Sweet Mother, don’t let this happen!
Sy-wen fought her way toward the surface, but she was too late. She had wasted too much time fighting the swirling sand. She watched, her heart thundering in her ears, as Conch was drawn to the surface.
She kicked toward the planked bottoms of the boats. She must still try. Aiming for the largest vessel, she slid under its keel, and guided by a hand slipping over its barnacled surface, she floated upward until her head bobbed in the shadowed curve of the boat’s leeward side.
Voices suddenly struck her ears, strident, their thick accent making them difficult to understand. “Look at the size of that beastie!” someone called from almost directly overhead.
Sy-wen sank lower until only her eyes and ears were above water. She watched as Conch rolled in the tangled net, sluggishly writhing as he tired.
“It’ll fetch a shower of silver. We’ll all be rich!” another shouted gleefully.
A sterner voice rang out from the boat above, guttural and full of threat, a voice of command. “Git the beast’s nose above waters, you daft fools! You want to drown it!”
“But why do we want it alive? What difference—”
The stern voice again. “Jeffers, if you poke it one more time with that spear, I’ll plant it up your hairy arse!”
A voice called back. “It’s still fighting, Cap’n!”
“Leave it be! Give time for the sleep potion to reach its heart!” Then the man’s voice lowered so only the men near at hand could hear. “Sweet Mother above, I can’t believe it. So the rumors were true about seeing a seadragon at the fringes of the Archipelago. Who would have thought?”
“Not been one seen in these parts since my grandpa was young.”
“Yah, but I’ve heard talk of occasional sightings in the Great Deep.” He made a low whistling noise. “Wonder why the beast ended up here in the shallow coastals? And why it kept coming back?”
“Probably an ol’ one. Getting daft in the head.”
“Well, whatever reason, it’ll bring us enough silver and gold for a lifetime. Look at that beaut!”
Sy-wen could not stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks. Conch, she silently sent to him, I’m so sorry.
“Quite a catch it is, Cap’n. Makes you almost want to believe those ol’ stories of mer folk.”
The other laughed. “Now, Flint, don’t you go daft in the head.”
“Just saying it makes me wonder.”
“Well, you’d best wonder about the riches we’ll fetch with a living seadragon at Port Rawl. Seadragon’s blood is as rare as heartstone. I heard tell that vials left over from the last dragon—the beastie caught up near Biggins Landing ten years ago—still fetches six gold coins a drop! Now wonder about that, Flint!”
Glee entered this other’s voice. “I can just imagine the look on that old snake Tyrus when we haul this treasure to port.”
“His men’ll have to tie him to a mast to keep him from tearing that lice-ridden beard from his face in his jealous rage.”
They both chuckled.
“We’re both going to die rich men, Flint.” Then the voice again rose gruffly and shot across the waters. “Jeffers! What did I just tell you about that spear!”
“But, Cap’n . . .”
“Each drop of blood is wasted profit! Samel, git that Jeffers belowdecks. The next one who stabs the dragon gets fed to it!” Then his voice lowered. “Fools!”
Sy-wen had already stopped listening. Her eyes were on her friend tangled in the net, a pool of blood spreading around him. Drawn by the blood, occasional fins of sharks broke the water but were chased off with spears. By now, Conch had stopped struggling, lying limp in the ropes. She could see he still breathed. But for how long?
Sy-wen’s chest hurt from suppressing her sobs. What was she to do? It would take her until well past nightfall to return to the leviathan and tell the others what had happened. But even if the elders decided to risk freeing him, Conch would be long gone, lost among the hundreds of islands of the Archipelago.
She closed her eyes and made a choice. She could not abandon her friend. His life depended on her.
Opening her eyes, she slipped a hand to her waist and freed the shark-tooth knife from her belt. Repositioning her air stem, she dove under the waves and kicked and swam toward her friend.
In the distance, sharks circled warily. Sy-wen could see their black eyes watching, unblinking. The spears kept them at bay so far.
Sy-wen swam deep under Conch until the sunlight was blocked by the netted dragon. Floating up in his shadow, she reached his underside and ran a hand along the net. The oiled ropes and knots had dug deep into Conch’s flesh. Blood seeped where the tight ropes had sliced his skin during his struggle. A deep gash in a tangled fold of a wing bled near her hand, and she found herself reaching for the injury as if her touch could make the wound disappear. Oh, Conch, what have I done?
Before her fingers touched the dragon, something suddenly slammed into her ribs—hard. Sy-wen gasped, losing her air stem and swallowing a mouthful of seawater. The blow pitched her out from under Conch into the sunlit waters. Gagging, Sy-wen spun around and dug for the surface. Seawater seared her lungs. Near blind with pain, Sy-wen saw her attacker swing back around toward her. It was a rockshark. With her attention so focused on her wounded friend, Sy-wen had failed to see the shark. She knew better than to let her guard down when sharks smelled blood in the water.
She kicked in retreat. Her head broke the surface of the sea at the same time the huge shark fin crested the waves. It stood taller than her whole body. Coughing and choking, she held up the tiny knife and reached for the stunner at her waist. She had fought before—she would not let a shark stand between her and Conch.
She raised the knife, but she never had to use it. A massive spear flew bright across the sparkling water and slammed into the base of the fin. A fountain of blood flew up from the buried blade, and the rockshark exploded out of the water, thrashing against its death.
Sy-wen stared, stunned by the sight of its cavernous mouth lined by hundreds of teeth. She cartwheeled her arms to clear away from its spasms. Even a dying shark could kill.
Voices rose behind her.
“Good throw, Kast!”
“What an arm!”
Sy-wen spun around. She was once again near the lee side of the main boat. She glanced up at a pair of bearded, scarred faces staring back at her, their black eyes unblinking.
She never knew sharks could leer.
Before she could react, a net flew over the rail of the boat and swept down over Sy-wen. She kicked off the boat’s side, trying to escape, but her feet slipped on the algae-slicked planks. Rope and knot descended on her, wrapping around her like a living creature. Her knife was knocked from her fingers.
She fought, but like Conch, her efforts only aided in tangling her further. Seawater swamped her mouth and throat. Unable to surface or reach her air pod, she gagged and thrashed but could not beat back the dark. Like the sea itself, the swelling blackness drowned Sy-wen, sweeping her away.
KAST IGNORED THE commotion on the deck behind him. He stood at the prow of the Skipjack and watched the rockshark die on his spearpoint. As the king of sharks, its body and blood would drive other sharks away from the wounded seadragon.
Still Kast continued his watch, his eyes drifting to where sunlight sparked off jade scale. Except for a barrel of additional spears at his side, he stood alone. None dared approach too closely unless invited. His almond-shaped eyes warned all who neared of his heritage.
Kast had been born and raised among the savage tribes south of the Blasted Shoals—the Dre’rendi, a people known for their piracy and hard living. He even sported a tattoo on his neck of a seahawk, talons bared in attack. It was the symbol of the most savage and predatory of the Dre’rendi tribes, the Bloodriders. Kast wore his black hair pulled into a long tail that draped to his waist, leaving his neck exposed for all to see the tattoo. It was not done in false pride or to
brag of his heritage, but in simple warning. Sea folk were a rowdy lot, and it was best that a man know who he insulted or accosted, lest blood be drawn. So Kast kept his tattoo exposed, forewarning all to stay clear.
Alone by the bowsprit, he studied the seadragon, shading his eyes with a hand as if supposing it all a mirage of sun and water. Yet the dragon did not dissolve into mist and vanish. It was as real as his own bones and sinew. Kast studied the folds of wing tangled in the net, the hint of pearled fangs protruding from a narrow snout, the black-jeweled eyes the size of a man’s fist.
Raised on the sea, he had never supposed such wonders still hid below its waves. He had seen rocksharks that could swallow a man whole, silver-bellied eels longer than the Skipjack, and even spiny lobsters that killed men with a touch. But he had never seen such a creature as this dragon! Such a beast spoke of another time, an age when myth was forged in blood.
As he contemplated the sight, he brushed the tattoo of the seahawk on his neck with a finger. Could it be . . . ? He remembered the madness that had shone in the blind seer’s eyes as he writhed on his deathbed. He recalled the garbled words, the hand clutching his arm as the old man died. Kast shook his head, dispelling the past, and dropped his hand from his throat. Why had he followed the words of a madman?
Captain Jarplin’s voice suddenly cracked across the deck behind Kast. “Git her out of the water!” he ordered. “You’re gonna kill her!”
It was the urgency in Jarplin’s voice, more than the content of his words, that finally drew Kast from his study of the seadragon. He glanced toward the starboard rail, where already a group of deckhands had gathered.
The captain leaned over the rail and yelled again over the side. “That’s it, men, haul her on up!”
Intrigued at what new treasure was being fished from the sea and satisfied that the blood of the slain rockshark would keep other predators away, Kast signaled a fellow mate to take his post and crossed to join the group of men. Hired for his skill at tracking and hunting the pathless expanses of the sea, Kast had no obligation to help with the nets and lines, yet still he often joined the deckhands in their duties, ignoring their obvious discomfort at working so closely alongside a Bloodrider. He cared not whom he made nervous. That was not his concern. Kast needed to regularly work under the sun, testing the worthiness of his arms and the strength of his back. A Bloodrider did not let his skills wane.
Kast bumped an onlooker on the shoulder, a red-haired, clean-shaven youth. His voice commanded attention. “Tok, what’s been found?”
The boy glanced toward him, his eyes widening, then backed a step away. “Not . . . not sure, sir,” Tok answered. “A stowaway, we thinks. Some girl that was trying to sneak off the boat.”
“A stowaway?” Kast could not keep the disgust from his voice. Stowaways were gutted and tossed to the sharks among his own people.
“The Hort brothers spotted her a’sneaking into the Deep,” Tok added nervously.
The captain’s voice barked again. “Clear away, you lollygaggers! Haul that net up here.” Jarplin bullied through the crowd of deckhands. The captain’s broad shoulders told of the strength still in his old arms, and though his hair silvered toward gray, Jarplin was as hard and tough as any of his men. His green eyes let nothing escape his notice. Known for his quick anger, the captain’s justice was swift and often brutal, but still he ran a tight ship, and over the three winters aboard the Skipjack, Kast had developed a grudging respect for the man. “What are you all doing?” Jarplin called out as he reached the bearded Hort brothers. He shoved other men away from the rail. “Clear on out!”
Kast watched as the two brothers hauled their dripping net over the rail and dropped their cargo to the deck. Seawater and oiled ropes splashed across the planks.
The men all backed a step, letting Kast now get a clear view of the catch.
“It’s only a li’l girl,” someone said.
Kast’s brows lowered. Tangled in the net, a small figure lay sprawled across the deck. Bare chested, with only a hint of breasts, she wore a pair of tight breeches made of some slick material—sharkskin perhaps. It took him a few additional heartbeats to realize that the dark green seaweed snarled in the net along with the girl was actually her hair. How could it be? After so many ages . . .
“She does not breathe,” Kast heard himself say, stepping forward.
Captain Jarplin pushed through the men that crowded around the catch. “Git that net off her!”
The boy Tok danced forward with a knife in his hand, ready to slice the girl free.
The captain spotted him. “Tok, put that knife away. I won’t have a perfectly good net wasted on a stowaway.”
The boy stopped, his freckled face reddening.
Kast, though, continued toward the prone girl, a knife flashing into his own palm. He bent to the net and began sawing at the ropes. “She isn’t a stowaway, Captain.”
“I don’t care what . . .” Jarplin’s voice trailed away as he saw clearly for the first time what his precious net held.
The captain’s first mate, Flint, stood at Jarplin’s shoulder. He was a thin man, hardened and worn by storm and sea into a figure of tanned leather and sharp bone. His voice was as coarse as the scrabble of gray beard on his chin. “You heard the captain, Kast. Git away from the net and let . . .” Then his words died, too. A long low whistle escaped his cracked lips. As his eyes settled on the cargo, Flint rubbed at a small silver star fastened to his right earlobe. “That . . . that ain’t no stowaway.”
The captain raised a hand, silencing his first mate.
Kast sliced through the knots with snaps of his wrist and deft knowledge of where to cut. The girl was free in only a few breaths. Kast lifted her from the tangled ropes. His eyes raised to the circle of deckhands, and they all backed from the intensity of his gaze, leaving him room to lay the slight form on the cleared-off deck. He straightened her limbs and checked for the beat of her heart.
She still lived, but her lips were blue and her skin pallid and cold. She would not live much longer. He rolled her onto her stomach and straddled her, then used both palms to squeeze the water from her lungs. More seawater than he thought could possibly be contained in her small frame sluiced across the planks. Satisfied that he had rid her of most of the water, he flipped her back around and bent her neck. He lowered his lips to hers and breathed life into her chest.
As he pinched her nose and worked the bellows of her lungs with his own air, he heard the others murmur around him.
“Look at her hair. It shines like algae floatin’ on dead water.”
“Did ya see her hands? Webbed like a duck, I tell ya.”
“Kast is wasting his time. She is lost to the Deep.”
Others grunted their assent to this last statement.
One mate, though, snickered. It was one of the Hort brothers. “ ’Course Kast isn’t wasting all his time. I wouldn’t mind kissing the lass, too. And those little muffins on her chest look mighty tasty.” He laughed coarsely.
Kast ignored them all. He focused on his duty. In and out, he worked her chest.
Finally, the captain’s voice rose behind him, and he placed a hand on Kast’s shoulder. “She’s gone. Leave her be. The sea has claimed its own.” He pulled Kast up.
Red faced, Kast sat back on his heels, studying the young girl. His efforts had returned a bit of color to her lips, but nothing more. She still lay unmoving. He let out a rattling sigh, conceding defeat. She was lost.
Then suddenly the girl coughed harshly, wracking her whole form. Her eyes fluttered open and fixed upon him. “Father?” she mumbled and reached a hand toward where Kast knelt over her. Her fingers touched his throat, resting for a heartbeat on his seahawk tattoo.
Kast jumped back from her fingers as if stung. Where she had touched, his tattoo suddenly burned like a brand on his skin. He stifled a gasp, his cheek and throat burning with an inner fire. His heart thundered in his throat.
Shocked and speechless, he watc
hed the girl’s eyes roll back and her arm swoon to the deck. She drifted away again.
Kast bent over the girl, one hand rubbing his neck. The fire was already fading. Obviously the child was delirious, but at least she now breathed. “We need to get her somewhere dry and warm,” he said. The men had fallen silent around him when the child had awakened. He scooped her up in his hard arms.
“Take her to the kitchens,” Jarplin said. “The heat of the hearths should warm her up. But once she’s able, I have a few questions for the lass.”
Kast nodded. He had questions of his own. He waited no further and whisked her across the deck.
Behind him, he heard the captain address his men, his voice gruff and irritated. “And the rest of you, get back to the rails. We have a dragon to haul to port.”
Bent over, Kast crawled through the narrow companionway that led to the lower cabins. His nose was assaulted with old smells of unwashed bodies mixed with the acrid scent of salt and vinegar from the cooking stoves. After the bright sunshine, it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim passageways of the lamplit lower decks. Blinking, he hauled his cargo down the hall toward the galley near the stern.
His mind whirled on the events of the day, his skin still aching with a dull burn. First the dragon, then the girl. What did it all mean? He remembered the child’s green eyes staring into his own, dazed and confused. Could it be the prophecy? For a breath, he again pictured the blind shaman of the Bloodriders dying on his fouled cot in a back room of Port Rawl. His last words echoed in Kast’s head: “A Bloodrider’s oath is tattooed on his flesh. Though the sworn words are forgotten, the flesh remembers.” The shaman had then clutched Kast’s arms with the last of his strength. “You must go north of the Shoals, Kast. The tattoo will soon blaze with its old promises. Do not forget. When the seahawk burns, the oceans will run red with blood, and the riders will be called forth to fulfill their oath—to mount again and drive the great dragons from the sea.”