As the foggy whiteness drifted away, Captain Clay got his first look at what had caused all the commotion.
"Shiver me timbers," he whispered.
Before him, not more than a league ahead of Expatriate's bow, sat an active volcano. A column of sooty smoke rose out of its top, and a bright line of orange-red lava rolled down its side.
Clay dashed down across the deck. Leaning out over the spinnaker, he looked down on a rocky beach.
"Mr. Mansa," he shouted.
The portly mate had just managed to pull himself up off the floor of the captain's cabin and stagger out to the deck.
"Aye."
"We're going ashore."
"Aye, cap'n," replied the first mate. "I'll gather the repair party."
The damage wasn't extensive, but the ship was taking on water. Expatriate had come ashore quite softly, only crashing to a halt when its hull collided with a huge, melted piece of basalt jutting up from the bottom of the sea.
Once the leak was fixed, it wouldn't take much to get the boys to push her off the sand and get her back out to sea. The crew Mansa had rounded up was coming off the ship. It would take them at least a few hours, if not a few days, to fix the hole. Then a few more hours to bail the hold.
"You know the drill, gentlemen," shouted the captain. He strode toward the jungle in the near distance. "Let's cut some lumber and patch her up."
Machetes in hand and with little more than a grumble, the entire crew, save for those few unfortunates left aboard to mind the ship, followed their captain across the blistering shore.
Reaching the edge of the trees, Clay turned around to take a look at Expatriate. His ship seemed to flicker in and out of existence, disappearing in a wave of heat as if it were caught in a raging storm deep at sea.
"Split into pairs," ordered the captain. "Each of you take a strong tree back to the ship."
"Aye, cap'n," they said in unison.
The pirates split up, searching the jungle. Clay turned to his mates.
"We'll leave them to their task," he said with a smile, "and get on with ours."
The three mates nodded and silently followed their captain into the jungle. The trees were tall and thin, and the ground was completely bald in large patches, as if it were swept clean by a legion of maidens with brooms. That far off the water, the damp humidity was even more noticeable. Having spent most of his life on the high seas, Clay was not unaccustomed to warm, damp weather. Somehow, though, being surrounded on all sides by an ocean made the humidity seem more natural, more welcome. There, deep inside a tropical jungle, it just seemed wrong.
When he got deep enough into the jungle that he could no longer hear the chopping and cussing of his sailors, Clay sat down on the soft earth and unrolled his map.
Mr. Mansa lowered his portly girth down beside him. The dwarf and the half-ore stood on either side.
"Any guesses where we are, Mr. Mansa?" asked the captain.
Mansa leaned over the map, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
He pointed at a small island and said, "Here, Cap'n."
"TheMother-of-Mists?"
"Aye."
"Not even in a hurricane could we travel that far in less than a day." The captain pushed his first mate's hand out of the way and continued, "At dawn, just before the mists, I spotted the southern tip of the Kobold Mountains. That's nearly four hundred miles."
Mansa shrugged and said, "There aren't any other islands out here. Never has been."
"It doesn't seem possible," the captain said. "Then again, neither did that fog." He looked up at the half-ore. "Hadar, you know these waters better than any of us. What say you?"
The half-ore didn't even look at the map, just said, "The Dead Islands are farther north."
"The Dead Islands?" asked the captain.
Hadar explained, "Those islands at the far south end of the Nelanther chain with no fresh water and nothing a pirate could want." The half-ore shook his head. "Ain't good for nothin' except dyin' on."
Something rattled the trees in the near distance. Hadar dropped into a crouch, dashed between a pair of trees, and disappeared into the jungle. Tabor stepped sideways and seemed to simply melt into the shadows under the canopy. Mansa leaped to his feet as quick as a cat, moving as if he was a man half his size and a third his age.
Clay too was ready, gripping one of his daggers by the gleaming, polished steel blade. He ran his eyes over the immediate vicinity. Out on the waves, Clay had some of the best eyes around, being able to spot fat cargo ships long before some elves even. But in the dense, dark jungle, he was at a disadvantage.
Behind him, another crash rumbled through the jungle, shaking the ground. Mansa nearly jumped, startled by the sudden sound. Then the man let out a squeal and backstepped. Twisting, the pudgy man fell onto his rump. Clawing the ground, Mansa tried to push himself backward but slipped and landed flat on his back.
Clay spun around to look up into the most terrible face he'd ever laid eyes upon
Eye's burning red like the fires of the Abyss looked down over huge flaring nostrils, covered in yellow-orange scales. Crystalline fangs jutted out of its upper and lower jaw, crisscrossing on either side of the creature's mouth like the bones of the Jolly Roger.
Captain Clay staggered back a step and stammered, "D-d-dragon."
The creature stood on its hind legs, its wings pressed back against its considerable bulk. Hunched, the dragon's shoulders reached nearly to the top of the jungle canopy. Huge bony spurs jutted out of its hide along its spine and the length of its tail. Its long neck, thick and heavily muscled, snaked down from high above.
Though the monster's enormous head filled most of Clay's vision, he could see that the creature held both Tabor and Hadar captive, one in each of its front claws.
The dragon let out a short, powerful breath through its nostrils, and a plume of watery vapor floated out.
Trying to remain calm in the face of such a beast, Clay lifted one of his daggers, prepared to throw.
"That would not be wise," bellowed the dragon.
The captain looked to Mansa-still flat on his back-nodded, then lowered his hand.
"So," the captain asked the dragon, "what happens now?"
The wyrm's eyes narrowed and it replied, "We parlay." Clay swallowed.
"All right. I'm Captain Clay." He looked again at Mansa. The portly mate shrugged. "This is my first mate, Mansa. And those two-" the captain indicated the two pirates the dragon held in its grasp-"are Hadar and Tabor, also mates."
The dragon's eyes shifted from Clay to Mansa then back again.
"Before we begin," Clay said, nodding again at the trapped mates. "I would ask you to release your captives."