are in our favor.' Captain Clay pinned the corners of the parchment down with four stones and ran his hand over the worn map. 'The sooner we find that island the sooner we claim our prize.'
'And all become rich,' said the first mate. 'Praise Umberlee,' he added
The captain chuckled, and a smile spread across his face. He couldn't help himself. Treasure always made him smile.
'Aye, Mansa. Once we have that egg, we'll be rich men indeed.'
Clay's fingers traversed the miniature Sword Coast, lifting off the page when they reached the Nelanther Isles, as if touching them might burn his flesh, then dropping back down after they crossed Asavir's Channel. They continued on, dipping quickly into the Shining Sea, casually bypassing Calimshan and Tethyr, then following the Chultan peninsula to the edge of the Wild Coast. There Captain Clay circled his index finger in a wide berth. The weathered map crackled.
'We're here.' Under his finger, the pirate captain indicated the open sea. 'And-'
'Captain. Captain!' A skinny man came bursting into Clay's chamber calling, 'Captain, come quick.'
Clay stood up and asked, 'What is it, Tasca?'
'You wouldn't believe it if I told you. You better come see for yourself.'
Clay bolted out from around his desk, Mansa close behind. Just outside the door of his chamber, the world went white. A thick fog had rolled in. The warm sweat that had plagued his brow was suddenly cool. The dampness on his face was transformed in an instant from sweat into dew. Looking out over amidships, Captain Clay couldn't even make out the mainsail.
Over the side of the ship, what had been mile upon mile of endless open ocean and clear blue sky was nothing more than a gauzy film that seemed to have swallowed the entire world. Even the sun was blotted out by the billowing whiteness.
The wind picked-up, and the partially slack sail snapped taut. Clay could hear Expatriate's deep hull slipping through the water.
'What in the name of Talos?' the captain murmured. 'Where did this fog come from?'
Tasca shrugged and said, 'Dunno. It just arrived.'
'You didn't see it roll in?'
'No, Cap'n,' Tasca replied. 'Like I said, one minute it was clear, the next, fog. It was like the sea itself just lifted its hands and covered us up.'
'We must be getting close,' Clay said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. 'Come to Captain Clay you great big topaz egg,' he whispered.
Members of the crew began to materialize out of the thick mist. Every one of them carried something- belaying pins, hooks, lengths of chain, or broken bits of wooden crates. The captain had seen it before.
'All right lads, let's just calm down.'
The crew began to grumble.
'It's witchery,' shouted one.
'No good can come of this,' shouted another.
Captain Clay raised his hands, and the men quieted.
'Now listen, you swabbies, all of you, back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled and a sturdy piece of wood nearby. Mind that you don't fall over the edge, and we'll get what we've come for. Understood?'
'Aye, Cap'n,' came the collective response.
'Very good,' he said, then he turned and headed back into his cabin. 'Mr. Mansa.'
'Cap'n?'
'Round up the other mates.'
'Aye, aye.'
Inside, Clay stepped behind his desk and stared down at the map. He laughed. He didn't need to look at it anymore. The jagged lines of the coast were permanently burned into his memory. For three tendays he'd stared down on that same wrinkled, brown parchment while Expatriate had sat off the coast of Chult searching for the island. First no wind, then the fog, were the gods conspiring to keep him away from that dragon's egg?
Mansa knocked on the cabin threshold and called, 'Cap'n?'
Clay looked up. Mansa was flanked by a half-ore and a dwarf. 'Come in, gentlemen.'
The half-ore was garbed in little more than torn rags, held together by a series of belts and straps at strategic points along his waist, biceps, and thighs. His hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail and held in place by a strip of thick, rancid-looking black hide. At the end of his left arm, where most other sailors had a hand, the half- ore had a wicked-tipped blade strapped to his ruined stump.
The dwarf on the other hand looked as if hed just stepped out of a fancy inn after a good night's sleep and a bath. His beard was in three long braids all tied together-near his knees-to a shiny brass ring. A clean, dry rolled bandanna of yellow silk covered the top of his head, a perfect accompaniment to his blue pantaloons and purple vest. He wore a series of golden rings in one ear. His burley bare arms were covered in tattoos of mermaids drinking flagons of ale. On his belt swung a jeweled sheath with a keen-edged rapier inside.
The collected mates entered, each taking a chair around the heavy desk.
Clay steepled his fingers in front of his chin and asked, 'Any guesses about this mysterious fog?' He looked to the dwarf. 'Mr. Tabor?'
The immaculately dressed mate shook his head and replied, 'I'd say we're getting close.'
Clay nodded.
'Mr. Hadar?'
The half-ore grunted, 'Smells of witchcraft to me.'
Clay slapped the desk and said, 'Aye. Which means someone doesn't want us to find what we're looking for. I'd wager my weight in gold that when we find our island we'll find the mage responsible for our bad luck.'
The three mates shook their heads.
The ship's timbers complained, creaking and screeching under the sudden pressure. There was a crunching sound, followed by a long, slow grind, and Expatriate lurched. The captain's heavy desk shifted, adding to the noise, and the three mates were thrown to the floor. Captain Clay went sprawling over the top of his desk, thrashing the map and the stones that held it open and sending them flying.
'What the-?'
Clay's words were cut short.
'Land ho!'
The captain got to his feet and scrambled onto the deck, followed closely by the dwarf and the half-ore. The sky overhead was visible, the sun coming through a large hole in the sheath that had covered the ship. Where before the amidships had been socked in by fog, traces of the ship were revealed. The thick mist seemed to dissolve, dropping away from the planks and sails as if it were a wave, already spent, slowly drifting back into the sea.
Tasca was facedown on the deck, surrounded by at least five other sailors, all pulling splinters out of their palms. The lookout, perched high up on the mainmast, hung to the edge of the crow's nest by one hand. His legs dangled below him as he surveyed the deck and the spilled pirates.
As the foggy whiteness drifted away, Captain Clay got his first look at what had caused all the commotion.
'Shiver me timbers,' he whispered.
Before him, not more than a league ahead of Expatriate's bow, sat an active volcano. A column of sooty smoke rose out of its top, and a bright line of orange-red lava rolled down its side.
Clay dashed down across the deck. Leaning out over the spinnaker, he looked down on a rocky beach.
'Mr. Mansa,' he shouted.
The portly mate had just managed to pull himself up off the floor of the captain's cabin and stagger out to the deck.
'Aye.'
'We're going ashore.'
'Aye, cap'n,' replied the first mate. 'I'll gather the repair party.'
The damage wasn't extensive, but the ship was taking on water. Expatriate had come ashore quite softly, only crashing to a halt when its hull collided with a huge, melted piece of basalt jutting up from the bottom of the
