had cut a circular laceration into the side other thigh. The
bite was nearly a foot in diameter, and in one place so deep she saw a white
sliver of bone.

Captain Fowler clambered into the cabin and steppfc ~
brusquely to Ruha's side, mercifully drawing her atten tion away from her leg.
"How you faring? Will you live until I get my cog?"

Frowning at the half-ore's swinish face, Hsieh stepped back and called something
sharp through the cabin's shattered doorway.

Ruha cocked an eyebrow at Fowler. "Surely, you do not intend to be rude,
Captain." She gestured to the mandarin. "Allow me to present you to Minister
Hsieh Han
Liu, Imperial Minister of Spices to the Emperor Kao Tsao
Shou Tang—"

"Jade Dragon of Shou Lung and all civilized lands—I
know." Despite the undue emphasis he had placed on the word civilized, Fowler
bowed deeply to the mandarin.
"I've run cargo for the Ginger Palace a time or two—though I've never had the
pleasure of boarding one of your junks before."

Hsieh relaxed and once again called down the corridor, then returned the
half-ore's bow—though not so deeply, and without taking his gaze from Fowler's
eyes.
"Captain Fowler? Then you give order to attack dragon?"

"Aye." Fowler nodded. "But it was the Lady Witch's idea, and her magic that
destroyed it."

Both the mandarin and his assistant regarded Ruha with renewed respect, and the
physician began to probe her wounds more gently. Hsieh bowed to Ruha again.


"Forgive my discourtesy, but you do not call yourself
Lady Ruha. Do you require anything?"

Ruha scowled, puzzled by Hsieh's reaction. She was accustomed to strange
reactions when people discovered she was a witch, but that did not seem to be
what troubled the mandarin.

"Please, Minister Hsieh, I am not…"

Fowler's head twisted ever so slightly from side to side.

Since the captain had at least some acquaintance with the Shou, Ruha decided to
follow his lead. "Please, I am not accustomed to showing my face. I need a shawl
and
veil."

Hsieh glanced at his translator, who said something
into his ear. The mandarin scowled, and they had a short exchange, then the
assistant bowed and scurried out of
the cabin.

"Yu Po goes to fetch finest scarves from our cargo."

As Hsieh spoke, the physician pulled a pair of silver tongs from his box. The
old man opened the instrument slightly and slipped the jaws into the deepest
part of
Ruha's wound, where she had glimpsed her white bone.

"Say if this hurt. Lady Ruha."

The physician closed the tongs, then worked them back and forth. Ruha heard a
faint crunching sound. She felt a gentle vibration deep in her hip, but her leg
had gone so numb below the tourniquet that she barely noticed the metal rubbing
her mangled flesh. The old man gave his instrument a final twist and withdrew a
huge triangle of serrated tooth.

"When the fish attacked, I… I heard something crack," Ruha gasped. "I thought
the thing had broken my
leg."

"Leg fine. Bone strong."

The physician returned his tongs to the ivory box and withdrew a handful of
yellow powder, which he carefully sprinkled into the bite. Once the entire gash
was filled with the dust, he half-whistled a series of strange, highpitched
syllables. The powder vanished with a flash of


golden light; then a ring of brownish smoke drifted from the wound and filled
the little cabin with the smell of brine and burnt flesh. The old man inspected
the results, then took a hooked needle and a length of black thread from his
box. When he began to sew, Ruha felt nothing more than an occasional tug.

The Shou crewmen soon pulled the raft's last survivor,
Arvold, into the cabin. Hsieh regarded the bedraggled sailmender with an
enigmatic gaze, scrutinizing the shabby tunic and the length of rope that held
up his trousers. He glanced at Captain Fowler, whose dress was only marginally
better, then looked back to Ruha for an introduction.

"The sailmender," Ruha explained.

"Put him where you can watch him," warned Fowler.
"He's a hopeless thief, but he's good with a needle. I'd hate for you to lop off
one of his hands."

Hsieh raised his brow at the frank appraisal, then spoke to two of his men, who
promptly escorted the sailmender out of the cabin.

"They put him with others," explained the mandarin.

"Others?" Ruha could not keep the hope out other voice. She considered the
sinking of the Storm Sprite her doing, and it would ease her conscience to hear
the crew had survived. "How many did you save?"

Hsieh's lip curled disdainfully, whether at the witch's concern or the memory of
the human dregs his crew had dragged from the sea, Ruha did not know.

"We save ten men," the mandarin reported. "But tonrongs do not treat them
well."

"Tonrongs?" Ruha asked.

"Sharks," Fowler explained. "The lions of the sea, 'cept they eat anything, and
they're always hungry."

Hsieh nodded. "Yes. Tonrongs take limbs from four of your men, and they soon
die."

Ruha felt a guilty emptiness in her stomach. Unless they found more survivors,
three-quarters of the Storm
Sprite's crew would perish. She let a weary groan slip

from her lips, which caused the physician to jerk his
bloody finger out other wound.
"So sorry. Lady! Did not mean to cause pain."
Fowler regarded Ruha with renewed concern, then
turned to the physician. "She going to die before we reach
port?"

The physician's shaved scalp turned an angry orange.
"Not die at all! I treat Emperor once!" He tried to slip a finger under Ruha's
tourniquet and barely succeeded, then nodded his head approvingly. "Not even
lose leg—
maybe."

Ruha mewled, then clamped her jaw shut to keep from showing any more fear.
Despite her efforts, her lips began to tremble and beads of cold sweat rolled
down her
brow.

Hsieh spoke harshly to the old man, who paled and stooped even closer to his
work.

"I tell physician if you lose leg, he lose leg. But if he fail anyway, I give
you leg's weight in gold." The generous offer drew an astonished gasp from
Fowler, but the mandarin was not finished. "Also, Emperor's treasury pays for
loss of ship, and more, when we reach Ilipur."

Deciding it would be wiser to let Hsieh draw his own conclusions about who owned
the Storm Sprite, Ruha said, "My business is in Pros, Minister Hsieh. I under
stand it is on the way. Perhaps you would put us ashore there?"

A look of chagrin flashed across the mandarin's face.
"All our gold vanish with dragon. Nothing left on Ginger
Lady but spice and ylang blossom."

"Nevertheless, I prefer—"

"Lady Witch, Ilipur's but a short distance up the shore." Fowler narrowed his
eyes, trying to fill his glower with subtle menace. "It'll take only a few days
extra."

Ruha returned Fowler's glare with a disdainful glance.
"And what of the people I am to meet in Pros? How long will they wait?" She
looked back to Hsieh. "Put us ashore in Pros, and I will ask only one reward of
you."






Hsieh glanced at her sodden aba, no doubt reevaluating his first impression of
her wealth. Only a woman of great resources would decline the reward he had
promised.

The mandarin inclined his head. "If it is in my power, I
give you whatever you ask."

"Please tell me about the dragon. Why did it attack your ship?"

"That's our reward?" Fowler bellowed.

Hsieh's glance darted from Fowler to his crewmen.
Two men quickly flanked the captain, their heads rising barely as high as the
half-ore's brawny shoulders.

"Aboard Ginger Lady, even captain respect Lady."
Hsieh warned.

Fowler's eyes flashed at the admonishment, but he stood very still and made no
further protests.

Hsieh turned back to Ruha, arching his fine eyebrows.
"I do not understand question. Dragon attacks ship to steal gold. That is reason
dragon does anything."

Ruha shook her head. "That wyrm was not an ordinary one, nor does the Ginger
Lady seem an ordinary ship
The creature attacked you for another reason, and the reward I ask is that you
tell me why."

A nervous croak slipped from Fowler's lips. Before the sound could become a
word, the guards seized his hands and folded his wrists inward against their
joints. The half-ore hissed in pain and looked away from the witch.

The mandarin pretended not to notice the captain's slip, but his face lost all
expression and became as unreadable as a stone. "I do not understand, Lady Ruha.
Why do you believe we know dragon?"

The image of a yellow face changing into a black dragon flashed through Ruha's
mind, but she did not even consider telling Hsieh about the mirage. Judging by
Fowler's reactions so far, the Shou were a dangerous people, and she had no idea
how they might react to her visions.

Ruha paused to pick her words, then said, "Does the


Ginger Lady not carry a dragon's figurehead on her prow? And was my captain
mistaken when he called your emperor the Jade Dragon instead of the Jade
Monarch?"

Fowler closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief.

The mandarin showed no sign of anger—or any other emotion. "Lady Ruha, greatest
dragons are not evil. I do not know why evil dragon attacks Ginger Lady, except
to take gold. I go to Elversult on unfortunate business that has nothing to do
with dragon. I never see that dragon before."

"This unfortunate business you speak of, could it involve the dragon?" Ruha
asked.

The narrowing of Hsieh's eyes was barely perceptible, but it was enough to alarm
Fowler.

"Lady Ruha, the Shou are an honorable bunch."
Though the captain struggled to keep his tone deferential, Ruha could hear
both anger and fear lurking just beneath the surface. "If the mandarin's
business has something to do with the dragon, he'd say so. It's—uh—bad manners
to hint he's holding back."

Hsieh nodded. "Am so sorry. Lady Ruha, but you make poor bargain to trade your
due for what little I know of dragon. Perhaps I find some other way to reward
your noble service." The mandarin spoke to his men, then went to the cabin's
shattered doorway and bowed to
Ruha. "Until then, I am most happy to leave you in Pros."

Four

'tThe sky above the Ginger Palace
't-^ was lucid and azure, as it could be nowhere but the arid plain south of the
city ofElversult. Anticipating a pleasant morning of solitude in the confines of
his private park. Prince
Tang crossed the humped back of Five
Color Bridge, strode down the opalpaved Path of Delight, and stopped beneath
the iridescent curve of the Arch ofMany-Hued Scales.




From the sleeve pocket of his maitung—the long silken tunic favored by Shou
noblemen—the prince withdrew a large golden key. It was shaped like a
chameleon's head, with broad shoulder flanges and a sinuous blade resembling a
long, flickering tongue. He rapped the top three times against the entryway's
red-lacquered gates, then inserted the blade into a brass keyway, turned the
latch, and pushed the heavy portals aside.

Prince Tang did not find his pets arrayed before the gate, as they customarily
were. Instead, the rocky plaza was strangely barren, save for a half dozen
buzzing, blueblack mounds scattered along one edge. Beyond the droning fly
clusters, twenty quartzite boulders imported from
Calimshan had been torn from their footings and strewn over the carefully shaped
dunes of the park's desert quarter. In the forest region, circles of bark had
been scratched around the trunks of the most exotic trees, and in the


iungle zone, the meticulously strung jasmine vines lay sliced and twined about
the base of the bamboo stalks.
The swamp area was covered with tangled mats of pink and blue and yellow,
decorative grasses torn from the bottom and left to drift on the murky waters,
while the lotus blossoms and lily pads had been thrown onto the muddy bank to
wither and die.

Tang could see only one of his pets, an elusive, jetblack river monitor. The
great lizard had dragged itself from the swamp and stretched its fifteen-foot
length over a stone bench, leaving its webbed feet, thick tail, and slender head
to dangle over the sides. The beast's neck was twisted toward the gate, as
though it had been awaiting the prince's arrival when the last gleam of hope
seeped from its dull eyes.

Tang stared at the lifeless monitor for several bewildered moments, then
finally realized that some contemptible barbarian had violated the sanctity of
his garden. He retreated through the Arch ofMany-Hued
Scales, screaming as though he had been stabbed.

At the first shriek, a company of ten sentries appeared on the Path of Delight,
emerging from camouflaged posts behind the walkway's white-blossomed hedges. In
the blink of an eye, Tang was encircled by a bristling wall of scale-armored men
equipped with long, curve-bladed halberds. They neither touched their master
nor inquired as to the reason for his scream, but simply stood ready to obey his
orders and defend his life.

Prince Tang entered his garden again, his protective shell of soldiers
compressing around him as he passed through the arch. He stopped inside the
gateway, remaining silent while his guards examined the scene. He did not
speak until their tortoise-shell helmets had stopped pivoting on their shoulders
and the last gasp had fallen
silent.

"How does this happen?" demanded the prince. "Is it not your duty to protect
Garden of Flickering Tongues?"

The company officer, a young moon-faced noble named



Yuan Ti, dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the stones at Tang's
feet. "Mighty Prince, your guards fail you." Since his voice was directed at the
ground
Yuan sounded as though he were mumbling. "We see no one enter garden."

The prince snorted at the explanation. "How could it be otherwise? If you see
intruder, he would be dead would he not?" Only Tang himself used the garden; not
even his wife, Princess Wei Dao, was allowed inside.
Though Yuan could not see the gesture with his head pressed to the ground, the
prince waved his hand at the destruction. "But does no one hear falling of
stones, or scratching of trees, or ripping of vines?"

Yuan kept his brow pressed to the ground. "Great
Majesty, your unworthy guards hear nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing.
Please to punish."

Tang ignored the request. "Go search garden."

The prince could not imagine how his guards had missed the sound of the park
being destroyed, but he knew the young noble would never lie to him. No Shou
officer would commit such a treason, and not only because he feared for his
family's heads. The offense would dishonor his ancestors, causing them to lose
their places in the Celestial Bureaucracy—an offense said ancestors would surely
repay with all manner of curses and incurable plagues.

While the guards searched the park, Tang retreated through the gate and waited
outside, praying to the spirits of his ancestors to guide his sentries to the
vandal who had destroyed his park. Although the imperial weaponmasters had
taught him to wield a sword as well as any man, it did not even occur to him to
stay in the garden and exact vengeance himself. From his earliest childhood, the
prince had been taught to retreat from danger and call his guards to take care
of the problem. It was a lesson he had not ignored once in thirty years of life.

At length, the sentries returned with unbloodied weapons and bowed to Tang.
"Garden of Flickering


Tongues is safe for Mighty Prince."
"You do not find vandal?"
Yuan shook his head. "Only lizards, and only lizard
tracks."

Tang considered this, puzzled not by who had ravaged his garden or why—he knew
the answers to both questions—but by how the intruder had infiltrated the
heart of his palace, vandalized the park, and escaped with his life. Truly, such
a feat was as worthy of admiration as it was of indignation.

When he could not think of how the culprit had escaped. Tang sighed wearily.
"How unfortunate you did not capture the intruder. He has given me much work to
do." The prince always tended his garden himself, calling for aid only when he
needed help to move something heavy. "Return to your posts and punish each
other, ten lashes each."

The faces of the sentries fell. Given the magnitude of their failure, such a
light punishment was humiliating.
Its temperance implied that Tang believed them incapable of doing better—which
happened to be the case, though the prince did not fault the guards for their
inadequacy. Even the most devoted sentries could not capture intruders they
could not see or hear, or find trespassers who left no tracks. Such tasks
required a wu-jen. Unfortunately, the Minister of Magic was currently at odds
with Tang's own sponsor, Mandarin Hsieh Han Liu, the
Imperial Minister of Spices. Consequently, the Emperor's wu-jens were considered
too valuable to waste on an inconsequential embassy like the Ginger Palace. Such
political frustrations were a daily part of the prince's life, and one of the
many reasons he preferred the company of lizards to that of men.

Tang waited until the last guard had stepped aside, then took his key from the
red-lacquered gates and stepped through the Arch ofMany-Hued Scales. When he
turned to close the gates, he glimpsed his guards glumly marching toward the
Five Color Bridge and decided it


would not do to have them brooding over their failure.
They were an elite company, and an elite company without honor was nothing.

"One thing more, my soldiers," he called. "You must double lashes for any man
who fails to draw blood with each whip stroke."

The guards bowed in acknowledgment, and Yuan could barely keep from smiling.
"Yes, Mighty Prince."

Tang closed the gate and put the key in his sleeve pocket, leaving the lock
unlatched in case the mysterious vandal returned. He fetched a small shovel, a
linen sack, and a copper bucket from a tool shanty near the jungle quarter, then
took a deep breath and went to the first mound of flies. As he slid the shovel
beneath the droning heap, the insects rose into the air, revealing a pile of
rancid lizard viscera. Fighting his gorge back, he scooped up the entrails and
placed them in the sack, then filled his bucket from the swamp and washed the
stones.

The work was humiliating for a prince, of course, but
Tang preferred doing it himself to having the serenity of his garden disturbed
by servants. He cleaned up the other mounds of viscera, then placed the bulging
sack by the gate. The entrails had obviously come from the belly of his dead
monitor, for none of the other lizards were large enough to hold so many
intestines. What the prince did not understand was how the intruder had known
itwas his favorite pet, a rare beast captured in the distant land of Chult.
Only his personal staff knew how dearly he had paid for the creature, and they
would no sooner betray him than his guards would.

Tang returned his tools to the shanty, then went over to the dead monitor. He
waved aside a cloud of flies and grabbed the beast by its rear legs.

The beast jerked its feet from the prince's grasp.

Tang cried out and stepped away, his gaze dropping to the black stains that
covered the bench and the stones beneath it. The stuff looked like dried blood,
and the rancid, coppery smell certainly suggested appearances were


correct. He did not see how the monitor could have lost so much blood and
lived. The great lizard raised its head, fixing a dull-eyed gaze on the prince's
face.

"Guards!" Tang stumbled backward toward the gate.
"Yuan! Come quickly!"

The monitor glanced at the gate, and Tang heard the sharp double click of the
heavy lock-bolt sliding into its catch. He fished the key from his sleeve pocket
and continued to retreat, fighting down his growing panic and trying to decide
whether he dared turn his back to make a dash for the gate.

Tang, you cannot flee me.

Tang heard the voice not with his ears, but inside his mind. It was raspy and
rumbling, and even if it had come from the monitor's mouth, it would have been
much too resonant for a lacertilian throat.

That much, you should remember.

"Cy-Cypress?"

The monitor nodded, and Tang's feet suddenly felt as heavy as boulders. At
first, the prince thought the lizard had cast a spell on him, but he quickly
realized that was impossible. The beast had uttered no mystic syllables, nor
made any arcane gestures with its claws. Instead,
Cypress was using what the Shou called the Invisible
Art, an ancient discipline whose practitioners employed nothing but the power of
their own minds to perform supernatural acts. Tang had heard that his unwelcome
guest was a master of the venerable art, but until now, he had been lucky enough
to avoid a demonstration.

Tang's guards arrived at the park entrance and began to hammer on the gates, but
they could not break through with anything short of a battering ram. Both
portals were reinforced with heavy bands of steel, while the lock itself was the
sturdiest Shou smiths could make. The sentries could not even scale the wall, as
it was capped with a double crest of barbed spikes.

Cypress slunk off the bench, allowing Tang to glimpse a deep, white-fleshed gash
that ran the entire length of


the monitor's belly. The beast trundled across the plaza on four stubby legs,
then stopped next to the prince's knee and rolled its lifeless gaze over his
maitung.

Given that we have not seen you in so long, I find this altogether pretentious,

The lizard's tongue darted out to snap at Tang's maitung, which was tailored
with overlapping brown patches resembling the spade-shaped scales of an armored
skink.

How long has it been since you attended Lair?

"You know I resign."

Cypress slipped behind his captive and lashed out with the monitor's huge tail,
catching Tang behind the knees and hurling him face first to the plaza. The
prince's nose and mouth erupted in stinging pain, and he felt the unaccustomed
sensation of warm blood spilling from his nostrils. He tried to rise and found
himself pinned to the ground, his entire body now as heavy as only his feet had
been a moment earlier. He screamed, more in rage than anguish, and wished that
he had a sword in his hand—and the strength to raise it.

The hammering at the gates ceased, then a sharp boom reverberated across the
plaza as several armored bodies slammed into the portals. The thick planks
creaked, but the lock did not give way. Cypress circled around in front of the
prince, barely glancing toward the gates.
have told you, no one resigns from the Cult of the
Dragon!

The monitor took Tang's hand in its mouth. The prince cringed, fearing he would
soon have a bloody stump at the end of his wrist, but the powerful jaws did not
close.
Instead, the beast's agile tongue rolled over Tang's fingers, removing his
golden rings. After doing the same with the other hand, the dead lizard dropped
to its belly and stared the prince in the eye.

/ thank you for the offering. Now, where is my ylang oil?



"Where is Lady Feng?" Tang groaned. "You have oil
when I have mother."

A red ember sparked deep within the lizard's eye, then the beast dragged one
huge claw across the prince's face.

"You dare scratch me?" Tang squawked, astonished that even a spiteful creature
like Cypress would mark a person of Imperial Shou blood. He spat on the beast's
snout, then added, "For that, you die thousand deaths!"

The monitor's gaping jaws opened as though to chomp
Tang's head off; then the beast tipped its head sideways and did not bite. I
think I shall!

A deep, rumbling laugh—more like a cough—rolled up from someplace deep in the
monitor's hollow stomach, and Cypress laid one of the lizard's heavy claws on
the prince's shoulder.

I shall die a thousand deaths—a thousand deaths at
least!

Cypress removed the foot from Tang's shoulder and backed away, still chuckling.
The prince found that his body no longer seemed quite so heavy. He gathered him
self up and stood, one hand pinching his bloody nose.
Another boom echoed across the plaza. The monitor's head turned so that it could
watch the arch with one drab eye and Tang with the other.

Lady Feng informs me that only you know how to press the ylang blossoms, so I
will spare your life—but I am losing patience. If I do not have the oil by
tomorrow, I shall start returning your mother in parts.

"What you ask is impossible! Pressing blossoms take
one week—"

Don't lie to me! I know how long you need to prepare the oil! The monitor
whirled away and started across the
plaza. Tomorrow.

A double click sounded beneath the Arch of Many-
Hued Scales. The gates burst open, and Yuan led the guards into the garden.
Several of the men were only half dressed and bleeding from their whip cuts.
Their eyes went first to the prince's bloody face, then to the

lumbering monitor. To a man, they lowered their halberds and charged.

"No! Stand—"

Tang's command came too late. Cypress ran the monitor's dark gaze from one end
of the company to the other.
As the black eyes fell on each sentry, the man wailed and slapped his palms to
his ears, letting his weapon fly from his hands. In a breath's span, all ten
guards lay writhing on the ground, screaming madly and bleeding from their ears.
The lizard sauntered calmly into the squad's midst, paused to suck the silver
honor ring off each man's thumb, and walked out the gate. By the time Cypress
had lumbered down the Path of Delight onto the Five
Color Bridge, the last sentry had curled into a tight ball and lay staring at
the ground in front of him through gray, sunken eyeballs.

Tang sank to his knees and looked numbly around his garden, absentmindedly
counting all the boulders and trees he would have to replace. At least now he
knew how the vandal had penetrated the heart of his palace; without a wu-jen,
even the most elaborate traps and precautions were doomed to fail against a
master of the Invisible
Art.

From beneath the Arch of Many-Hued Scales came a soft-voiced cough. Tang turned
and saw the lithe form of his diminutive wife, Wei Dao, standing in the gateway.
She had apparently come from her gymnasium, for her brow was wet with sweat, and
she wore a black samfu, a long-sleeved uniform in which she always dressed to
practice empty-hand defense. Today, her attire also included a red throat scarf.
Despite her ruffled hair and flushed complexion, the princess looked as striking
as ever, with generous painted lips, high cheeks, and a watchful, sloe-eyed
gaze.

Wei Dao bowed. "Mighty Prince, please forgive intrusion, but I hear terrible
commotion."

Her eyes darted from her husband's blood-smeared face to the fallen guards, but
she made no comment on


their condition and did not move to help them. As Tang's wife, such things
were as far beneath her dignity as that of the prince himself; at their first
convenience, one of them would inform the commander of the guard that some of
his men were in need of attention.

"I see Chult lizard crossing Five Color Bridge," said
Wei Dao. "It looks in no condition to walk."

Tang rose and crossed the plaza to his wife. "We have unwelcome visitor." He
left the garden and pulled the red-lacquered gates shut behind him. "We need
wu-jen."

Wei Dao considered this a moment, then asked, "To stop dragon?" Then, as though
there could be some question of which dragon she meant, she added, "To stop

Cypress?"

Tang nodded. "I do not understand why, but he comes himself." Cypress seldom
ventured from the gluttonous comfort of his lair and would normally have sent
his high priestess, Indrith Shalla, to deliver the threat. "And he leaves in
body of monitor. Why does dragon want carcass
of giant lizard?"

Wei Dao's eyes flashed. "What do we care?" She took the scarf from around her
neck, revealing the fading remnants of an ugly skin rash, and dabbed at Tang's
bloodsmeared face. "Give him ylang oil before he kill Lady

Feng."

Tang winced at his wife's ministrations. "He does not
kill Lady Feng. She is safe."

Wei Dao began to scrub the claw marks on her husband's cheeks—harder than
necessary, it seemed to him.
"If dragon kills mother, you lose all honor before Emperor.
We never return to Tai Tung. We spend rest of our lives
exiled from court."

Tang could think of worse fates, but he did not dare say so in the presence of
his ambitious wife. "Lady Feng is safe." He pulled Wei Dao's hands away from his
stinging face. "I know."

The princess scowled and tried another tack. "Still better to give Cypress
what he wants. If Lady Feng is not

here when Minister Hsieh arrives, there be many questions. How do you
explain that Cult of Dragon steals
Third Virtuous Concubine?"

Tang pulled away from his wife and pushed his key into the gate lock. "I cannot
give Cypress what he wants."

Wei Dao's perfect mouth twisted into a doubtful frown.
"What do you mean? I see hundreds of ylang blossoms in spicehouse."

"All picked in evening." Tang turned the key and heard the double click of the
bolt shooting into the catch. When the commander of the guard came to fetch his
men, he would have to be entrusted with the key. There was nothing else to be
done; certainly, the garden could not be left unlocked. The prince faced his
wife, then said, "Ylang blossoms picked in evening are not potent."

"Not potent?"

Tang shrugged. "They are good for balms and teas, but potion made from those
blossoms does not last. Only flowers picked in morning have strength to make
perma nent love potion."

Wei Dao narrowed her sloe-eyed gaze. "Why do w have only weak blossoms?"

"Because strong blossoms do not keep long. Even i journey from Shou Lung is
short, they spoil before we sel them all."

Wei Dao shook her head in open disbelief. "No. You d not want venerable mother
to return! You like life of bar barian!"

Unaccustomed to being addressed in such tones, ever by his own wife, the prince
raised his hand—then founi
Wei Dao's wrist pressed against his own, blocking hi strike.

They glared into each other's eyes for a moment, thei
Tang asked, "What if I press oil and spell fails? Wha does Cypress do to Lady
Feng then?"

Wei Dao looked away and did not answer.

"Then we do this my way," Tang said. "We wait to;

Hsieh's ship—then I press oil."



Wei Dao's face paled. "You mean…?"

"Yes." Tang nodded. "Blossoms come on Ginger Lady."

The princess's eyes grew as round as saucers. "And you do not tell Cypress?"

Tang scowled at her naivete. "Secret of oil is to press morning-picked blossoms.
If we tell Cypress, do you think he returns Lady Feng to us?"

Wei Dao lowered her gaze in a practiced show of deference. "My husband, your
wisdom outshines the sun." She even managed a blush. "Please to excuse. I go do
penance
for my doubts."

Tang smiled benevolently, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "Do not be
hard on yourself."

"Oh, but I must." Wei Dao bowed very low, then turned to scurry down the Path of
Delight.

Five

The harbor at Pros seemed equal parts quicksand and mudflat, with just enough
water to float the flatbottomed scow carrying the Storm
Sprite's survivors toward shore. Ruha sat beside Captain Fowler in the front of
the boat—it seemed ludicrous to call the square end a bow—scanning the shanty
town ahead. Most of the buildings were gray, ramshackle affairs in desperate
need of a lime wash. The huts closest to the water hovered above the beach on
flimsy stilts that looked ready to pitch their loads into the mud at the
slightest push. A half-dozen rickety docks jutted far out into the bay. Two of
the piers were empty;



the rest bustled with fishermen unloading their take.

As the scow approached shore, Ruha noticed that most of the catch had the same
high dorsal fins and wedgeshaped heads as the vicious fish that had swarmed
her.
The witch could not even guess how many sharks lay piled upon the piers, but
there were close to two-dozen boats unloading the sharp-toothed monsters.

Ruha looked over her shoulder to the scow pilot, a sour-faced man with leathery
skin and unkempt gray hair. "That seems like a great number of sharks. Do the
people of Pros eat nothing else?"

"They're not for us," the pilot replied. "The Cult of the
Dragon buys all we can take—and it pays mighty well,



I'll add."

Fowler scowled at this. "What for? Shark's hardly a
good-eating fish."

The pilot shrugged. "No one knows, and no one's asked. Since the Cult came to
town, we've learned to keep our noses out of their business. You'd be wise to do
the same."

The pilot barked a command to his rowers, and the
vessel angled toward one of the empty piers. A small gang of shoremen emerged
from the shanties and wandered down the dock, preparing to unload a cargo the
boat did not carry.

Fowler gnashed his tusks, then stood to inspect the small crowd more carefully.
"I don't see Vaerana Hawklyn." He glared down at Ruha's face, veiled behind a
beautiful silk scarf given to her by Minister Hsieh, and fingered the Harper's
pin fastened inside his robe. "If she's not here, how doyou plan to pay me?"

"Vaerana will meet us." The statement was more one of hope than conviction; it
had taken the disabled caravel five days to sail the short distance from the
battle site to
Pros, putting Ruha ashore four days late. "And even if she does not, I have been
given a local name."

"Jonas Tempaltar? No cooper I know has the gold to buy a cog." Fowler cast a
longing glance toward the Ginger Lady, which still lay anchored in the bay,
awaiting a small load of supplies needed to complete her most pressing
repairs. "It's not too late to go to Ilipur."

"Captain, if you wish to return to the Ginger Lady alone, perhaps Minister Hsieh
will give you the reward."

"Not bloody likely." During the voyage to Pros, it had grown apparent that while
Hsieh felt indebted to Ruha, he considered Captain Fowler little better than an
animal, hardly worthy of notice, and certainly not deserving of reward. "I'll
see my gold from the cooper first."

The scow scraped over a mud bar, then slowed as it approached the pier. As the
stubby vessel drifted alongside the dock, the pilot commanded his crew to
raise oars.



The rowers stowed their equipment and threw mooring ropes to the shoremen, who
quickly pulled the boat to the dock and tied it to the piles.

A pair of large warriors in steel breastplates stepped forward to peer into the
empty hold. Both men wore black caps embroidered with the hastily sewn emblem of
a dragon's head.

"No cargo, William?"

The pilot motioned at Ruha and her fellow survivors.
"Only these castaways." He glanced at the emblem on the warriors' black caps,
then added, "A dragon sank their ship."

"That so?" The speaker sneered and glanced at his companion. "That's too bad for
them, ain't it, Godfrey?"

Godfrey nodded. "Terrible, Henry—but they've still got to pay the harbor tax."
He raised a finger and pointed it at each of the survivors. "Let's see, I count
eleven people.
That'll be eleven silver."

"Eleven silver!" Ruha protested. "That's—"

"That's a sight too much," Fowler interrupted. He shot
Ruha a warning scowl, then motioned at two one-legged sailors who had so far
outlived their amputations. "We lost most of our silver when my ship sank.
Besides, you can see some of us aren't whole. We shouldn't have to pay full for
them."

Godfrey eyed the pair's bloody stumps, then laughed heartily. "Very well,
half-fee for the half-men. Ten silver."

Fowler glanced at the long swords hanging from the men's belts, then spread his
hands. "We cannot pay your price."

It was a lie, for Ruha still had twenty silver coins that had been inside her
aba when the Storm Sprite sank, but she did not contradict the captain.

Fowler reached inside his own tunic and withdrew two coins. "How about two
silver?"

"For two silver, we will not let you spit on the dock."
This time, it was Henry who spoke.

Fowler shrugged in resignation, then turned away

from the two warriors. "Pros used to be an honest place. I
don't know what happened."

Godfrey peered over the half-ore's shoulder, then motioned to Ruha's jambiya.
"Let me see that knife. Perhaps we can let you ashore in exchange for that and
the two silver."

"No." Ruha motioned to the coins in Fowler's hands.
"Take those coins or nothing. I will not let you have my jambiya"

Godfrey's eyes hardened, then he and Henry drew their swords. The pilot and his
two rowers leapt out of the scow, and the gang of shoremen backed down the pier.
Fowler picked up an oar, as did Arvold and two more healthy crewmen. The eyes of
the two armored warriors widened at the unanticipated opposition. They glanced
around the quay at the smirking faces of the shoremen and the scow crew, then
gathered their nerve and stepped to within a pace of the scow.

Godfrey stretched his hand toward Ruha. "The dagger—and the silver."

Fowler looked to Ruha. Tour call. Lady Witch."

"Witch?" The color drained from the faces of both warriors, and Henry
whispered, "Maybe we oughta call for some help."

Ruha blew a breath into her hands and began the incantation of a wind spell that
would silence the men's voices—then abruptly stopped as the clamor of galloping
hooves reverberated down the pier. All eyes turned shoreward to see three
riders charging down the quay, two holding cocked crossbows in their hands, the
third leading a string of empty mounts.

The trio was coming so fast the scow crew and shoremen had to leap off the
quay to avoid being ridden down.
Ruha saw that the first rider was a sturdy, florid-faced woman with a flyaway
mane of honey-blonde hair. Like her two companions, she wore an indistinct cloak
over a coat of chain mail and carried a large mace in a sling on her saddle. The
second rider was a grim-jawed man with


a drooping black mustache and stony black eyes, while the third was a rotund
cleric with the heavy silver chain of a holy symbol showing above his collar.
They reined up just short of Godfrey and Henry, and the two with crossbows
aimed their weapons at the two ruffians.

Both warriors lowered swords, and Godfrey hissed,
"Vaerana Hawklyn!"

"You know me?" Vaerana asked. "Too bad for you."

She shot the man in throat. Her companion did likewise to Henry, drawing a
chorus of angry cries from the other quays. Vaerana nonchalantly glanced toward
the shouting, then dismounted and stomped to the edge of the pier.

"Sorry we weren't waiting when you docked, Tusks!" she said, grabbing Fowler's
hand and pulling him onto the pier. "We were expecting the Storm Sprite!"

"We had some dragon trouble." Fowler glanced at the other quays, where dozens of
shouting, black-capped warriors were rushing toward shore, intent on avenging
their comrades' deaths. "Have you lost your mind, Lady Constable?"

Vaerana waved off the captain's concern. "Don't worry about the Black Caps.
They've got a few surprises waiting for them." The Lady Constable turned to
Ruha. "You must be the witch Storm sent me."

"Ruha of the Mtair Dhafir at your service, Lady Constable." Ruha glanced at
the two corpses lying on the pier. "Their crime was not so terrible. Was it
truly necessary to kill them?"

Vaerana's eyes flashed with irritation. "Only if I don't want Cult assassins
waiting behind every hill on the way home," she growled. "Now, if you're through
interrogating me, can we get the hell out of here?"

"Yes, of course."

Feeling sheepish for questioning Vaerana's actions,
Ruha stepped over to the side of the scow. Although
Hsieh's physician had done a remarkable job of healing her wound—her thigh was
now swollen to only half-

again its normal size—the witch could not help limping as she moved.

"What happened?" Vaerana was looking not at Ruha, but at Fowler.

"Sharks." The half-ore waved a hand at his two amputees. "Them, too."

Vaerana looked the men over, then turned to her rotund horse-handler. "This is
going to be more difficult than we thought, Tombor."

"We have a little time." Tombor was staring toward the shore, where the Black
Caps were already ducking for cover as a hail of crossbow bolts rained down on
them from the windows of several huts. "Let's just hope that once we're mounted,
we can charge out of town as easily as we sneaked in."

"Maybe we should leave the one-legs here," Fowler suggested, helping Ruha out
of the scow. "They aren't much good to me, and the ride's liable to kill them
anyway."

Vaerana shook her head. "Can't do it, Tusks. The
Cult's worse than ever; a ride on a galloping horse will seem like fun compared
to what the Black Caps would do to them." She turned to the grim-jawed rider who
had killed Henry. "Pierstar, you and Tombor see to the crew.
I'll take care of Tusks and the witch."

Pierstar jumped into the scow to help the amputees, while Tombor directed the
rest of the crew to come around to the left side of the horses—he had to say
'port'
before they understood what he wanted. Vaerana led
Ruha and the captain to the first pair of spare mounts.

The Lady Constable held out the reins of the first horse. "You can ride, can't
you. Witch?"

"Yes, I think so."

Ruha's reply was unduly modest, for she had grown up riding camels. Compared to
those cantankerous brutes, even the most spirited stallion was child's play. She
took the reins, gathered up her aba, and slipped her foot into the stirrup. Her
only awkward moment came when she had to swing her injured leg over the saddle
and did not


quite succeed. A fiery ache shot through her entire body.
In the tongue of her father, she cursed all fish and wished them a frigid death
in seas as cold as ice.

Once Vaerana saw that Ruha could handle her own mount, she passed the reins of
the second to Fowler.
"How about you, Captain? Can you ride?"

"If I can handle a ship's helm, I can steer a dumb animal."

The captain picked Godfrey's sword up off the pier, then clumsily thrust his
large foot into a stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. By the time
Fowler's sailors were ready to ride, the Black Caps on shore had broken through
the hail of crossbow bolts. They were advancing through the streets toward the
end of the quay, where dozens of armored horsemen, all dressed in a similar
manner to Vaerana and her companions, were beginning to assemble.

"I thought the Cult controlled Pros!" Fowler commented. "How'd you get so many
of Elversult's Maces into town?"

"The shark bounty; the fishing captains are desperate for crews," Vaerana
explained. "We snuck in a few at a time, pretending we wanted work."

Vaerana stood in her stirrups and twisted around to look at the quay behind her,
where Fowler's crew sat two to a horse. The amputees were seated before the two
strongest men and tied into their saddles with leather straps. They looked
rather frightened and weak, but they had heard what would befall them in the
Cult's hands and made no protest.

"Listen up, sailors!" Vaerana said. "Your horses know more about this than you
do, so don't start thinking you're smarter than they are. If you get in trouble,
just drop the reins and hold on to your saddles."

Arvold immediately released his reins. Though Tombor had already positioned
himself at the back of the group,
Ruha moved her own horse out of line and deftly backed him to the rear of the
line. If the sailmender had trouble,

she did not want to miss the chance to repay the debt she owed him.

Once the witch had changed positions, Vaerana pulled her mace and set the spurs
to her mount. Pierstar's horse reared, then bolted after the Lady Constable, and
in the next instant the entire line was thundering down the dock.

When Vaerana neared the shore, she gave a loud whoop. The entire company of
horsemen began to move, some blocking the alleys and others spurring their
mounts straight down the village's largest lane.

Ruha's mount left the quay. She saw several enemy arrows streak through the air
ahead of her; then she passed across the waterfront and followed the rest of the
column into a warren of narrow streets. As the company passed, the warriors
blocking the side streets fell in at the rear of the charge, and the witch soon
found herself caught in the midst of a herd of snorting, pounding horseflesh.

The company galloped inland past a dozen ramshackle inns, then came to an
intersection and turned westward.
One of Fowler's men panicked and jerked his mount's reins, demolishing a shanty
when the startled horse lost its footing and crashed through the hut's
weather-beaten walls. Ruha saw one ofVaerana's Maces guiding his own mount into
the debris to help the tumbling sailor, then she was around the corner and
thundering down the muddy lane. A hundred yards ahead, the road passed through
the gateway of a timber stockade, then curved around a grassy hill and
disappeared from sight. A pair of Black Caps were trying to push the rough-hewn
gates closed, but a flurry of crossbow bolts suddenly sprang from the front of
the column to cut them down.

That was when a shower of flaming hail filled the air, followed by a flurry of
arrows that caught the company in a deadly cross fire from both sides of the
lane. Several men cried out, nearly falling from their saddles as fiery pellets
pierced their legs and shoulders and even their


chain-mailed torsos. Panicked, ringing whinnies echoed off the weatherworn
huts as tufts of black fletching suddenly sprouted in the flanks and withers
of galloping horses, and one of the beasts fell.

The rider went rolling head over heels down the street, coming to a rest before
an alley too narrow to be called a lane. It was simply a space between two
shanties. From this crevice shot a glimmering net of golden light, which quickly
settled over the stunned horseman before he could recover his wits and rise.

Ruha yanked on her reins, nearly knocking Tombor from his horse as she crossed
in front him. She guided her mount toward the lane, kicking its belly to urge it
onward. The beast realized instantly what she wanted.
The witch barely had time to raise herself in her stirrups before it leapt over
the fallen warrior and entered the cranny, its flanks brushing the wood on both
sides of the lane.

As Ruha expected, she found herself barreling down upon an astonished wizard
who, lacking the time to cast a spell, turned to hurl himself to the ground. The
witch spurred her mount forward. The horse caught the sorcerer square in the
back with both front hooves, snapping the man's spine with a sickening crack.

"I love horses!" Ruha cried, reining the beast to a stop.
"You are so much more cooperative than camels!"

The witch looked over her shoulder to see Vaerana's grim-jawed comrade,
Pierstar, staring down the alley as the fallen wizard's net dissolved around
him. The witch backed her mount down the lane toward the dazed warrior.

"Stand up, Pierstar!" she ordered.

The astonished warrior tossed off the remnants of the net and lurched to his
feet, stuttering his astonished thanks. Ruha emerged from the alley to find a
crescent of horsemen arrayed around her, firing their crossbows into the huts
from which the shower of Black Cap arrows had erupted.


"That was a damned thoughtless thing to do!" snarled
Vaerana Hawklyn, pulling Pierstar onto her own horse.
"We go to all this trouble to fetch you, and what do you do? Put yourself at
risk!"

With that, Vaerana jerked her horse toward the gate.
Pierstar glanced over his shoulders and shrugged in apology. Ruha was so
astonished that she could only stare after the Lady Constable.

"Go on, Witch." Tombor pointed his mace through the gateway. "And don't mind
Vaerana's sharp tongue. She's just worried about Yanseldara."

"Who?"

"You'll find out soon enough." The cleric spurred his horse after Vaerana,
waving at the witch to follow. "She's the reason you're here."

Ruha urged her horse after Tombor. A steady clatter of crossbows sounded behind
her as, one after the other, the warriors fired their weapons, then turned to
follow the rest of the company through the gate.

The terrain outside Pros was surprisingly clear. Other than a few weed-choked
farm plots lying close to the village stockade, the vista was one of grassy,
rolling knolls, with a vast sapphire sky hanging so low it seemed they would
ride into it. The muddy road snaked its way up a broad, dry valley, meandering
back and forth around the base of the dome-shaped hills, gradually growing drier
and dustier as it climbed away from the Dragonmere.

At last, the road curled around a knoll and angled up the headwall of a small
dale. As the company approached the slope, the largest part of the column peeled
off and circled the hill, leaving the wounded and those riding double, save the
Lady Constable and Pierstar, to continue up the main route.

Ruha caught up to Captain Fowler, and together they followed Vaerana to the back
side of the knoll, where the warriors were dismounting and reloading their
crossbows. They dismounted and passed their reins to Tombor, who had been
assigned to stay with the horse holders

and ready his healing spells. Vaerana cast a wary glance in Ruha's direction,
but turned without comment and started up the slope. Fowler offered a helping
hand to the witch, and they began to climb.

During the ascent, they had to pause several times to rest the witch's throbbing
leg, giving them ample opportunity to study the road to Elversult. After
cresting the dale's headwall, it struck out as straight as an arrow across a
broad expanse of flat, featureless tableland.
Already, the wounded riders and the sailors were a hundred yards across the
plain, but the distance before them seemed immeasurable, and the witch could see
that there were no knolls or ravines where the company of riders could hide
while it regrouped and tended to its wounded.

By the time Ruha and Fowler reached the summit, the
Maces had already fallen to their bellies and crawled to positions overlooking
the road below. Some of the men had wrapped small strips of oil-soaked cloth
around the heads of their crossbow bolts and were preparing small piles of
tinder to ignite with flint and steel. The witch made note of where the nearest
fire would be, then she and Fowler crawled to the crest of the hill and laid
down on either side of Vaerana.

"If we are setting an ambush, I have fire magic that will prove useful."

"I'd like to keep you secret, at least as much as possible." As Vaerana spoke,
she kept her hazel eyes fixed on the road. "Don't use your magic unless you're
certain of getting them all."

"I cannot be certain. It depends how many they send."

"It'll be a bunch," Fowler said. "That arrow squall at the gate was no accident.
They were waiting for us."

The suggestion drew an angry scowl from Vaerana.
She remained silent a long time, then reluctantly nodded. "I guess we weren't
as sneaky as I thought. The Cult was watching us."

"How'd they know you were there?" Fowler asked.


Vaerana shrugged. "Pros is a small town, and we hadn't planned to be there four
days. The Cult probably grew suspicious when they heard the innkeepers gossip
ing about all the strangers lolling about in their rooms."

"You are certain they do not have a spy among your men?" Ruha asked.

Vaerana frowned as though insulted. "Not among this bunch. Pierstar picked every
man himself." She glanced down the long line of warriors as though confirming to
herself that she was right. "Besides, I'm the only one who knew you were coming.
A spy couldn't have told them anything except that I was in town."

"When Pierstar fell, their wizard tried to capture him."
Ruha observed. "Perhaps they were curious about what you wanted in their
village."

"Not that curious," Vaerana retorted. "They've had a thousand gold coins on my
head for two years. Their assassins wouldn't pass up that price out of
curiosity."

"Speaking of prices," Fowler said, "a thousand gold ought to cover what you owe
me when we get to Elversuit."

"Owe you?" Vaerana narrowed her eyes and glared at the half-ore as though she
were considering running a dagger up his belly. "Why do you think I owe you a
thousand gold?"

"Because of my promise," Ruha explained. "I said the
Harpers would buy him a new cog."

Vaerana's eyes bulged. "You what?" she gasped.
"Why?"

"So he would attack the dragon," Ruha explained. "It was tearing another ship
apart, and it was the only way to persuade him to risk the Storm Sprite."

The Lady Constable's mouth gaped open. "You can't…
you don't have the…" She let the sentence trail off, then shook her head and
cocked her brow. "Did Storm say you could do that kind of thing?"

"No," Ruha admitted.

"But it was a Harper's promise." Fowler turned out the

collar of his tunic, displaying the pin Ruha had given him. "And I've got
proof."

Vaerana stared at the silver harp and moon, shaking her head in disbelief. "You
gave him your pin?"

"The ship was a very big one," Ruha said. "If I had let the dragon sink it,
hundreds of lives would have been lost."

"If Captain Fowler was reluctant to attack the dragon, didn't you think it might
be too much for the Storm
Sprite to handle?"

Ruha shook her head. "Of course not—not with my magic."

A purple cloud settled over Vaerana's face. "Witch, I
don't know where we're going to get the money to pay for a new cog—but I can
tell you this much: it won't come from Elversult's treasury! Yanseldara would
never stand for that, not for Storm Silverhand herself!"

Ruha turned to Fowler with a guilty knot in her stomach. "I am so terribly
sorry. Captain. They told me that the Harpers always stand behind the word of—"

"What are you apologizing for?" Fowler interrupted.
"Didn't you hear her? Vaerana said we."

Ruha lifted her brow. "She did, did she not?" The witch looked back to Vaerana.
"And I was beginning to think you did not like me."

"I don't, but you are a Harper—at least until Storm
Silverhand gets the bill for Fowler's new cog."

With that, Vaerana fell silent and looked back toward
Pros, searching for the first sign of pursuit. The Black
Caps were slow in coming, which Ruha took to be an omen both good and bad. On
one hand, it suggested that the Maces' escape had taken the Cult by surprise,
which would make it more difficult for them to pursue. At the same time,
however, the delay also meant they were taking the time to organize themselves
and gather a large force.

After a few minutes. Fowler grew impatient and started to rise. "What are we
waiting for? Those Black


Caps had their fill of fighting in Pros. They're not coming."

Vaerana grabbed the half-ore's furry arm. "Don't be in such a hurry, Tusks. It's
a long ride to Elversult."

"Then the sooner we get going, the sooner I get my
gold."

"It's not that easy." Vaerana pulled Fowler back to the ground. "If we don't
discourage our pursuers now, they won't hesitate to attack us on the open road.
I'm afraid the Cult of the Dragon has grown bold since Yanseldara's catalepsy."

"Catalepsy?" Fowler echoed. "Something's wrong with the Ruling Lady?"

The Lady Constable's mouth tightened, and she looked away. "Someone poisoned
her. Yanseldara's fallen into some sort of trance, and we haven't been able to
call her back. That's why I sent for the witch."

"But I am not a healer!" Ruha objected. "I know little of poisons and
antidotes."

Vaerana glowered at her disdainfully. "I know what a witch is."

The Lady Constable did not have time to say more, for the valley below began to
resound with pounding hooves.
She turned and nodded to the Maces who had wrapped oil-soaked cloths around the
heads of their crossbow bolts. The warriors began to strike their flints, and
within seconds several of them had ignited small piles of tinder. Faint wisps of
white fume began to rise from the tiny fires, but Ruha did not think the smoke
would be visible from the road, especially to someone on the back of a galloping
horse.

The first riders appeared at the base of the hill, mounted on skinny horses with
frothing mouths and lathered coats. The men were whipping their haggard beasts
mercilessly, demanding speed that the neglected creatures could not possibly
provide.

Vaerana raised her hand, holding her warriors at bay while the column of Black
Caps wound its way around


the base of the knoll. The men with the oil darts touched the heads to the
small fires they had kindled, and long ribbons of black fume began to rise into
the air. Several
Cult warriors looked toward the summit of hill.

"Now!" Vaerana yelled.

As one, the entire company of Maces rose and aimed their crossbows at the road
below. A staccato chorus cracked over the valley, and the first third of the
Cult column hit the ground screaming. Blossoms of flickering orange flame
sprang to life on the opposite hill.

"Reload!"

Vaerana's warriors touched the heads of their empty crossbows to the ground,
then stuck their boots into the toe stirrups and began grunting and cursing as
they pulled the stiff bowstrings back to the lock plates. On the road below, the
anguished wails and cries for help went unanswered as the uninjured Cult
warriors galloped forward, trampling their wounded fellows in a desperate
effort to round the corner before the Maces loosed another volley. The fires on
the opposite hill began to spread, creating an impenetrable wall of flame and
filling the valley with a choking pall of smoke.

Vaerana waited until the leading riders had cleared the tangle of wounded, then
called, "Squad the First!"

Half the Maces loosed their bolts, again aiming at the front of the Cult column.
More men screamed and fell, lengthening the obstacle course for those behind and
adding to the confusion. While the first squad reloaded, the rest of the
Elversult warriors turned their aim farther back, where the enemy horsemen
continued to round the corner.

Vaerana waited until the first group of men had reloaded, then called, "Squad
the Second!"

The second half of the company fired, downing a dozen horses and men. More
riders galloped around the bend, either leaping their fallen comrades or
stumbling over them, and a few alert Cult members turned their terrified
horses up the hill.


Vaerana waited until the assault had almost reached the top, allowing the second
squad time to reload, then called, "All fire!"

The Cult horsemen rode into a wall of black shafts that unhorsed all but three
of them. The survivors brought their mounts up short, took one look at the gang
of warriors reaching for their maces, then spun their mounts around and
charged down the slope.

That was all it took to break the enemy's morale.
When the rest of the Cult riders rounded the corner and heard their wailing
comrades, then saw three of their fellows coming down the hill at a breakneck
gallop, they quickly concluded that the situation was hopeless. The entire
column turned back, beating their horses as savagely as when they rode into
battle.

"That'll keep 'em off our backs." Vaerana turned away from the bloody scene
below and pointed at five men.
"You men hang back and keep a sharp eye. I doubt the
Black Caps will find their courage again, but let me know if they do. The rest
of you, to your horses. We've a long ride before we're safe again."

Fowler started to take Ruha's arm to help her down the hill, but Vaerana moved
between them and took his place.

"You go on ahead, Tusks," Vaerana said, slipping
Ruha's arm over her shoulders. "I'll help the witch."

Fowler raised his heavy brow, then shrugged and began to pick his way down the
hill. The Lady Constable let him get a little way ahead, then started to help
Ruha down the slope.

"Now, about this absurd promise you made—"

"Which promise?" Ruha interrupted. "The one wherein
I swore to combat villainy and wickedness, or the one wherein I swore to help
those in fear for their lives?"

Vaerana stopped walking and narrowed her eyes.
"Don't you quote watchwords to me! I've heard about you, and I won't stand for
such trouble—not in Elversult, and not when so much depends on you!"