Dragonclaw Dare Read online

  Dragonclaw Dare:

  Prequel to the Dragon Sea Chronicles

  Brian Ference

  Chris Turner

  Copyright © 2018 by Cave Creek Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  The Race

  Feasting

  Sacred Isle

  The Pirates

  Captain Serle

  Pirate Cove

  Training

  A Kiss

  The Trials

  The Fire Coral

  About The Author

  Chapter 1.

  The Race

  The salt spray whipped across Darek’s tanned arms as he pulled fast on the line, ducking the boom as it swung across the deck. His twenty-foot sloop tacked west into the biting wind during the race of his life. Two Dolphin’s Rock was only a mile to starboard; the sleek hull knifed through the waves like a flying-fish seeking a barracuda. His eyes stayed glued to the twin grey rocks, shaped like diving dolphins poking up over the swells. The trials for the annual Dragonclaw race were in full swing.

  The race was the most significant event in the entire Red Claw Islands. A colorful festival rich with cheer, days of feasting, and fat purses going to the winners was high on Darek’s list now that he was of age. The event occupied the first few weeks of the Harvest Moon before the fall changeover. Open to all challengers, it was relished by many, and anticipated by all.

  Around Reeler’s Reef Darek’s craft sped. The sea was choppy this morning, the waves defiant and relentless. Dark purple clouds rode the eastern horizon in the region the islanders called the ‘Serpent’s Deep’. The conditions were challenging, but Darek was up for it.

  The circuit looped past Mystery Isle, over to Two Dolphin’s Rock and back to Cape Spear in that bustling port and horseshoe-shaped harbor on Swordfish Island. The boats dodged each other and bucked the waves, each sailor set on finishing first. All of Cape Spear were about to see who the best competitors were.

  Darek snatched a quick look back. The line of sailboats gaining on him was a surprise. He would have been well in the lead but for Vinz, his close friend, and now Grame. Clara and Bralig were not far behind, their boats polished, lacquered with whale hide covering their outer hulls. Darek’s fingers itched for the prize as he gripped the tiller and the boom yards in the other hand. The ocean spray cooled the fire in his limbs as he glided over the swells, maneuvering like a seal. Sailing was his passion; it had been since he was a small boy. His skill at reading the winds was the envy of all his friends. Even his rivals, like Bralig, who could not be called a friend at all, respected his sailing skills. But Darek didn’t care, too caught up in the thrill of the race.

  A gray boat with lime green sails tried to turn too sharply and Darek heard a thin cry over the wind as the vessel tipped over, heeling in a breaking wave. The round-bottomed hull bellied up, and over it went, sails dunking into the brine.

  Darek winced. Tough break. His fate could have followed that boat’s. An easy mistake to make—and a costly one. Some of the ships had no keels, and while sailing lighter and sometimes faster, they were disasters waiting to happen, like wild kites tossed in the wind. Only Vinz, Clara, Grame, and Bralig remained serious contenders.

  Darek edged behind Vinz’s sleek vessel, with its blue sail and shiny silver cleats. He saw his friend’s teeth flash, heard him bellow above the sloshing waves, the blue spray stinging his eyes. Darek whooped with delight as he edged past Vinz and swept around the gleaming two dolphin-shaped rocks which blazed in the noonday sun poking up from behind a tattered cloud.

  Vinz shook a fist at him. Darek could only chuckle.

  The judges, anchored a furlong away in their trim craft, took note of the competitors’ maneuvers past the rocks. They had inspected each vessel and ensured the rules were followed during this race. Darek’s move was a legitimate one. Any type of divergence from the rules was illegal—including the throwing of firebombs doused in oil, sending out smoke to obscure the turns, or any other trick that would give an advantage. This year’s prize was a sleek, new runner craft and a place in Lared’s fleet. The runner-up would receive a similar boat built last year.

  Rounding the Dolphin Rocks, Darek veered his boat downwind. The boom swung back and he quickly leaned to port. He shifted his sail with ease and charted a path that would cut across the water in the shortest time possible. If the wind didn’t change, this final leg would be a breeze. He’d have to sail by the lee for some of the time, but his mind was set on a glorious finish.

  He was several leagues from Cape Spear now. The last part of the race would be downwind and Darek looked for ways to sail with the tide. Spunio had caught up to the pack and he, Bralig and Grame were in close pursuit, searching for ways to edge him out. Bralig had caught a strong wind and his bow slammed into Darek’s stern, knocking him off course. Darek cursed, his boat spinning about, losing ground, but he trimmed his sails, recovered swiftly and surged ahead once more. Vinz and Grame could only look on in envy.

  Of the fifty some odd boats, only twelve would be selected for the final. All of the qualifiers would receive high-quality fishing gear, rods and reels made by the finest craftsmen in the town, including master Dasio himself. Already Darek could catch a fish using only some string and a hook! His family was poor; what he needed was that boat. The tackle gear was just a bonus. His father, Jace, hated sailing and had long given up hope that Darek could ever make a life for himself at sea. His mother had turned her back on him and Jace, taking up with Raithan, captain of the rival Black Claw Clan. All that aside, a new sailboat, however small, would be a definite asset for him. He could leave all this behind and go wherever he wanted! He could explore the hidden niches, the smaller isles, hunt for treasure or new tropical fish, diving in the lagoons. The possibilities made his heart soar with anticipation.

  Darek flung the daydream from his mind. That distraction had cost him a beat, and now the other boats were gaining on him. Clara’s ship shone with brilliance, the red and white sail bellying to the wind. She had skill, if not overconfidence. Of anybody, he wished her to qualify—not only for her good looks and her hourglass figure and gorgeous curls—but also because he respected her as a sailor. Not that he didn’t want his closest mates to qualify either. Though Vinz and Grame seemed curt of late and ungrateful for the advice he had given them in preparing for the race. He shrugged off their gruffness, dismissing it as teenage pride.

  The competitors weaved their way downwind, a mile parallel from the shore, continually looking to either side for the next major wave to crest and surf. To maximize speed, boats often sailed by the lee where the air flow over the sail reversed from its usual direction and traveled from the lee to the luff of the sail.

  But his old rival, Bralig, was creeping up fast. That gull-eater! How could he get so much speed out of that boat?

  Darek heard the harsh crack of palm wood on his hull. He turned and cried: “Back off, you stupid fool!”

  An illegal maneuver, at the least, Bralig had deliberately rammed his stern in an attempt to unnerve him. But t
hey had sailed past any judges and Bralig took another opportunity to bump his craft.

  “I said, watch it, you barnacle muncher!” cried Darek. He whipped back his slick, black hair and glared at his enemy.

  Bralig’s sneer lashed over the choppy spray. “What’s the matter, little shrimp? Can’t take it? Maybe I should rub your nose in the mud again.”

  Bitter memories from his boyhood assailed Darek—having his nose pushed in the sand by that ruffian. Though they had then been fingerlings, Darek had suffered many bruises and scratches as a result. Bralig, bigger and meaner, would now be hard pressed to take him in an out-and-out fight, what with Darek’s budding, rangy frame, and wiry leanness. But now the sparring matches were relegated to the sea.

  Darek ground his teeth in anger. “You asked for it.”

  He swung his boat at an angle in a daring gambit, trimming the sail for extra speed. The vessels just brushed each other as Darek passed. He heard the grating of wood on wood as his ship’s keel lifted half out the water, raking across Bralig’s rudder. A torturous scrape rose above the roar of the wind. Bralig tried to turn away, but instead, his sailboat spun about in circles, unable to steer itself.

  Gaining vital seaway, Clara seized the moment and snuck in between Grame and Vinz, giving the two a cheeky high sign.

  Bralig’s curses rained down on the water like a passing squall.

  Darek chuckled to himself, but he too snorted as the girl’s ship, outflanking his, whispered by, her sails rippling in a stiff new breeze.

  Vinz and Grame’s boats closed the gap, laughing at Bralig’s floundering craft as Clara’s sleek sloop slipped by them all. Spunio gave Darek the thumbs up as he cut through the wake of the leaders.

  Darek shook his head in grim acceptance—only to have a rueful smile creep in while he kept his eyes focused on the dark chop ahead.

  It would be a dash to the finish, except that Clara now had taken the lead. Darek crouched, pulled hard on the tiller and angled his ship toward the sandy shore of Cape Spear and Old Town’s harbor. Maybe he wouldn’t be winning this race after all.

  The crowd on the docks cheered as the first boats glided into the harbor. In the end, Clara won by the smallest of margins, with Darek coming in a close second. Village punters ranged out in small skiffs to moor the incoming boats. The sodden sailors, stiff-legged and exhausted, stepped onto the dock, their brows and arms gleaming with spent energy. Darek could not hide his disappointment at his second-place finish. But he kept a smiling face, and nodded admiration for Clara who sauntered between well-wishers with satisfaction. Hers was a clean win, a fair one, unlike what Bralig had tried to do. Vinz, Grame, Spunio and Tans hauled in soon after. The last to qualify was Sunis, youngest of them all. The others bringing up the rear knew with glum certainty they would not be part of the final race.

  There were wreaths to be presented and rounds of grog to be quaffed, while cries of women echoed over the harbor, eager to curry favor with the victors. Darek looked on with lackadaisical triumph.

  His gaze traveled up the hills well behind the public square at the stone houses with wooden roofs fanning up the slopes. Low clouds brewed, presaging rain. Darek hoped foul weather would hold off at least until after the feast.

  Fasouk and Nik, two of his closest friends, crowded around him, pounding him on the back. “Way to go, Darek! You’re like a golden starfish, finally climbed up all the way to the top of the reef even if only to be swept away by the tide,” Nik said.

  “What does that even mean, Nik?” said Fasouk with a mock grin, “But yeah, good show,” he continued, raising his pudgy hand. Nik, gangly and fair-haired, stood in direct contrast to Fasouk, who was short and lumpy, and even more so to Darek, who stood pensive, lean, tall and muscular with his crop of long, black hair.

  Darek nodded stiffly, lifted his head, but his eyes darted ruefully toward Clara, as if he didn’t deserve such praise.

  Lared, the Red Claw Clan chief, approached with a formal stride, a smile carved on his rugged face. His grey-gold curls shone and he reached out a firm, seaworn hand. “You’ve done well, Clara, Darek. Be proud. You’ve shown your mettle.”

  Lared’s wife Maella, queen of the Red Claw Clan, dipped her head in respectful tribute. “You’re to be contenders for next week’s race. Both of you will go far in this world. ’Tis an honor and joy to receive such talented people.”

  Darek bowed low; Clara curtsied.

  Vigul, the venerated judge, affixed the ceremonial wreath upon Clara’s and Darek’s heads. The middle-aged man muttered stern words and Darek reflected sourly on how things had played out.

  Clara looked on with humble interest, leveled Darek a challenge, but not without some hint of flirtation. Darek’s blood quickened. Clara was not looking too shabby in her skin-tight leather garb with her sandy curls, and her trim waist looking slimmer than ever.

  Vinz and Grame followed in their wake, though somewhat less enthused, and accepted their honorable mentions in glum unison.

  Soon the damaged boats were towed in. Ralen had overreached his competence and spun out on a rogue wave. These dinghies without keels were tippy and required expert control even on calm days. Bralig’s face was puffer-fish red and he jumped out of the tow vessel and stormed up the dock, pointing an accusing finger at Darek. “Disqualify this mollusk! He wrecked my boat!”

  Darek laughed and shook his head. “You’re mad, Bralig. You had the whole sea to yourself, and you came charging in at me like a bull shark. Way too close; that’s against the rules. You’ve only yourself to blame.” Darek shrugged it off, but his fists knotted, as a dozen old humiliations from the schoolyard flooded in. “Not my fault if you got in my way.” This was one time that Darek felt absolutely no guilt about his complicity in the ship-wars.

  “Not true!” Bralig sputtered. “Your slag of a ship got in my way.” He took a step forward and swung at Darek—who ducked the fist easily and moved in to retaliate.

  “Enough already.” The two glared at each other as three judges pulled them apart. But the judges held back from further action, unwilling to do more against someone from an influential family like Bralig’s. “Nothing we can do, Bralig. You didn’t place and there’s no proof of foul play. You should know better than to pass too close to another ship. Darek was last seen clearly in the lead.” The judges squinted with suspicion at Vinz and Grame. “What about you two? Did you see anything suspicious?”

  Vinz and Grame uttered no words, though each sported a sour face, miffed that they hadn’t won the prize themselves.

  “They’re his friends,” objected Bralig with venom. “Of course they’re going to agree with him.” His snort landed on deaf ears. “Are you all oblivious?”

  “There’s always next year, Bralig,” said Vigul.

  “Yeah, next year,” piped up a pale-looking baker’s son from the crowd who had been a victim of Bralig’s bullying in the past. His stocky chest had filled out from his early years and he ventured closer to stare Bralig down, emboldened by the crowd.

  Bralig drew back with a snarl. “Get away from me.” He pushed through the crowd and stormed off up the gravel path in a black mood, nursing his pride.

  “Poor old Bralig looks to have his nose out of joint,” remarked Vinz.

  “Seems as if Bralig’s a sore loser,” said Fasouk. “I don’t know about you, but I feel no pity for the oaf.”

  “Just a stupid bully,” mumbled Darek. “Got what he deserves.”

  But deep down, he knew Bralig had grown from a surly bully to a serious rival.

  “Well, great race, Darek. I don’t doubt you’ll win the whole thing,” said Fasouk.

  Darek shrugged. “We’ll see. Anyone can win on any day, depending on the winds and chance.”

  Such words could not be truer.

  The music and feasting continued into the afternoon and Darek tried his best to enjoy himself, but his mind was elsewhere. During a lull, Clara approached him. “Congratulations, Darek, that was smart sailing. Y
ou could have easily been scuppered by that hothead Bralig.” She nodded with appreciation at his tanned build. “I saw what you did to his boat.”

  Darek blinked and grew wary. “Why didn’t you say anything to the judges?”

  “Everyone wants that monkfish out of the race. He’s just spoiled. The last person who needs to win this race and a prize is Bralig. He has everything he needs and more.” Her eyes fixed on Darek with a definite spark of interest. Her sultry gaze transfixed him—for a moment Darek did not know what to say. He gave an awkward smile. “Glad we’re on the same page, then. All of us are in the finals, so that’s at least cause for celebration.” He pointed to her new gear. “Guess you’ll have your fill of snapper with those new rods.”

  “I hate the taste of fish.”

  “Uh, of course. I forgot.” That was strange for an Islander.

  Clara’s wet curls hung down around her shoulders, catching the golden glint of sunlight. Her aqua-blue eyes sparkled, stirring Darek’s imagination. She flung back a stray lock from her cheek with a glint of suggestive warmth that set his pulse pounding.

  “The race isn’t until a few days,” she said. “Maybe we can get together and clear the eastern reef of lionfish?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” he said, almost too eagerly.

  “Well, good, and if we don’t see each other, let’s just say—may the best woman win.”

  Darek opened his mouth to say something witty, but nothing came out. “Yes—the best man, I mean best lady—I mean—” He shook his head, flustered.

  She winked at him and laughed. “It’s okay, Darek. I know you’re still upset about Bralig.”

  She was all too aware of the effect she had on him and other young men in the clan. But she was already moving toward a group of young bucks who had called her name, the swagger of her generous hips a poetic motion lingering in Darek’s brain. It had him swallowing hard.

  Forever it seemed he would be nervous around the opposite sex, as much as he was in awe of them. Little did he know that the least of his troubles to come revolved around women.