Dragons of Spring Dawning - Margaret Weis [15]
“I was followed!” Tanis said through clenched teeth. “You must believe me. I—I may have been a fool. I didn’t think they’d follow me in that storm. But I didn’t betray you! I swear!”
“We believe you, Tanis,” Goldmoon said, coming to stand beside him, glancing at Raistlin angrily out of the corner of her eyes.
Raistlin said nothing, but his lip curled in a sneer. Tanis avoided his gaze, turning instead to watch the dragons. They could see the creatures clearly now. They could see the enormous wingspans, the long tails snaking out behind, the cruel taloned feet hanging beneath the huge blue bodies.
“One has a rider,” Maquesta reported grimly, the spyglass to her eye. “A rider with a horned mask.”
“A Dragon Highlord,” Caramon stated unnecessarily, all of them knowing well enough what that description meant. The big man turned a somber gaze to Tanis. “You better tell us what’s going on, Tanis. If this Highlord thought you were a soldier under his own command, why has he taken the trouble to have you followed and come out after you?”
Tanis started to speak, but his faltering words were submerged in an agonized, inarticulate roar; a roar of mingled fear and terror and rage that was so beastlike, it wrenched everyone’s thoughts from the dragons. It came from near the ship’s helm. Hands on their weapons, the companions turned. The crew members halted their frantic labors, Koraf came to a dead stop, his bestial face twisted in amazement as the roaring sound grew louder and more fearful.
Only Maq kept her senses. “Berem,” she called, starting to run across the deck, her fear giving her sudden horrifying insight into his mind. She leaped across the deck, but it was too late.
A look of insane terror on his face, Berem fell silent, staring at the approaching dragons. Then he roared again, a garbled howl of fear that chilled even the minotaur’s blood. Above him, the sails were tight in the wind, the rigging stretched taut. The ship, under all the sail it could bear, seemed to leap over the waves, leaving a trail of white foam behind. But still the dragons gained.
Maq had nearly reached him when, shaking his head like a wounded animal, Berem spun the wheel.
“No! Berem!” Maquesta shrieked.
Berem’s sudden move brought the small ship around so fast he nearly sent it under. The mizzenmast snapped with the strain as the ship heeled. Rigging, shrouds, sails, and men plummeted to the deck or fell into the Blood Sea.
Grabbing hold of Maq, Koraf dragged her clear of the falling mast. Caramon caught his brother in his arms and hurled him to the deck, covering Raistlin’s frail body with his own as the tangle of rope and splintered wood crashed over them. Sailors tumbled to the deck or slammed up against the bulkheads. From down below, they could hear the sound of cargo breaking free. The companions clung to the ropes or whatever they could grab, hanging on desperately as it seemed Berem would run the ship under. Sails flapped horribly, like dead bird’s wings, the rigging went slack, the ship floundered helplessly.
But the skilled helmsman, though seemingly mad with panic, was a sailor still. Instinctively, he held the wheel in a firm grip when it would have spun free. Slowly, he nursed the ship back into the wind with the care of a mother hovering over a deathly sick child. Slowly the Perechon righted herself. Sails that had been limp and lifeless caught the wind and filled. The Perechon came about and headed on her new course.
It was only then that everyone on board realized that sinking into the sea might have been a quicker and easier death as a gray shroud of wind-swept mist engulfed the ship.
“He’s mad! He’s steering us into the storm over the Blood Sea!” Maquesta said in a cracked, nearly inaudible voice as she pulled herself to her feet. Koraf started toward Berem, his face twisted in a snarl, a belaying pin in his hand.
“No! Koraf!” Maquesta gasped, grabbing hold of him. “Maybe Berem’s right! This could be our only chance! The dragons won’t dare