Death Under the Dragon Prow

by Scott Forbes Crawford

About the Author: Scott Forbes Crawford lives in Beijing, China. His short fiction has or will run in Pulp Modern, Swords and Sorcery, and EconoClash Review. He's written articles on a wide array of subjects and his book about ancient China is forthcoming from the publisher Pen and Sword.

Excerpt

Rolf must want ale. That was my first thought when I woke to that evil day. We lay aft in the ship, huddled in the shadow of the prow’s carved dragon head. I turned over to ask Rolf if he thirsted—in an instant, I knew the answer was no. I’d bandaged him yesterday, when he and the others made it back to ship after the Shetland raid. It had been no serious wound—“a spear’s tickle,” he’d called it—but now blood drenched the cloth. My hands trembling, I touched his throat, but I needn’t have to be sure. To each man and woman comes a cup of luck, sipped over a lifetime. In the night, Rolf’s went dry.  

I tried stifling my sobs so the crew wouldn’t wake. They slept sprawled across benches, for what had once been a cramped boat for sixteen had become a luxurious one for five, or rather four men and a boy. Knut was the first to rouse. He eyed the swollen clouds of the red-gray dawn, tugged his tangled beard, and spat, muttering darkly to himself. Apparently, sleep didn’t blunt yesterday’s rage and sorrow. Next, Eirik roused and scratched his face. With laughable alarm he groped for his tight-fitting hood, which had fallen off overnight, and placed it back on his head. I’d guessed he wore this to conceal his cheeks and neck, hoping the men might forget he was their only shipmate not yet bearded. Turning toward me, the boy must have seen despair plain on my face, for he approached, saw Rolf and cried, “The captain! There’s something wrong with the captain!”    

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