Spirit of the Wind

“We’re gonna die!” shouted a sailor.

The dragon was five hundred yards away. Tuller could see her golden eyes gleaming cruelly in the morning light. Her enormous wings pumped hard, dipping into the water with each beat. Her tail lashed behind her like a whip.

Two hundred yards. Her cavernous maw, lined with stalactite teeth, yawned open.

One hundred yards. Smoke curled up from her throat.

“Grab hold of something!” Perth shouted.

Fifty yards, twenty, ten. Tuller closed his eyes and held on to the rail.

The impact wasn’t nearly as strong as he’d expected. Rather than smashing his ship to flinders, it merely sent it spinning out of control, listing wildly to starboard. A great rush of wind knocked him off his feet, nearly hurling him into the sea.

Opening his eyes, he saw the mainmast was gone.

The deck was splintered and torn where the dragon had ripped the spar away. Several sailors lay bleeding on the deck, dead or dying. The dragon soared above and ahead of them now, the mast clutched in its jaws like a stick in a dog’s mouth. The tattered green sail flapped in the breeze. Ropes trailed beneath the wyrm. Someone was clinging to one of them, cursing at the top of his voice.

“Perth,” Tuller murmured dully.

Slowly, the Elchenior righted itself. Men jumped over the rails into the surf, screaming in terror. The helmsman let go of the useless tiller and drew a cutlass from his belt. “She’s coming around,” he cried.

The dragon banked sharply, the mast still clasped in her jaws, and soared back over the waves. Perth continued to shout as he hung from the trailing rope. Then the great wyrm shook her head, and flung the mast away from her. Tuller marked its path as it plummeted into the sea. Before the mast hit the water, the dragon turned back toward the ship, tucked in her wings, and dove.

The helmsman screamed, dropping his cutlass, and leaped over the gunwale. Tuller stood rigid, his eyes fixed upon the dragon as it streaked toward him like a falling star. Its claws stretched forward, bristling with talons the size of tree trunks. This time, Tuller didn’t close his eyes.

The dragon’s impact drove Tuller to his knees. Her claws closed over her deck and around her hull. Beside Tuller, a massive talon drove through six inches of wood like a spear through snow. The few men who hadn’t abandoned their posts clung to the ship in abject terror.

Then the Elchenior took flight.

“Habbakuk have mercy,” Tuller swore. He pushed himself to his feet and stared over the rail as the Blood Sea dropped away beneath them. The dragon’s belly arched above the ship, a scaly roof. Her wings creaked as she climbed, turning inland. They passed over the rocky shore and the cliffs beyond, then they were flying over a rich, green forest. Wind rushed all around. Tuller Quinn, who had plied the seas all his life, fell to his knees and vomited.

At last, the dragon leveled off. There were clouds all around them, and the air was chill. Tuller lay on his back, gasping, looking up at the muscles that rippled beneath the wyrm’s vast, scaly hide. The dragon laughed-a ghastly, grating sound-and let go of the ship.

Tuller screamed in mad, blind terror as his ship plummeted toward the woods below. It was a long fall, though, and his voice was gone by the time the Elchenior smashed through the treetops into the ground.

Chapter 1

“I am not making up stories,” said Catt Thistleknot. The little kender’s eyebrows knitted in vexation. “I did too see a boat fall from the sky last month.”

“Of course you did,” answered her brother Kronn, in a tone of voice that made him sound like the older sibling, rather than the younger. “It happens all the time around here. In fact, I hear it’s supposed to hail dinghies tonight.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Catt huffed. She pushed aside a low-hanging branch as she trudged through the undergrowth of the Kenderwood. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

Kronn glanced at the tall trees surrounding them. “Of course I do. Father’s map says Woodsedge shouldn’t be too far from where we are right now.” He examined a scrap of vellum and scratched his head, turning the map this way and that. “Of course, it’d help if it said which way’s supposed to be north…

“Oh, good,” Catt declared. “So we’re less than an hour’s walk from either Woodsedge or… Neraka, maybe?”

“Don’t be snotty.” Kronn studied the map a moment longer, then shrugged and tucked it into his belt. “Anyway, anyone can see that there’s too many trees around here for it to be Neraka.”

“Too many for a town called Woodsedge, too.”

Glowering, Kronn started pushing through the brush again. Shaking her head, Catt followed. “We don’t even know for sure that Father’s going to be there,” she complained.

“Merldon Metwinger said he was,” Kronn retorted.

“Merldon Metwinger says his daughter married Uncle Trapspringer.”

“It’s distinctly possible,” Kronn said. “Uncle Trapspringer is quite the catch, and I know for a fact that he’s been married seven or nine times.”

He stopped suddenly. Catt nearly piled into the back of him. “What-” she began.

Kronn pressed a finger against her lips. “Listen.”

Catt cocked a pointed ear, her forehead furrowing. It was a moment before she heard anything but birdsong and whispering leaves. Then she discerned a new sound. A chorus of odd cries wafted through the wood, equal parts cackle and screech, accompanied by the rustle of something passing through the scrub. It was getting louder, moving toward them.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Kronn didn’t reply. He crept forward, moving swiftly through the bushes. After about twenty paces, he looked back at Catt. “Come on,” he urged.

Catt hurried to catch up with her brother. More and more voices joined the strange chorus. Kronn drew to a halt, holding up a hand to stay his sister. They hunkered down behind a lichen-dappled boulder. Catt started to reach into her belt pouch, looking for a stone to load into her hoopak, but stopped with her hand on the bag’s clasp. Kronn hadn’t yet reached for the chapak-a kender weapon that is part axe, part sling, and part many other things- that he wore across his back. Trusting her brother’s instincts for danger, she hunched beside him, listening. The sound was almost upon them now.

“This is going to be good,” Kronn murmured, now grinning mischievously.

“Blast it, Kronn,” Catt urged. “What’s going-”

Without warning, Kronn leapt up from where he crouched, yelling at the top of his voice and gesticulating wildly. Suddenly the squawk-screeches gave way to startled shouts, then laughter. Following Kronn’s lead, Catt jumped up beside him, waving her arms and shouting even louder than he did. Shapes rose from the undergrowth around them-a score or more of kender children, all of them boys. They turned and ran away, shrieking with laughter.

Kronn gave chase without hesitation. Catt shrugged and followed, hollering all the while. They raced through the woods, but the children eluded them, vanishing among the ferns and shrubs. Kronn came to a halt and slumped back against a papery birch tree, holding his sides as he shook with silent mirth.

“What was that about?” Catt asked.

Kronn gave her an odd look, as if he weren’t sure she was serious. Then understanding dawned on his face. “Ah,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t know, being a girl and all.”

“Know what?” Catt asked, frowning.

Kronn stroked his chin. “Well,” he said, “today’s the first day of the Harrowing festival, right?”

“Right…”