Spirit of the Wind

Chris Pierson Spirit of the Wind

Prologue

The day dawned clear. The few ribbons of cloud shone gold as the sun pushed itself up over the horizon. It was not quite full summer, and morning’s cool breeze bore the salty tang of the sea. Gulls shrieked and squalled as the dove into the water, coming up with gleaming silver fish that they swallowed in quick gulps. The surf crashed against the cliffs of the Goodlund peninsula, exploding in bursts of crimson spray.

In years past, before the world changed, superstitious folk had come up with many tales of the Blood Sea of Istar. Some said it was the blood of the thousands who had perished in the Cataclysm that gave the waters their sanguine hue. Others claimed the scarlet color came from a gateway to the Abyss itself, where the gods’ fiery mountain had smashed the Kingpriest in his Temple. Those who made their living from the Blood Sea, however, had scoffed at such notions, calling them landlubber’s nonsense.

Tuller Quinn had scoffed with the rest of them, over mugs of grog at the Jetties taphouse in Flotsam. “Blood indeed,” he’d told his crew. “Soil’s all it is-farmlands pushed under water by the Cataclysm. The Maelstrom keeps it all stirred up. It ain’t blood, no matter what anyone says. It’s just dirt.”

Standing at the prow of the Elchenior, his ship, Tuller stared out across the waves, worrying-and thinking what a fool he’d once been to say that.

“Cap’n?” called Perth, his first mate. “The lads are ready to get underway.”

For a moment, Tuller chose to ignore him. Perth cleared his throat and raised his voice a little. “Cap’n?”

“Aye, then,” Tuller answered over his shoulder. “Full sails. We’ll need the whole day to get back to Flotsam, if the winds don’t pick up.”

“Weigh anchor!” shouted Perth. “You heard the captain, you dogs! Quit lazing about and hoist the bloody sails! I’ve got a lass waiting for me in port, and if I have to spend another night aboard this tub, I’ll flog the lot o’ ye blue!”

Sailors scrambled, shouting and cursing. The Elchenior’s green sails rose swiftly. Elsewhere, three bare-chested sailors strained as they pulled the ship’s anchor up from the sea floor. The helmsman took the tiller, turning them into the listless wind to keep them in irons until Tuller gave the order to get under way. Within minutes, the ship was ready to sail.

Tuller continued to lean against the gunwale, his attention fixed on the sea.

“We’re in shape, Cap’n,” Perth declared, striding forward. His boot heels made an uneven rhythm on the deck-Perth had walked with a limp for years, ever since he’d caught a pirate’s gaff hook in the shin. He’d done the pirate far worse. “Cap’n?” he asked again.

Still Tuller didn’t answer. Perth stopped behind him and coughed loudly.

Blinking, Tuller turned away from the waves. “Sorry, lad,” he said, chuckling ruefully. “I was woolgathering. Let’s be off.”

Perth barked curt orders at the crew. Men hurried to obey, and presently the Elchenior came about, her boom swinging as the paltry wind caught the sails. The ship began to move west, along the coast.

Tuller’s weathered face tightened into a scowl as he gauged their speed. “Bloody weather,” he muttered. “I don’t remember it ever being so calm for so long.”

“Or so warm,” Perth agreed. “Winter’s not even a month past, and afready it’s like high summer out.”

For a moment, both men were silent, sharing the same grim thought. The last time the weather had turned unseasonably hot, not two years since, the legions of Chaos had nearly blasted Flotsam from the face of Krynn-and then the Second Cataclysm had struck, and the gods had left once more.

Perth shook his head angrily. He wasn’t a man who liked to hold on to thoughts for very long, least of all dark ones. “What were you thinking about, Cap’n?” he asked.

“Oh, the Blood Sea,” Tuller answered. “It’s still red, you know.”

“I’d noticed.”

The captain regarded his first mate a moment, then laughed. “Aye, reckon it’s hard to miss, eh? But have ye wondered what it means?”

Perth’s brow furrowed, then he shook his head. “Ain’t given it much thought,” he said.

“All right, then; give it a try. When you were young, did your da ever tell you why the Blood Sea was red?”

“Sure. It’s dirt kicked up by the Maelstrom. Everyone who’s ever set foot on a ship knows that.”

Tuller grunted agreement, then glanced back across the deck. “Let the mainsail out a bit more!” he called. The sailors at the mainmast loosened the halyards, and another yard of sailcloth rose to catch the wind. Tuller nodded in satisfaction, then turned back to Perth. “Now think about that, lad. What happened to the Maelstrom?”

“It stopped,” Perth said. “When the moons went away. Old Jig Rinfel told me he’s been out that way, and the seas are calm now.”

“Right,” Tuller said. “And how long’s it been since that happened? A year and a half?”

Perth counted on his fingers. “Sounds close.”

“So-if it’s dirt that makes the water red, what’s stirring it up now the Maelstrom’s gone?”

“Hmph,” Perth declared. “Good point. It should’ve settled by now.”

“And the waters should be dear.” Tuller gestured at the crimson waves. “Which, of course, they’re not.”

Perth looked out across the water, pursing his lips. “Then it isn’t dirt after all? So what is it, then?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Tuller answered.

The Elchenior was moving west now, so the two men stared starboard, out toward the open sea. After a few minutes, Perth shook his head. “Well,” he said, “I can’t figure it out. Don’t see the point in dwelling on it, neither. My da told me once, ‘This world’s got mysteries man ain’t meant to solve.’ Reckon this is one of them.

“As long as there’s still water, who cares if it’s blue, red, or silver and gold? It ain’t like ye’re a wizard who’s lost his magic, or-”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening. Tuller saw this, and squinted, trying to follow his first mate’s gaze. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“There,” Perth hissed, stabbing a finger north across the water.

“I don’t see a damn thing,” Tuller snapped. “You know my eyes ain’t what they once were. What are you-”

Then he saw it too, and his mouth dropped wide open. It was a red dragon, skimming low over the waves. Her scales were the same color as the waters, camouflaging her and making it hard to guess her full shape. She was huge, though, and she was heading straight for the Elchenior.

“Zeboim’s twenty teats,” Tuller swore.

A great cry rose as the crew spotted the dragon too. She was still half a mile off, but there was no mistaking her speed. She would be on top of them in moments. Sailors abandoned their posts, running every which way.

“Get back on those ropes!” Perth barked, storming across the deck. “Now, or a dragon’s the least o’ your worries!” Though his voice was as gruff as before, there was a new edge to it: fear.

Tuller looked down at his hands and saw that they were white from gripping the rail. He forced himself to let go, and ran to the stem. “Hard to port!” he snapped at the helmsman. “Come about now!”

It was ridiculous, of course. There was hardly any wind, and the dragon could have outrun a gale. Still, the helmsman leaned hard on the tiller, and the boom swung wildly. Someone screamed and fell from the rigging, splashing down into the water. There was no time to turn back or even to figure out who had fallen overboard. They were moving straight toward the rocky coastline now, the dragon on their tail. The wyrm gained on them steadily.