Jabib glanced to his keelchief. “We must batten down the ship. This storm is not one we can run from. Our only hope is to lock up the ship and pray she stays afloat.”
Ulster nodded mutely. This was the first time the young keelchief had faced a ship killer, and it had stolen his tongue.
Pinorr took advantage of Ulster’s fear. “Only the sea gods will protect us this night. Release Sheeshon of the jakra, and I will beg a blood boon from the gods. Refuse and spout your own prayers. See how little the sea gods listen to ordinary men.”
Ulster spun on Pinorr. “This is all your fault,” he growled, his fear lighting a fire in his chest. “You have called this monster down upon us!”
Jabib tried to place a consoling hand on the keelchief’s arm but was thrust away. The first mate stumbled back against the rail. “We will need all the prayers,” he urged, “especially the shaman’s.”
Ulster grabbed Sheeshon roughly by the shoulder. “Pinorr has cursed us. Before this storm strikes, I will stab this traitor where he is most vulnerable.” Ulster tried to drag Sheeshon from the ship’s rail, but she was latched like a barnacle. Ulster persisted, his face raging. “The sea gods will know I follow the old code and will protect us.”
Jabib hovered near his keelchief. Pinorr could read his worries. The first mate knew it was madness that Ulster proposed. To shed blood on deck before a storm was the worst luck. Blood invited more blood. The crew would not stand for it.
“I call for the blood duel,” Ulster screamed. “Now!” He finally yanked viciously at Sheeshon, ripping her from her post.
A squeak of fear escaped her as she was swung around. “Papa?” she cried, trying to grab at Pinorr.
Pinorr stepped directly into the path of the raging keelchief. Behind Ulster’s eyes, the shaman could see the squall mirrored. It was called storm fever, when the might of an approaching gale destroyed one’s reason. “She must first choose, Ulster,” Pinorr said firmly. “By code, she has until sundown to choose a champion or for you to retract your charges and end this matter.”
With these words, the storm clouds began to eat the sun. The light around them became a false twilight.
“End this?” Ulster waved a hand wildly. “See? Even the skies tell us it is time. They drown the sun early, so the jakra can be held now.”
Jabib stepped beside Pinorr, shoulder to shoulder, facing Ulster. The first mate’s words were firm. “She must still choose, Keelchief.”
Frustration and fury fought across Ulster’s face. He trembled a moment, then pulled Sheeshon up by the arms and drew her to his face. “Choose!” he yelled.
She whimpered and struggled in his grip.
“Release my granddaughter,” Pinorr said coldly, “or I’ll take a sword to you right now.”
“You dare threaten me!” Ulster dropped Sheeshon. She fell like a broken doll at his feet, then crawled back toward Pinorr.
Jabib held Ulster and Pinorr apart. He towered over both of them. “Enough!” he yelled. He faced Pinorr. “The jakra has been called fairly, by your own mouth.” Jabib then turned to Ulster. “And until this matter is settled, I am still tribune. So you will bow to my authority, or I will have the high keel strip you of your rank.”
His words seemed to dim the fever in Ulster’s eyes. “Then make her decide,” the keelchief ordered, backing a step away.
Pinorr glanced down to Sheeshon. Again her blank gaze had wandered to the roiling skies. She did not understand any of this. She pointed to the layer of black clouds sweeping overhead now. “They’re here.”
Pinorr found his own eyes drawn to where she indicated.
Suddenly a section of the thunderhead broke away. A fluttering piece of darkness fell toward them. Lightning chased it across the sky as thunder boomed in anger.
Other eyes spotted the oddity. “What is that?” Jabib said.
Pinorr held his breath. His sea senses screamed in him now.
As they watched, the shred of blackness grew in size, darting between bolts of lightning. It was a huge creature, wings swept to either side. But Pinorr knew it was no ordinary gull or tern. He had seen Sheeshon’s carving. “Get back!” he yelled, hauling Sheeshon with him, but the child slipped free.
Sheeshon danced forward, arms raised toward the sky. “They’re here! They’re here!” she chanted.
Ulster had his hand on his sword’s hilt. “She calls a demon to us!”
By now, everyone on deck had stopped their hurried preparations to secure the ship against the storm. All eyes watched the descent of the great black beast.
“Not demon,” Pinorr said, drawing Ulster’s fury. “Worse.”
“What?”
“Dragon.”
Thunder drowned out further conversation, booming, rattling the rigging. Overhead, Pinorr’s statement proved true. The great beast sailed past the tips of the masts. Black scale reflected the lightning like oil on water. Suddenly it banked and turned on a single wing tip. Its red eyes held all the storm’s fury.
Cries of terror spread throughout the deck. One man even jumped overboard in fright.
“Man the harpoons!” Jabib screamed, caught up in the panic.
Then it dove at them, dropping like a boulder from the sky. Pinorr’s eyes widened. It aimed for the empty center of the deck—right where Sheeshon now stood, staring transfixed at the beast.
“Sheeshon!”
But Pinorr was too late. The dragon crashed onto the deck, wings braking and claws digging long gouges from the planks as it skidded to a halt. Once stopped, its hot breath steamed and fogged from its throat into the cool air. Red eyes stared at the men frozen on deck. Silver teeth longer than a man’s forearm glinted brightly in the last glimmer of the sun. Suddenly it stretched its neck toward the folded sails and bellowed at the skies.
All across the deck, men fell to their knees, crying out supplications. Others ran for the hatches. A handful were brave enough to leap for swords and spears.
Pinorr waved the warriors back. Sheeshon was still out there. He stepped forward, palms raised, trying to indicate that he offered the beast no threat. The dragon bent its neck to study the approaching shaman. Pinorr ignored the menace in those crimson eyes. He cared only to see if Sheeshon was safe. Once close enough, he spotted a small drenched girl collapsed atop the back of the dragon, her green hair sluiced with water. Her skin was pale and ashen. Though he could see she breathed, the rider seemed near death.
What was happening here?
Suddenly Sheeshon stepped out from under the wing of the great beast. The dragon startled a bit at the child’s abrupt appearance. It hissed and pulled back its wings.
Ulster and Jabib crept forward to shadow Pinorr.
Sheeshon wore a lopsided smile as the dragon towered over her. She pointed at the great beast. “I choose him,” she said clearly, her voice ringing sharp across the silent deck. Even the thunder had quieted for the moment.
Pinorr turned to the keelchief. “It’s what you asked for, Ulster,” he answered grimly. “Sheeshon has chosen her champion.”
15
SY-WEN HEARD VOICES and a familiar accent, deep and rich. Kast. She struggled through the black void back to a world of cold winds and rain. Where was she? She rolled her head and saw watery images, dark figures moving all around her. Lightning split the night and thunder roared, drawing back her memory. She whimpered as she recalled the rip of screaming winds and the dragon’s flight through castles of black clouds. She pulled tighter to her mount. The sky opened up above her, and rain lashed down. But the heat of the dragon was like a roaring fire under her.
Bonded, Ragnar’k sent to her. The dragon’s hunger was an ache in her belly. She shared its senses of blood and meat nearby.
She pushed a bit higher, pulling her cramped fingers from their stranglehold on the ridge of scale. Rain pelted her bare back in stinging bites. The dragon’s hide steamed in the downpour, creating a thin, rising fog. She eyed her surroundings. Her vision had cleared enough to recog
nize that she and the dragon were on some boat. Overhead, a hastily tied sail had loosened a snatch. It snapped and cracked in the wind.
But all of Sy-wen’s attention was on the figures around her. A circle of hard men and women stood a wary distance from her, some kneeling, some armed. The lanterns swinging from yardarms and rail highlighted the sea-worn men. One feature was shared by all: the tattoo of a diving seahawk emblazoned on cheeks and necks.
“Bloodriders,” she mumbled. Kast’s tribe.
One man stepped forward, his blue robe drenched and clinging to his tall frame. His hair was as white as Master Edyll’s. As he stared up at her, his eyes held no fear, only awe. He reached out a hand, and a small girl wandered out from under Ragnar’k, her small eyes wide with wonder.
“He’s big, Papa,” she said as the elder pulled the child to him, hugging his arms around her.
The robed man stared up at her. “You are mer’ai.”
Sy-wen nodded.
Hungry, Ragnar’k complained uselessly. Sy-wen still sensed the dragon’s burning belly. Ragnar’k leaned toward the two who stood nearest and sniffed at the old man and the child. Not much meat, but taste good.
No, Sy-wen sent him silently. You will eat no one here. These are who we hunted for. They may be new friends.
Don’t need more friends. Need full belly. But Sy-wen sensed the acquiescence of the great beast.
Sy-wen cleared her throat, trying to mimic her mother’s commanding voice and demeanor. “I come seeking the Dre’rendi,” she said aloud. “We call upon your ancient debt to serve us one last time.” Her attempt at dignity was ruined when a sudden gust of wind almost toppled her from her seat and she hastily grabbed at the dragon to keep from falling. She straightened and tossed wet strands of green hair back from her face. She did not feel like a herald of her people, but more like a drenched seal pup.
“I am Pinorr, shaman of this ship. I welcome you to the Dragonspur,” the old man said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Maybe it was just the resemblance to Master Edyll, but Sy-wen found herself instantly liking this fellow.
Two other men stepped forward and flanked the shaman. “The ship’s first mate, Jabib,” the old man introduced. “And our keelchief, Ulster.”
Sy-wen eyed the second man. His face was stone, but his eyes glinted with suspicion. His hand rested on the hilt of a sword at his waist. “Why have you come here?” he asked with clear anger.
The small child, still clinging to the shaman’s robe, answered instead. “They come to kill us all,” she said cheerily.
Sy-wen blinked at this outburst.
Pinorr patted the girl’s head. “My apologies, mistress of the mer’ai, but Sheeshon is a bit addled. She does not always know what she speaks.”
Sy-wen nodded. “But perhaps she knows more than you suspect. For what I have come to ask of you may mean your deaths.”
“What is this you speak?” the keelchief demanded.
Suddenly a new burst of lightning and thunder drowned out all further words. Winds and rains tore at the ship.
Pinorr sheltered the child against this sudden onslaught. When the winds calmed for a breath, he glanced up to Sy-wen and yelled into the thunder. “I don’t know if your dragon can weather the storm atop the deck, but we cannot. The squall’s fury is about to strike. I recommend we continue this conversation below.”
Sy-wen chewed her lower lip. Atop Ragnar’k, she felt little true threat, but she feared to be alone with them, even with Kast at her side. The crew easily numbered over fifty.
As if to goad her, a bolt of lightning struck the tip of the foremast with an explosive crack. Ragnar’k bellowed anger. Blue energies danced along the rigging. Sy-wen studied the furious skies. No number of men, no matter how hard, could match the danger that thundered toward her.
She turned back to the others. The keelchief’s narrowed eyes almost made her balk again. Sy-wen mistrusted him.
The shaman, though, drew back her attention. “There is nothing to fear from us. I offer you full freedom of the ship. As shaman, you are under my protection.” Pinorr glanced at the keelchief as if his next words were meant more for that man than Sy-wen. “None will harm you.”
Ulster’s eyes twitched, but he lifted his hand from his sword and crossed his arms over his chest. “May our hearth and keel keep you safe,” he said, his voice cold and formal, weakening the invitation in his words.
Pinorr seemed satisfied and turned back to Sy-wen. The old man missed the flash of hatred in the young keelchief’s eyes. Clearly the storm above was not the only squall threatening this boat. “Come,” the shaman said, extending his hand. “Join us below.”
Sy-wen knew she needed to win these people to her cause, something she could never do atop the back of a dragon. Besides, she knew having Kast return to flesh would go a long way to earning the Bloodriders’ trust. He was one of their people.
Sliding over the neck of the dragon, she slipped to the planks. She almost lost her footing and fell, both the slippery deck and her own weak legs betraying her. Sy-wen managed to keep one hand on the dragon. She did not want to lose contact just yet. She ran a hand along its neck until she reached its massive head.
Ragnar’k snuffled at her. Bonded. Sweet in my nose.
She rubbed at the ridge between the beast’s flared nostrils. The dragon brushed her palm, its thick tongue pushing out to lick at her. Its glowing eyes stared into hers. I don’t want to go back, Ragnar’k said sadly, almost a moan in her mind.
Her heart ached for the great beast. The dragon was a creature of simple pleasures but depthless heart. She hugged the huge beast warmly. “Thank you for carrying me here safely,” she whispered at him. “But I must send you back for now. I have need of Kast.”
Weak man, Ragnar’k said with a silent snort of derision. I’m stronger than him.
“I know, my big bonded, but some battles can’t be fought with tooth and claw. I will call you back soon, and we will hunt the seas together.”
A feeling of trust and pleasure suffused through her. You are my bonded. Go now. I’ll dream of you . . . and fishes, many big fishes. Dragon laughter echoed in her mind.
She smiled at him. “Good-bye, Ragnar’k. Sleep well, my bonded.” Sy-wen lifted her hand from the wet scales and stumbled back a few steps.
Behind her, the crew gasped and fled farther away.
As expected, with the contact broken, the dragon began to fold upon itself. A twisting whirlwind of wing and scale, claw and tooth, spun down to reveal a naked man standing atop the deck. On his bare neck, the dragon tattoo glowed a bright ruby for several heartbeats, then died back down.
Kast’s usual scowl deepened as he took a moment to orient himself. Sy-wen stepped closer, keeping her eyes slightly averted from his nakedness. The Bloodrider took her hand in his own as he studied those around him. “You found the Dre’rendi,” he mumbled, slightly awed.
She nodded. “They offer us shelter from the approaching storm.”
Speechless, Pinorr stepped forward, his mouth hanging open.
The small girl at his side was unfazed. “That man is wearing no clothes, Papa,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Hush, Sheeshon.” Pinorr stopped before them. His eyes were on Sy-wen’s companion. “How . . . ? How could this be?”
Sy-wen tried to explain about Ragnar’k. “On the island of A’loa Glen, we found a—”
Kast squeezed her hand, silencing her. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Kast spoke. “How fares my father, Pinorr?”
Startled, Sy-wen glanced up at Kast. So they knew each other.
“Your father died three winters past.” Pinorr’s voice grew angry. “On his deathbed, he called out for you.”
Kast remained quiet. Sy-wen felt his grip tremble in her palm, then grow calm again. “I . . . I did not know.”
“You should never have left, Kast. After you fled with that mad shaman, chasing after dreams, something died in your father.”
“B
ut what of my younger brother? He was to watch over the old man.”
Before the shaman could answer, the keelchief interrupted, pushing forward. The man had fled all the way to the rail when the dragon transformed. As he approached, his hand again rested warily on the hilt of his sword. He eyed Kast up and down sourly.
The keelchief glared at the Bloodrider defiantly, fists on his hips. “What are you doing back here, Kast?”
Thunder crashed overhead as the storm’s edge finally rolled upon them.
With rain sluicing over the hard planes of his face, Kast studied the smaller man. “Ulster, after ten winters, is that how you welcome home your elder brother?”
PINORR SAT ON the edge of his bed and shook his head at Kast’s story. The Bloodrider and his ward, Sy-wen, had retreated to Pinorr’s cabin while Ulster and the crew secured the Dragonspur against the storm. In a corner, Sheeshon played quietly with her scrimshawed carvings. Pinorr cocked his head and studied Kast’s dragon tattoo. “So this . . . this Ragnar’k . . . He’s a part of you now? Sy-wen can call him forth anytime with a touch?”
Kast nodded, wolfing down fish stew and hard bread. He spoke around a mouthful of his meal. “The mer’ai seek to join their might with the Dre’rendi in an assault on A’loa Glen. If we ever hope to drive the Gul’gotha from our seas, we must help the wit’ch reach the old mages’ castle.” With the crusts of his bread, Kast wiped up the last dregs of stew from his third bowl. “Is there more?”
Sy-wen, seated beside him and dressed in dry clothes, slid her bowl at him. “Have mine.” Obviously, Kast’s friend did not share the Bloodrider’s enthusiasm for the meal. She had only nibbled at the bread. But at least the color had returned to her cheeks after getting dry and warm. Still, dry or not, the young woman was clearly nervous and frightened here. She jumped with each crack of thunder or crash of wave.
Pinorr met her eyes and nodded upward. “Ulster may be a sour man, but the crew is experienced. We’ll weather out the storm.”
Sy-wen glanced away, her words a shy whisper. “Under the sea, the storms don’t touch us. What rages above never bothers the leviathans. We just dive deeper, allowing the worst storms to pass overhead.”