The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(7)

On the stern deck Jeryon can smell the dragon now: old earth thrown on a fire to smother it. And he can hear its wings snap. A sail could only dream of such command over the wind. The Comber feels like a piece of driftwood.

He watches the sailors perform their various tasks and those who have completed them are checking their buckets, their weapons, even their oars. Simply having a plan, he thinks, is sometimes the best plan. It lets people concentrate on the present instead of dwelling on the future.

Livion, having nothing to check except his grip on the oar and whether his silver whistle is still hanging around his neck, makes awkward conversation. “How do you know so much about dragons?” he says.

“I read your report after you were assigned to the Comber,” Jeryon says, “which pointed me to others. I was impressed with how detailed yours was, although you didn’t elaborate on what you’d done.”

“I just led the survivors back to shore, but everyone did their part. I couldn’t take credit for it all.”

“The modesty of a second mate who suddenly finds himself in command?”

Livion shrugs. The modesty of one who lived.

“You’re lucky those men spoke up for you,” Jeryon says. “They’re the ones who put you on the Comber. You’ll never get anywhere by leaving yourself out of your reports.” He adds, “I hope I can speak up for you in mine.”

“I’ll do my best,” Livion says.

Jeryon sees he means it. There’s a chance for him yet.

The dragon’s now a hand long. “It’ll pass us to larboard,” Jeryon says. “Pipe Tuse: Larboard turn on my mark.”

Livion blows the alert.

Jeryon raises his fist to Solet, who’s little more than a thumb’s width tall at this distance. Solet says something to Beale and the crossbowmen, whom he’s spread across the front of the ship. Each has a weapon in hand, another loaded at his feet. They shout as one, “Aye!” Solet raises his fist too.

The dragon blooms into enormity in what feels like seconds. Its shadow passes them first, a black mass wider on the water than the Comber is long. Its wings come next, the color of night wine and just as fluid, but strangely delicate. When the sun catches their membranes, they glow like polished rosewood.

That was probably its original color, Jeryon thinks. Dragons blacken with age. This one’s getting on in years. It’ll know its business.

It comes abeam of the stern deck, flying twice as high as the mast, tail gently whipping behind. The dragon turns its head to better appraise Jeryon and, chillingly, so Jeryon can appraise it: wide mouth, teeth longer and sharper than a whale’s, the acrid smell of phlogiston burning through the stench of the poth’s medicine. There’s something gray lodged between its teeth and gum. Half a shark.

Its head is bigger than me, Jeryon thinks. Rain barrels could fit in its bulging eye sockets. The two skinny claws on its wing digits would make for decent short bows.

His hands, hardened by decades at sea, would make for decent hammers, though. He pounds his fist on the rail and shouts, “Larboard!”

Livion pipes the command and pushes the steering oar to starboard. The larboard oars freeze at the end of their pull, the rowers straining, the oar handles locked to their chest, as the starboard oars push forward. The Comber pivots beautifully, and the dragon lifts its wing in alarm. It drifts left to avoid them.

The galley slashes through the dragon’s shadow, and the foredeck slides under its belly like an assassin’s blade. Solet cries, “Fire!” The crossbowmen don’t even have to aim. It’s tough to miss the sky.

Eight bolts twang and thunk home at once. The dragon bucks and roars. Its tail flails down, seeking balance, and its tip, flared like a diamond, nearly flicks Topp off the boat. A thin rain of blood spatters the deck. The dragon flaps so hard that the wind from its wings presses the ship into the sea. Water convulses over the rails and washes the blood into the rowers’ deck. As the dragon passes over the starboard bow, Beale gets down on one knee, aims the cannon as high as it will go, and holds his firing rod over the touch hole.

Beale mutters, “Up, down, up,” and on the next downstroke of the massive wings, when the dragon lifts its tail and he’s just about to lose the angle, he fires. The harpoon sinks deep into its groin. The dragon roars louder, and now it’s the one beating away double-time.

The crossbowmen and sailors cheer. Topp would’ve jumped onto the foredeck to clasp Beale’s hand, but Solet orders, “Reload!”

A furlong off the starboard quarter, the dragon starts to circle the Comber.

4



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As the dragon passes the sun and puts one wing to the southern horizon, Solet admires Livion’s oarwork. He didn’t think the first mate was that skilled. Steering and piping, Livion pivots the galley farther to larboard to point the prow at the dragon, then reverses the pivot to keep it dead ahead. Of course, Solet thinks, it’s in his best interests to keep the length of the Comber between himself and the dragon.

He sees what the beast is doing. A pirate ship plays games like this with traders, wondering whether they’re worth attacking. Usually, they decide yes. Ynessi can’t stand not knowing what’s inside a chest. Unfortunately, dragons also have a reputation for curiosity.

True to form, the dragon veers toward them, twice as high as the mast, its neck stretched out like a harpoon, rigid and determined.