Chapter 14


As the ship made its way south along the coast of the Plains of Dust, the crew had plenty of time to watch as the landscape changed. From the heather and low-growing bushes of the north around Rigitt, the land gave way to barren rock sloping down to the sea. The air grew still colder, and an icy wind blew from the frozen peaks that framed the southern sky. Tashara had the lookout, constantly studying those peaks through the glass, and the elves knew she was searching for three that matched the description of the Mountains of the Moons.

A few ice floes drifted in the water, though none so spectacular as those the crew had seen to the west in the Sirrion Sea when they passed through Takhisis’s Teeth. Harfang ordered a sharp watch kept for thanoi, since the walrus men were known to inhabit those waters.

The mate did not speak to anyone of his mysterious old man and the charon cards, least of all Tashara. Daily, between the dozens of decisions, orders, and duties that were part of the ship’s voyage, he practiced shuffling and dealing the cards. He tried to guess at the meaning of some of the combinations and was even tempted to ask Malshaunt if he knew, but he suspected the mage would tell the captain, and she would want to know more of the mysterious old man. Something held the mate back from revealing the story—perhaps memory of his own temptation to desert, though he had rejected that course. In any case, he told himself, every piece of information he knew that the mage did not was a small bit of power he possessed to counter Malshaunt’s pernicious influence over Tashara.

Sometimes the pattern the old man had shown Harfang repeated itself. At other times there were variations. But of one thing the mate could be sure: no matter how many times he dealt the cards, and no matter how thoroughly he shuffled them, the last card on top of the inverted deck was invariably the white dragon.

After two days’ sailing, the Starfinder bore east and entered a broad bay lined by rocky shores. On those rocks were dozens of giant tortoises—larger than any the crew had ever seen—sunning themselves, and they moved slowly over the rocks, slipping into the shallows then climbing back into the sunlight.

Though the sun burned brightly there, the air was cold, and the crew—except for Tashara and Malshaunt—wrapped themselves in furs. The Starfinder dropped anchor, and on Tashara’s orders the entire crew put ashore. Over the following few days, they ferried supplies to their camp, established near the shore. The tortoises proved an excellent source of food, supplemented by birds’ eggs, which they found in abundance in nests along the shore.



Half a mile inland, there rose from the sands the ruins of great buildings, worn clown by the restless wind and desert. Ayshe, inspecting them, wondered if the camp of the Plainsmen the brother and sister in Rigitt had referred to had been established among the older ruins, village built upon village, town built upon town, until time itself forgot the origins of the settlement. The story the Plainsfolk had told to Tashara and Harfang had spread among the crew, adorned with such details as the imagination of the elves could supply.

Gray stones protruded at crazy angles like rotten teeth sticking up from the dusty ground. Many of them were cracked and shattered, and some still bore the marks of burning, as if a great fire had swept over them. Some had writing carved deep into the stone, but Ayshe could not read it. Jeannara, who examined the runes with him, could not understand it either.

“It’s the script of a people now long gone,” she told him. “They left only the ruins of Donatta. They are forgotten, and even the elves don’t remember them.”

Ayshe recalled Tashara’s song from many weeks previous. “Do you have regrets, Jeannara?” he asked. “Do you worry that when you’re gone, you’ll be forgotten, like the people of these ruins?”

The elf woman smiled. “The deeds of Dragonsbane, Master Ayshe, have been carried down through the centuries. Our feats will outlive us, even the longest-lived among the elves.” Her expression turned sad. “No, I have no regrets. I can have no regrets lest I try to turn back the River of Time. It is a mighty river, Ayshe, and it sweeps us all before it, whether we would or no.”

Together the elf and dwarf contemplated the ruins. The wind passing through them made a high whistling sound that sounded like weeping. Ayshe shuddered, remembering the stories of unquiet spirits. He clutched at Jeannara’s arm. “D’you see?”

“What? Where?”

Ayshe did not say more for a moment. His eyes studied the gray stones intently. Surely… Yes! “There!”

Jeannara followed his gaze and gasped.

The stone surface of one pillar seemed to be rippling, moving. Bulges formed in it and resolved themselves into a human face, its mouth gaping in agony. On either side of the mouth were the outlines of hands, as if the figure were pressing to free itself from the stone. Then it faded away. A moment later, another face came to the surface of the rock. Its features, as well, were distorted in pain, its mouth crying out.

Ayshe realized with a shock the sound he had thought was the wind was, in fact, the noise of dozens, hundreds, thousands of voices wailing in a never-ending lament.

“Reorx’s Beard!” he muttered. “Is this what happens to those slain by the wyrm?”

“Nay!” Jeannara’s voice was unsteady. “But for these poor souls there has been, for some reason, no release. They have remained here, frozen and burned into the very stone.” She shook her head. “Either that, or the stones themselves remember the pain of those who died here.”

“How can stones remember?” grunted the dwarf. He held his axe uneasily and flinched as another face surfaced and gave a prolonged shriek before vanishing.

Jeannara’s voice sank to a whisper. “Some say that if a soul dies in enough pain, the land itself remembers and can never be free of its pain until the last great Cataclysm comes to wash Krynn clean of all who dwell on her.” She backed away from the stones. “Let’s go. Let’s get away from this place.”

“We should tell the captain,” Ayshe said, shouldering his axe.

“Nay. Keep silent.” Seeing his face, she added; “It’s best. Best that the rest of the crew not see this. Trust me. Be still.”

The dwarf nodded, and they turned their backs on the unquiet ruins. The wails pursued them as they returned to camp.



In three days the supplies had been off-loaded from the Starfinder. On the morning of the fourth day, the crew assembled, bearing heavy packs. In addition to their supplies, on Tashara’s orders Otha-nyar and Lindholme carried, on a framework of sticks and canvas dragging behind them, several bundles wrapped in tattered rags, which they were reluctant to allow the others near. Tashara addressed the crew.

“We make for Zeriak.” She pointed east across the low foothills that rolled up from the south. “There we’ll purchase any more supplies we need and strike out across the Snow Sea. Then on to the Mountains of the Moons. On to our final victory over the White Wyrm!”

The elves raised a brief cheer and began their trek. As they walked forward, Ayshe cast a glance backward to the ship that had been his home for so many months. She looked forlorn, standing at the edge of the sea, the sun shining on her sides, her sails down, her rigging drooping. He shook his head sadly and turned his back on her.

The party soon found that their time aboard the Starfinder had not accustomed them to walking long distances. Even Ayshe, who as a dwarf had a hardier constitution than either the elves or Harfang, was hard put, and they found they could manage only about fifteen miles a day.

The hills, which from a distance had seemed barren, were covered in a thick, low scrub that clung to their ankles as if to hold them back. Gullies and crevices cut across their way and had to be clambered over. Some of them were filled with sluggish streams coursing from the mountains to the south. In spring, they would be full, and the party counted themselves lucky they were making the traverse in late fall. Still, they were rarely dry and never warm. Even the evening campfires did little to keep out the icy wind that blew steadily from the south. The wind kicked up the dust, swirling it in eddies, driving it in clouds. After the first day, the elves had no doubt what had given the Plains their name. They were covered with copper-colored dust; it filled their mouths, parched their tongues, covered their food, and burnished their skin raw and red.

Tashara kept them angled slightly north so they would strike the road that led to Zeriak before the town itself. Her plan was to conceal the nature of their quest and to pretend they were simply one of the wandering band of elves who traversed the Plains after the fall of Qualinost.

Ayshe was not sure how she planned to explain the presence in such a band of a dwarf and a man, but he kept his mouth shut.

The road, when they encountered it on the fourth day of their journey, proved to be little more than a dusty trail worn by the passage of wagons and many feet. They moved along the road, grateful that at least some of the obstacles to their passage had been removed.

Another day’s journey at last brought them to the mud walls of Zeriak. The sun there seemed to shine even brighter, and the shadows were sharper, the air drier, as they approached the town in the late afternoon.

A great cloud of red-brown dust had been kicked up outside the gates by a troop of mules led by a bad-tempered driver who was shouting at the gate guards.

“D’y’think I brought them here for me bloody health? Of course I want t’sell them! Now, open the gods-blasted gates and let me through, ye pack o’ snaggle-toothed lazy pieces o’ dragon spit!”

Through the braying of the mules and the angry shouts of the driver, Ayshe could hear a grumbling voice saying something about tax.

“ ’S bloody highway robbery, tha’s what it is! I paid a bloody tax in bloody Hopeful! I paid a bloody tax in Tarsis! And now here! By Chemosh’s breath, it’ll cost me more to bring these damned animals to market than I’ll make selling ’em!”

The low voice grumbled again; then came the chink of steel coin passing from hand to hand. The wooden doors swung open, and the driver and his noisy pack passed through them. The gates shut swiftly, and a small door at eye level popped open.

“What business hast thou in Zeriak?”

Harfang, who was standing near Tashara at the front of the company, saw a handsome face with rippling brown hair pushed back from a pale forehead. Though he could not see the gatekeepers body, the formality of his speech stirred a chord in his memory.

“A centaur!” he hissed to Tashara. “He’s a centaur.”

The elf captain gave no sign she had heard Harfang and addressed the gatekeeper pleasantly. “Good afternoon, friend. We seek permission to enter Zeriak.”

“ ‘Friend’! Be careful to whom thou addresseth that word, elf.” The centaur’s voice held nothing but contempt. “There are no friends of elves within these walls—save, perhaps, other elves.”

“Very well,” Tashara returned. “We seek permission to enter Zeriak. Sir.”

“Why? Hast thou goods to sell?”

“Nay, master. We wish to buy goods. We are on a long journey to the fabled Pillar of Flame and are in need of food, lodging, and equipment for the trip.”

The centaur’s eyes flickered over them. “What is a dwarf doing with such as thou?” he demanded.

Tashara turned her blind eyes to Ayshe. “A chance companion met on the road,” she lied easily. “He, too, is traveling east.”

“Master Dwarf where art thou bound?” the centaur demanded. Ayshe’s mind raced. He’d had only a glimpse of the maps of the Plains that Tashara and Harfang had pored over. One name had struck in his memory. “The Missing City,” he growled.

The centaur seemed taken aback. “Thou hast along road ahead of thee,” he said at last. “And the man by thy side, elf. What of him? Another chance companion?”

Tashara smiled slightly. “He is my servant,” she said. “I keep him near me to amuse myself. He is feeble minded and makes no complaint.”

Harfang could hear a soft snigger from just behind him where Malshaunt was standing. His hands clenched, but he made no movement.

The centaur looked over Harfang then stared at Tashara with an expression of contempt. “Thou hast a fool for a servant, elf. Maybe that means thou art thyself a fool.”

“Perhaps,” admitted the elf calmly. “Perhaps.”

There was another long silence behind the gate. Then the centaur’s voice came again. “For thy companions and thyself, Zeriak demands an entry tax of twelve steel.”

Tashara snapped her fingers, and Harfang handed her a leather pouch. She counted out coins and passed them to the centaur.

“Enter!” he said sternly. “But look for no easy welcome, elf. The Bone and Bristle at the far end of town may serve thee. No other taverns will let elves through their doors.”

The gates swung back, and Dragonsbane passed into Zeriak.



The town was certainly not much to look at—or to smell.

Low, mud-brick buildings crowded along narrow streets. A few rose to two stories, but most were squat and ugly, like fat old men crouched in the dust. Heaps of refuse choked the alleys and lay rotting in the streets. Many of the inhabitants lounged in doorways, smoking, spitting, and gossiping. They gave the elves unfriendly looks as they passed, and a few shouted insults and advice to return whence they came and leave honest folk alone.

Behind them in the street they heard the sounds of a fight breaking out, with the clash of steel and a cry of pain. If there was a watch in Zeriak, it kept a low profile, for no one came to break up the dispute. The elves hurried along lest they be caught up in the scuffle. After Than-Khal, they had had enough of local jails.

The Bone and Bristle proved to be a ramshackle building crowded against the town’s eastern wall. The party entered the common room and found a few men in the last stages of drunkenness sprawled on benches.

The landlord grudgingly gave them three rooms, under the prodding of Tashara’s coin and Harfang’s glare. He charged them an excessive amount, but the elf leader paid it without question. Dragonsbane crowded into the largest of the rooms, while the captain addressed them in a low voice.

“Harfang, Samustalen, Riadon, you take steel and purchase food and supplies for our journey. Try to make the purchases from several merchants so as not to excite suspicion of our real goal.”

“Aye,” interjected Malshaunt. “And remember, Harfang, that you are feeble minded.” He gave a snort of laughter. Harfang’s face turned pale, but with an effort he shrugged off the insult. Tashara gave no sign she had heard the mage.

“Ayshe,” she said, “go about town. Ask about rumors of the White Wyrm, but be discreet and avoid being too widely noticed. The rest of us will remain here. It seems elves are none too popular in Zeriak.”

Ayshe wasn’t any too sure how popular dwarves were going to be either, but he nodded and slipped out of the inn.

The town was not large, and after wandering for a half hour, his feet led him to the sight and sound of Zeriak’s smithy. A large, bare-chested man stood before a glowing forge holding a pair of iron tongs. With the tongs he turned the blade of a reaper as he shaped it on the anvil with blows of his hammer. Around him were arrayed the familiar tools of the trade: bickerns, stakes, swages, hammers, punches, tongs, chisels, fullers, and more.

“Holla, Master Dwarf! What can I do for you today?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Ayshe returned. “I was merely enjoying watching a craft well performed by a master hand.”

The smith chuckled. “I never heard dwarves rated for the sweetness of their tongues. A compliment like that makes me think you must want something.”

The dwarf sauntered over to the anvil as the smith plunged the reaper blade into a bucket of cold water, sending up a cloud of steam. “I wouldn’t think there’d be much use for that,” he said, gesturing at the tool. “Where are the fields around here?”

“South, between here and the glacier, the land is good enough that some can grow a few crops. But for the most part, we get what we need in trade.” The smith laid the blade aside to cool further and picked up a harness.

Ayshe’s sharp eyes saw the broken buckle. “Would you care for a hand in this?” he asked. “It’s been too long since I’ve done aught but sharpen blades and polish steel.”

The smith laughed again and tossed the harness to him. “There’s plenty of that to do here as well,” he said, “but if it suits you to work, please yourself.”



For the next few hours, Ayshe found himself more content than at almost any time since he’d left home to join the crew of the Starfinder. The smith—whose name was Saleh—was jovial and talkative, and Ayshe was content to let him talk, the flow of speech punctuated by the rattle of tools, the clang of the hammer, and the hiss of hot metal cooling.

From Saleh, the dwarf learned that life in a frontier town such as Zeriak was not for the faint of heart. Comforts were scarce, and foes were many. Saleh spoke of attacks on the town by the thanoi and, during the War of Souls, by the Knights of Neraka.

“We fought them off, though,” he said proudly. “And they left us alone after that.”

Not that it was easy, living in Zeriak. The road north to Tarsis was long and lonely, and occasionally travelers on it were attacked by raiding bands of thanoi, ogres, and sometimes by less easily identified creatures. It was the only road north by which goods and supplies could reach Zeriak. Ayshe began to understand why the centaur at the gate had been so suspicious. Along the borders, men barred their doors after the sun went down. None would venture beyond the town walls after dark.

The smith knew about the elves from the Starfinder; news in Zeriak evidently traveled fast. He expressed no opinion of elves, and did not seem to think any less of Ayshe for traveling with them. The dwarf gathered that wandering bands of elves roved to and fro over the Plains but were not especially welcome in towns and villages. For the most part they camped in the open and kept themselves aloof from humans.

At last Ayshe found a chance to introduce the topic he’d been sent to inquire about. “D’you see anything of the white dragon Cryonis here?”

Cryonis, the dwarf knew from the book aboard the Starfinder was a white dragon who lived in or around the Icereach glacier but occasionally left the area to raid and plunder.

Saleh shook his head. “His reach is to the west by two hundred miles or so. We’ve enough problems without that, thank the gods!”

“So there’ve never been dragons here?” Ayshe hazarded.

The smith gave him a sharp glance. “I didn’t say that.”

The dwarf waited for him to go on.

“Twas a long time ago—twenty years or so. I was barely out of my teens and first apprenticed to Holmann, who was then the smith here. The town was attacked by a mighty white dragon.”

Ayshe concentrated on the saddle he was mending. “A white dragon? But not Cryonis?”

“No. This was before Cryonis came to the southern reaches. And this was no ordinary dragon.”

“How so?” Ayshe asked.

“It came out of a cloud in the sky.” The smith’s voice sank to a near whisper. “It swept over Zeriak, crumbling buildings like a storm. Its mane was serpents, and its claws were sharp as those of a tiger. Folk ran, but they couldn’t escape. It slaughtered with lightning blasts, though that’s said to be the power of blues, not whites. And it breathed a killing cold. Those it caught, it tore to pieces. Holmann and I ran for cover while houses were lifted up and tossed about like leaves in a storm. So much dust was in the air from the beating of the beast’s wings, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, and the sky was dark as night, though it was noon. And then, just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“it was gone.”

“Where? Where did it go?”

The smith shrugged his big shoulders and picked up his hammer. “Who knows? Somewhere out there, I suppose.” His arm swept south. “Folk here say it lairs beyond the Snow Sea, but who knows, really? As long as it never comes back here, I don’t care.”

“I’ve heard tell of the Snow Sea,” the dwarf said. “Big, is it?”

“Big as a real sea, from all accounts. Not that anyone here has traversed it, mind you, but one or two of the younger, hardier men have been as far as its borders. They say it stretches out endlessly and that the wind is so fierce there that it whips the snow into waves. There’s foam and storms, just as there are on the water.” He shook his head. “Sounds like a terrible place to me. Whatever lies beyond it can keep its secrets for all of me.”

Ayshe put down the saddle and gave the leather a final polish. “I must rejoin my companions,” he said, standing. He held out a hand to Saleh. “Thank you for letting me forget my troubles for a few hours.”

The smith took his hand. “Thank you, Master Dwarf. You’re a fine craftsman, like many of your race. If you pass this way again and want to settle down, there’s a spot here waiting for you.” He lifted his hammer in farewell as Ayshe walked down the street.



Harfang and his elf companions had returned by the time Ayshe reached the Bone and Bristle. Tashara was nowhere to be found, so the dwarf reported his findings to the mate, with the mage Malshaunt standing nearby. After the dwarf had finished and gone to get meat and drink, Harfang nodded thoughtfully.

“That fits with what we’ve learned,” he said. “The White Wyrm lairs in the south somewhere. It can move between the planes, but it must come back into our reality every few weeks, just as a whale rises to the surface to breathe. It seems to emerge from its lair about every twenty to twenty-five years. We hear of it for a time, and then it disappears again. Perhaps it needs to rest. Perhaps there is something in its lair that gives it strength or that allows it to pass between the planes.”

Malshaunt, passing his whip from hand to hand, grunted grudging assent. “And now we know where the lair is,” he added with grim satisfaction. “The quest is within our reach.”

Harfang shook his head and looked worried. “No, we know the general direction—that way”—he flung out a hand to the south—“but not the particular place. And finding three mountains in that mass is like looking for a white bear in a snowstorm. Not only that, but what you tell me of this Snow Sea doesn’t make me feel better. If we—” He broke off, drumming his fingers nervously on the table. “We’re not ready for this,” he muttered. “The captain is like one possessed. She won’t listen to reason, and she’s determined to pursue the White Wyrm, even if it kills her and no matter the rest of us. And we still know nothing more about the precise location of the lair.”

“What more would you have us know?” snapped the mage. “We know now, after all these years of searching, of these ‘Mountains of the Moons.’ We know they lie to the south, across the Snow Sea. Captain Tashara knows more of these matters than either you or I. I at least have confidence that she will guide us aright!”

Harfang stared south, where the mountains of Icereach reared up against the sky. “No, it’s madness,” he said. “Somewhere in that wilderness is the lair, but we’ve almost less than nothing to go on. Yet she proposes to drag us on this wild chase into that…” He gestured south.

Malshaunt stood before the mate, his eyes spitting fire. “You have never believed in this quest,” he told Harfang. “From the time Tashara dragged you aboard the ship as a ragged urchin, you resisted her. She pulled you from the gutter, and you could not even show proper gratitude.”

“And you would have been happy to throw me back, eh?”

“I accepted her decision because I believe in her. I accept her visions. Such things should not be argued with; they must be fed and nurtured. Yet, apparently, I am alone in Dragonsbane in understanding such a simple thing as accepting the captain’s decisions.”

Harfang looked at the mage. “Tell me, Malshaunt,” he said at last, “where do your loyalties really lie? With Dragonsbane? Or with Tashara? And what would you do if you thought the captain had turned from her true path?”

The mage shook his head. “Weak, Harfang. Weak and weeping, like your pet dwarf. My loyalties lie with the person to whom I owe my life. To the person who is more to me than a captain, more than a leader, more than a companion of centuries. As a man”—he packed every ounce of scorn possible into the word—“I would not expect you to understand that.” He turned on his heel and went out.



That evening, Dragonsbane gathered once again. Tashara had isolated herself in a room all day, eating and drinking nothing. She emerged only long enough for Harfang to tell her of Ayshe’s conversation with the Zeriak smith and the news of the wyrm. She stood next to the three mysterious bundles taken from the Starfinder and carried by the elves on their journey to Zeriak. Her pale skin seemed white and paper-thin, showing the blue veins beneath and slipping over bone and muscle. Ayshe thought she appeared thinner as well, as if the chase were devouring her from the inside. Although circles under her opaque eyes spoke of lack of sleep, her voice was clear and strong.

“Friends,” she said, “so I may call you after our long leagues together. We stand on the edge of glory. The Great White Wyrm has retreated to its lair. We have, at long last, a clue as to the location of that lair. Now we shall track it and finally destroy it.”

She lifted a bag that jingled as it moved. “Here are two hundred steel. They go to the first among you who sights the wyrm’s lair and can direct us to it.” She bent and pulled from the first bundle a shield. It was bright red with an argent border. In the center, also argent, was a rampant dragon, so realistic Ayshe could almost hear its low, sinister growl.

“This shield,” she said, “belonged to B’ynn al’Tor, greatest of all Dragonsbane. For fifteen hundred years, it has guarded the leaders of our band and served us in our battle against the dragons. I swear before all of you that this is the shield I will carry into the last battle with the White Wyrm!”

From the elves there came a low murmur of admiration.

Tashara lifted the second bundle, a long shape wrapped in cloth and bound with leather thongs. “In these wrappings is the sword of Tess Kuthendra, borne by her for Dragonsbane when Istar thrived and the Swordsheath Scroll was young. After the Cataclysm, it was carried away from the north to Silvanesti, where it rested in secret for many centuries in the vaults of Silvanost before coming at last to me.

“This is the sword I pledge to bear in the last battle against the White Wyrm!”

Finally, she lifted the third bundle. Casting aside the rags that surrounded it, she revealed a box of black wood bound in steel. She flung back the lid and brought forth the dragon’s eye.

The elves gasped. The eye, straining against its bonds of gold and silver, surged this way and that, as if seeking to burst free. Within it, a pupil blinked malevolently and turned, surveying its watchers. Some of the elves turned aside or put their hands before their faces as if to shield themselves from its gaze.

Tashara looked at it for a moment in silence then spoke. “This dragon’s eye I have borne for many a long year. None of you knew I carried it. It gave me sight with which to follow our enemy. It has served its purpose well.”

She lifted the sword. The eye swung up, and for the first time it showed terror amid its hatred. The blind elf brought the sword down with a crash, slicing through the center of the eye, slashing the box that held it, driving through the table and onto the stone floor. Sparks sprang up from where the sword struck the stones, and they cracked and broke. There was a blinding flash of light and a hideous stench that set the elves of Dragonsbane, as well as Ayshe and Harfang, to gagging.

When they looked, the eye’s halves. lay still upon the floor, blood and ooze seeping from them. Tashara’s voice swept away their astonishment and horror.

“I no longer have need of this foul remnant of wyrms. My sight is clear within me, and I know now where our foe is lodged. There is no turning back!

“My friends, we are here gathered, we hearty band of companions forged in fire and ice. We are the last heroes of Krynn. All others have perished in the wars and gone to wander among the stars. But we are here; we are the last. And our deed in slaying the White Wyrm will shine down through the centuries to come. We shall be worthy to sit at the side of Huma, of Magius, and of Lauralanthalasa, the Golden General.

“Who will join me in this quest?”

“I!”

Every elf in the room sprang to his feet. Ayshe, too, was on his feet, his hand raised in salute. Malshaunt, his grim face alight, stamped his foot. The other elves took it up until the blows resounded through the inn, shaking the walls, accompanied by a chant:

“Tashara! Tashara! Tashara!”

The captain raised her hand for silence. “So be it. We leave in two days.” She turned to Harfang, whose voice Ayshe did not recall hearing in the chorus of approbation.

“Check our supplies. Purchase anything additional we need. And patrol the town again. I want no crowds following us when we leave.”

“Aye, Captain.” The mate, expressionless, took a bag of steel from his commander. “Ayshe, you’re with me. The rest of you,” he said, turning to the elves, “stay here. There’s no point in stirring up trouble.”



Two days later, before dawn’s first light had broken, the crew of the Starfinder stood assembled before the door of the Bone and Bristle. The air was crisp and cold, and their breath came in white clouds, mingling and hanging in the air. Each bore a heavy pack. They were clad in clothing as warm as they were able to find. The dwarf thought of their rations stowed in their supplies and wondered gloomily how long they would last when faced with the endless Snow Sea.

Beneath their garments, the elves wore leather armor, light enough to wear comfortably but heavy enough to give some protection. Each elf bore a shield and sword except for Otha-nyar, who carried her wyrmbarb, and Riadon and Lindholme, who bore bows and quivers of arrows. Tashara was unarmed, but behind her Ridrathannash carried the bundles that concealed the sword of Tess Kuthendra and the shield of B’ynn al’Tor. Malshaunt, as usual, bore his whip. Harfang carried a long sword as well as a short sword. The dwarf carried his axe and wore a suit of studded leather armor that he had fashioned for himself on board the ship.

Tashara turned her blind face to the south, where the mountains were dark shapes against a paling sky. Without a word, she set out, stepping briskly along the cobbles.

Silently, Dragonsbane followed her.