“Very good, Majesty,” came the reply, even as the rhythmic pounding of the cadence drum accelerated. Very slowly, the galley surged forward. The western coast of the White Bear Sea slid past. The course had already been laid-they would stay as close to that shore as possible, to minimize the chance of discovery. He pictured the scene. They would erupt upon the human citadel with surprise as their ally, blast the gate from its hinges, seize the Axe of Gonnas, and proceed to blow the place off the face of Krynn.

11

Dragon Ships

Work on the terraces had been suspended, and all the Arktos set about carrying provisions into the citadel. Fletchers went to work swiftly making arrows, while the few smiths among the humans-Highlanders, most of them-got busy making arrowheads, sharpening swords, repairing armor. Word had been carried to the outlying villages, and within days more Arktos arrived at Brackenrock-fathers in bearskins, carrying spears and harpoons, sturdy mothers carrying heavy packs, while children pulled light sledges of their own. At last, the fortress was fully garrisoned, as ready for war as it could be.

“Why don’t they just come?” demanded Moreen impatiently. She paced back and forth in her bedroom, while Dinekki clucked disapprovingly.

“Be careful what you wish for, child. There’s always more thinking and preparation to be done.”

The chiefwoman nodded, even smiled slightly. There was no one else in the world who would dare to call her ‘child,’ yet when the old shaman said it the word immediately lightened Moreen’s spirits. She was able to ask the question that had been burning since the shaman had climbed to the platform a few minutes earlier.

“What did you see when you cast the bones this morning?”

Dinekki sniffed, then shook her head. “Dark omens, I saw… there are forces gathering against us now. The threat is imminent, more so than when I cast the auguries last week.”

Moreen looked across the green fields of the terraces, thinking how deceptively peaceful everything looked, even though the planting had been delayed and the sheep, goats, pigs, as well as the few precious dairy cows, had been brought from all the pastures, herded into the citadel. Already the courtyard was a makeshift corral, a crowded mingling of bleating, mooing, and snorting as the last few animals were herded through the gate.

“I was thinking about something,” the chiefwoman said. “We would be planting now, fishing along the shore, tanning hides, just like eight years ago, before the ogres came. Because Kerrick chose to leave here when he did, because he encountered a dying walrus-man and came back, we have a chance to defend ourselves.”

“Thanoi. For generations they have been our enemies,” the shaman noted.

“I know. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Dinekki chuckled. “Yes. The gods like irony, in my observation. I imagine they are highly entertained by this spectacle.”

“It’s too bad the bones didn’t say anything about this new weapon we have to face,” murmured Moreen. Dinekki had no answer, and the chiefwoman looked again at the peaceful fields, the dazzling ocean.

She wrestled with her impatience, wanting the fight to start right now. Silently, she wondered, are we truly ready?

* * * * *

Kerrick and Mouse raised the mainsail and drifted away from the wharf. They planned one more quick run across the strait to Tall Cedar Bay to load up a dozen barrels of oil that Strongwind Whalebone was donating to the cause. The wind was out of the west, so they turned south as soon as they left the harbor, commencing one leg of a long tack across the Bluewater narrows. Kerrick was distracted and didn’t really want to leave Bracken-rock. He knew the oil would be useful, however, and there was no faster way to fetch it than with his sailboat. But he couldn’t shake his misgivings.

“Look-there!” Mouse cried, pointing south.

He saw the prow of the first ogre galley coming around the point, barely three miles away, and immediately he felt that stomach-clenching thrill of terror and excitement that for him always preceded battle. The trip to Tall Cedar Bay was forgotten. He made to turn his boat-Brackenrock would have to live or die with the oil currently on hand.

The tall prow of the lead vessel boasted the curling head of a gold dragon, skillfully rendered by the Silvanesti woodcarvers of his homeland. The twin ramps, raised now to flank that figurehead, were later additions, designed to facilitate the landing of raiders. Kerrick had long thought these ramps the marred the ship’s once graceful lines. Long banks of oars stroked the water on either side of the ship, propelling the great hull with rhythmic force.

“Come about!” Kerrick called, and Mouse threw his athletic body to the deck as the boom swept past. Cutter heeled through a sharp turn, and by the time the huge raiding ship came fully into view the nimble sailboat had wheeled around to mark a straight line back toward the harbor mouth, three or four miles distant. Mouse dashed to the bow, unleashed a fresh roll of canvas, smoothly hoisting the jib into the freshening air.

The sail instantly caught the wind, bulging over the prow and puffing the vessel forward with lurching acceleration. Kerrick kept his hand on the tiller, exerting all his strength to keep them on a course. At the same time, the wind, like a capricious force, tried to push them past, steering them toward the blue waters of the Courrain Ocean, dazzling in the summer sunlight beyond the strait.

Together, elf and human forced the keen hull to slice through the waters, keeping the boat aimed toward the Signpost and the harbor, coaxing her away from the great ocean.

“Is it Goldwing?” Kerrick asked, concentrating on holding their bearing while Mouse looked towards the stern.

“Yes. With Hornet right behind. She’s not as fast-Goldwing seems to be pulling away.”

Already they were so close to Brackenrock that the view of the battlements and towers of the great fortress was blocked by the looming promontory of the nearest ridge.

“The boom! Has the watchman seen the galleys yet?” cried Mouse.

As if in answer, a long horn blast, followed by a second, brayed across the sea. Fortunately, the wind-for all its capriciousness-was now aiding them by filling the sail with relentless power. The galleys, propelled only by oars, rapidly dwindled astern, even as the spire of the Signpost rock loomed ahead. The lookout had already run up the warning flag, and continued to blow his warning horn. Kerrick imagined that he could hear the braying of other, louder trumpets from the mountain-top fortress. He knew Moreen’s people would be racing to close the gates, to move weapons, fire, and oil into position.

Moreen Bayguard, the Lady of Brackenrock would be the least flustered of all her people. Her orders would be direct and unambiguous, and the Arktos-and those Highlanders who had come to help-would hasten to obey.

Kerrick turned the tiller, and Mouse trimmed the sail, as Cutter went gliding through the narrow gap between the Signpost and the opposite sheer cliff. Barely a hundred feet of water spanned that entrance.

He saw with satisfaction that a few men, Highlanders who had been learning the craft of the boatwright in Brackenrock’s yard alongside a couple of young Arktos apprentices, were gathered around the boom winch, working on the crank. They were gesturing frantically, however, and when the elf looked closely he saw they were pulling loose links of a broken chain from around the capstan.

“The winch broke!” Kerrick cried. “They’ll never be able to free the catch-lever by hand!”

“Can we do it with the boat, from this side of the bay?” Mouse asked, echoing the elf’s thoughts.