The taffrail rose above the crest of the dune. In the moonlight, Ruha glimpsed the distant caravel, the dragon still standing on the poop deck. The beast had ripped the mizzemnast from its step and was using it like a spear to jab at its foes, almost too tiny to see, upon the main deck. The witch thought it strange that the wyrm fought with a makeshift weapon instead of spraying its enemies with fire or acid, but perhaps the creature feared sinking the vessel and losing its treasure.

The Storm Sprite's bow cleared the top of the dune, and Captain Fowler shoved the tiller to one side. The ship's bow swung neatly over the crest, and the sail sput- tered as it lost the wind.

"Fill the sail!"

The command had barely escaped Fowler's lips before the yardarms swung around. Once more, the sail caught the wind. The Storm Sprite lunged forward and slipped down the back of the dune so swiftly that it reached the bottom trough before the captain could give his next com- mand. The prow slammed into the next rolling dune, and the ship groaned as though her spine would break. A wall of water roared over the forecastle and rolled down the decks to splash against the somercastle, then the bow pitched up and the flood drained overboard, carrying with it two screaming men.

Ruha cried out in alarm. Captain Fowler let out a long breath and fondly patted the Storm Sprite's tiller.

"That's a fine girl." The half-ore made no remark upon the loss of his crewmen, but looked forward and, in a calm voice, ordered, "Fasten the braces."