Free Dragon Choir by Benjamin Descovich Page A

fool he was.
    The frigate
captain’s face begged for a miracle, but Elrin was no sorcerer. The
heat from the crates intensified. He gripped the hilt of his dagger
and imagined what his father might do.
    He kicked out
at the flaming crates in the hope it might prevent the volatile
barrels bringing his quest to an abrupt end. Sparks leapt into the
air and the flames licked out, singeing his leg hair. The crates
rocked forward in their stack, but then rocked back towards him. He
kicked again and several flaming crates fell into the water,
sizzling as they were smothered out. Encouraged by that, he struck
out once more. Some tumbled back along the pier, but he quickly
knocked them off before the decking itself caught alight. Soon all
the crates were in the water, even the ones that weren’t on fire
had accidentally gone in; victims of his enthusiasm. When he
stopped he noticed his boot and pants had caught alight.
    Elrin was just
about to dive off the pier when a gush of water sloshed onto his
legs, dousing the flames. The head dockman had rushed to help with
a bucket of water, his yellow shirt glaring under the sun. No one
else wanted to come near; most of the dockers had taken shelter
behind the cargo stacked about the shipyard. Others had run halfway
up the road to town, hoping to witness the impending explosion from
a safe distance.
    “ By the root! You’re a brave shiner,” said the head docker,
slapping Elrin’s back. Most men I’ve known don’t run towards
certain death.”
    Now that the
man was off his perch, Elrin realised his small stature. He only
came up to Elrin's elbow, which presented a problem of
clarification; was he dwarven or a shankakin? He was leaner than a
dwarf, but taller than any shankakin he had met in Calimska. He had
no beard, but that was no sure sign he wasn't a dwarf; he had no
boots, but that was no sure sign he was a shankakin. Elrin tried
not to stare and mumbled a reply. “I suppose death wasn’t so
certain. You ran here too.”
    “ Don’t get me wrong, I saw you doing a stand up job, but I
thought I’d lend you a hand. I’ve found running toward fires with a
full bucket of water works out better for me.” The canary man
pointed to his large feet. They were covered in thick hair and
disproportionately large in comparison with his short, compact
frame; he had to be a shankakin.
    “ Didn’t want to cause a bushfire on your hoofers huh?” Elrin
laughed. “Thanks for saving mine.”
    “ Not at all, lad. You saved me rebuilding the pier. The thanks
are mine. You’re a bloody idiot though.” He beckoned Elrin closer
and lowered his voice. “Next time kick these barrels of hellfire
off instead. I know many who’d thank you for that around
here.”
    The officers
screamed orders down the chain of command, rallying the men back to
their posts. A ramp pushed past the bulwark and dropped onto the
pier with a thud. Two Jandan marines escorted an ogre in chains
down the gangplank.
    One of them,
an officer with a brutal grimace, cracked his whip across the
ogre’s bare back. The ogre shuffled his legs faster in an awkward
motion that strained the planks. They bowed and flexed, yet held
against the punishment.
    Every ogre
Elrin heard tell of was covered head to foot in grotesque images of
their tribal totems. This one had no ink, only scars, new and old,
carving a painful landscape across his brown green skin. Blood
caked over the shackles and heavy chains restricted his movement;
slavery had reduced the fearsome warrior to a beast of burden.
    He grasped a
barrel in each hand and lifted them with the ease of two mugs of
ale. For a moment his keen blue eyes considered Elrin. The officer
behind him dispensed another lash and the ogre winced, dropping his
eyes to the ground. His enormous body shambled around and stomped
up the gangplank to load the black powder on the ship.
    The frigate's
commanding officer strode down the gangway. He was a handsome man
with an air of insistence that