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  Spirit of the Wind

  ( Bridges of time - 1 )

  Chris Pierson

  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.

  “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…”

  “So, every year on Harrowing, all the boys in a village get together and go goatsucker hunting.”

  Catt rolled her eyes. “Goatsucker hunting? Goatsuckers are just a Trapspringer tale.”

  “This from someone who’s seen it rain boats,” Kronn countered. “I know that goatsuckers don’t exist. But all kender boys go out, soun
ding the goatsucker call, and after a while the adults head into the woods and chase them, like we just did. It’s good fun,” he added, pushing away from the tree. “Besides, if there’s that many children around, we must be close to Woodsedge. But we shouldn’t stay here long.”

  Catt raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”

  “Well, usually during goatsucker hunting, the kids try to get back at the grownups for chasing them,” Kronn said. “When they stop to rest, the kids sneak back up on them and-”

  Suddenly, a small, brown object flew out of the bushes, hitting a tree just above Catt’s head with a wet crack. Something slippery dripped into her long, black hair.

  “-throw eggs,” Kronn finished, then turned and bolted through the forest, whooping with laughter.

  Catt’s shoes squished noisily as she and Kronn trudged along the path through the outermost fringe of the Kenderwood. She picked bits of eggshell, sticky with albumen, off her favorite yellow blouse. The shirt was ruined, as were her nice red breeches, and there seemed to be more egg in her hair than there was hair. Her lip curled in disgust as she flicked the shell away.

  “I notice they left you alone,” she said grumpily, glaring at her brother.

  Kronn winked at her. His bright green tunic and leggings were completely unbesmirched. “What twelve-year-old boy would chuck an egg at me when there was a girl handy?”

  “Hmph,” Catt grumbled. She reached into her blouse and plucked out a yolk that had slithered down her neck during the bombardment. Without hesitating, she lobbed it at her brother.

  He ducked nimbly aside. “Watch it there, Catt. They probably have some ammunition left.” He nodded ahead, where the boys they’d chased were skipping and jostling along the trail.

  At last, they reached the tree line. The path led away from the forest, toward a small town perched on a clifftop overlooking the sea. Like most kender villages, Woodsedge was a mismatched jumble of buildings and towers. Surrounding it was a wooden palisade, hung with garlands of willow branches and white wildflowers for the festival. Ahead of Kronn and Catt, the children broke into a run, yelling and whirling their small hoopaks as they sprinted toward the gates. The guardsmen had to jump aside to avoid being run down.