Skylan thought this over, then realized he already knew who was sailing this ship. The same god who had sailed the ghost ship on which he had sailed. He stood for a moment, saying a silent prayer, then climbed back down the rope to the Venjekar to explain his plan to his people.
Before he had even finished, Sigurd had decided it wouldn’t work.
“We won’t fool anyone, Skylan.” Sigurd snorted. “We can’t make ourselves look like ogres.”
“You don’t have to look like ogres,” said Skylan patiently. “With the help of the gods, by the time this fog lifts, you will be far enough away from their fleet that no one will be able to see you.”
“We’ll be sailing in a different direction from the rest of the ogre fleet,” Grimuir argued, siding with his friend as usual. “The ogres will be suspicious and come after us.”
Skylan sucked in a seething breath and clenched his fists, ready to give up trying to reason and start banging heads. Before he could say the words that would probably start a fight, Aylaen came forward. Up until now, she had remained silent.
“The ogres have suffered a great defeat in Sinaria. They have paid dearly for their attack on the city,” she said. “The Vektia dragon killed many of them and now they are like us—weary and wounded. They want only to go back to their homes.”
“She speaks wisely,” said Acronis. “It is every man for himself as far as they are concerned. No ogre godlord would risk his ship to help another or chase after some foe.”
“This is a god-given opportunity,” said Skylan. “Vindrash has sent this ship to us so that you can carry the warning to our people.”
“About a dream,” Sigurd said, shaking his head.
“I saw the body of your wife, Sigurd,” said Skylan. “I saw your sons lying dead, your woman with her head cleaved open. I saw your house, Grimuir, a mass of charred rubble. I saw the Chief’s Hall ablaze. I saw it as I see all of you. Aelon’s ships took the Torgun by surprise. Our people must be warned that war is coming.”
Sigurd eyed him. “You keep saying ‘you,’ not ‘we.’ What do you plan to do?”
“I am staying with the Venjekar,” said Skylan. “When we embarked on this voyage, before we were captured by Raegar, our plan was to sail to Grafdongar, to take back the Vektan Torque. I will continue our voyage. Acronis has offered to sail with me. He will be my guide.”
Sigurd snorted. “The ogres will kill you both and seize our ship.”
“The Dragon Kahg will sail the ship and keep it from falling into the wrong hands.” Skylan shrugged. “If we are killed, the dragon will sail the ship back to our people.”
“And what do I tell your father?” Sigurd asked gruffly. “What do I say to Norgaard when he wants to know why I sailed safely home and left his son behind to die?”
Skylan smiled. “You will tell my father that my wyrd is bound up in the Venjekar. My destiny lies with my ship. He will understand.”
Skylan rested his hand on the older man’s shoulders. “Go back to your boys, Sigurd. Take the other men home to their families. Send swift riders to the Chiefs, warning them to gather the clans for war.”
Sigurd smiled briefly at the mention of his sons. He had once, in a rare moment of camaraderie, confided to Skylan how much he missed them. But he seemed still inclined to argue.
“Sigurd, we don’t have much time—” Skylan began.
“We stand together,” said Sigurd abruptly. “That is what you said and you were right, Skylan. We’ve come this far because we stayed together.”
“We always will be together,” said Skylan. “Even when we are apart.”
He looked around at all the Torgun, at Grimuir and Sigurd, young Farinn, Bjorn and Erdmun, and Aylaen.
“We are bound by the secret of the Five Vektia dragons. All of you know this secret. Take this knowledge back to our people. If the Dragon Kahg returns home without me, you and the rest of the Vindrasi must continue the quest, find the Five, and bring them together.”
“If you are certain…” said Sigurd.
“Vindrash sent us this ship,” said Skylan. “It is a sign.”
“So be it,” said Sigurd. Then he asked the question that had been on everyone’s mind, though no one had mentioned it. “What do we do with Treia?”
“Throw her to the sharks,” Wulfe muttered.
“They would be better off throwing you to the sharks, acursed foe,” Treia hissed. The others had been so intent on their plans, they had not heard Treia emerge from the hold. She now walked slowly across the deck. With her weak eyes, she found it difficult to see where she was going. She was shivering in her wet priestess robes—robes that reminded everyone she was a traitor, a priestess for an enemy god. She had pulled her hair back and tied it behind her head. Her face was a pinched, rigid white mask with dark holes for eyes. Skylan decided that Keeper looked more alive.
Skylan was inclined to agree with Wulfe as to what to do with her, but he couldn’t. Aylaen would never forgive him. He glanced at Aylaen, assuming she would do what she had always done in the past: support her sister. He was surprised when Aylaen did not stir. She remained standing with her hand protectively on Wulfe’s shoulder. The men were looking at Treia and shifting uncomfortably. No one knew what to say.
“You are all fools if you think Vindrash sent you a ship!” Treia gave a contemptuous snort. She pointed her bony finger. “I will tell you who sent this ship. Death sent it and that is where this ship will take you! Raegar will find you. He is out there. He will find you.”
She folded her arms across her chest and stood defiantly, gazing into the thinning mist.
Sigurd walked over to Skylan, jerked a thumb at Treia. “Well, what about her?”
“Treia stays with us,” Skylan said, knowing even as he uttered the words, he would regret it.
“Good.” Sigurd grunted. “I’d sooner set sail with a hold full of vipers.” He hesitated, then said uneasily, “You don’t believe her, do you? What she said about the ship?”
“She speaks for a god who enslaved us,” said Skylan dismissively. He grinned at Sigurd. “Are you afraid of Raegar?”
Sigurd grinned back and replied with a fairly detailed account of what Raegar could do to himself, then began shouting orders.
The Torgun set to work. Some hauled supplies from the Venjekar’s hold to the ogre ship, which Sigurd had named Torval’s Fist, for the god’s hand had swept away the ogres. Others boarded the ogre ship to try, as Sigurd said, to figure out how the damn thing worked. The Vindrasi were accustomed to their sleek, swift dragonship, with its single mast and sail and banks of oars. The ogre ship was far larger, bulky and poorly built, with an odd-looking triangular sail and a rat’s nest of rigging. The ogres had not had time to put the oars into the water before they were attacked, apparently, for the oars had not been fitted into the oarlocks. The Vindrasi stared in dismay at the gigantic oars that would take two humans to wield even one, and prayed to Torval that the wind would hold.
Skylan was about to go onto the ogre ship to help.
Aylaen blocked his way.
“You think you’re going to send me with Sigurd,” she said with a defiant toss of her head. “Well, you’re not.”
“Aylaen—” Skylan began.
“I won’t leave, Skylan,” Aylaen said. “My wyrd is also bound to the Venjekar. I’m Bone Priestess now. You need me to summon the Dragon Kahg.”
Skylan led her off to the dragonhead prow where they could speak in private.
“You must take the spiritbone of the Vektia with you, Aylaen. No, wait, listen to me,” he said, seeing her eyes flash. “You will take the spiritbone and sail with Sigurd. I will draw off Raegar. He will come after me.”
“And he will kill you!” Aylaen said. “You said yourself he has fifty warriors on his ship!”
“He has to catch me first,” said Skylan, grinning. “I travel light. His fifty warriors make for a heavy load.”
“Be serious!” Aylaen said angrily.
“I am serious, Aylaen,” said Skylan. He took hold of her hands, looked into her eyes. “Vindrash sent the ship so that you could take the spiritbone to a place of safety.”
Aylaen let him keep hold of her hands, which astonished him. “The spiritbone is safe where it is. And so am I. I already told you, my wyrd is bound with the Venjekar.”
She walked off, leaving Skylan to stare after her, his wits so much sea foam.
“She routed you, my friend—foot, horse, and chariot,” said Acronis, coming up to stand beside him. “I never saw a man lose a battle faster.”
“I should make her go,” Skylan said, frowning, though he had no idea how, short of knocking her unconscious.
Acronis clapped him on the shoulder. “Give up, Skylan. Make what terms for surrender you can and leave the field to her.”
In the end, five chose to stay with Skylan and the Venjekar.
Wulfe was one, of course. He would never leave Skylan, despite the fact that the oceanaids were adamant that something bad was going to happen. Acronis was another. He would be needed to navigate. Skylan had been hoping the others would try to persuade Aylaen to go with them, but when she told the men she would be staying with the Venjekar, they accepted her decision. She was the Bone Priestess and her place was with the Dragon Kahg. Treia was staying, because no one knew what to do with her. Farinn’s decision to stay with Skylan caused an uproar. He was the youngest. The men urged him to come.
“I order you to go,” said Skylan.
Farinn shook his head. “I can’t obey, sir. I won’t leave in the middle of my song!”
“Your song is liable to be very short and have a very bad ending,” said Skylan grimly.
Farinn flushed and shrugged. He didn’t have the courage to look at Skylan, but he wouldn’t budge either. He just kept shaking his head and at last Skylan gave up.
Within a short time, Torval’s Fist was loaded with supplies and ready to sail. The time came for farewells.
The differences, the arguments, Sigurd’s dislike of Skylan and his attempt to take over as Chief of Chiefs, Bjorn’s loyalty to Skylan in defiance of Sigurd, the fights, the rivalries and animosity that had once loomed so large seemed very small and petty now. The good-byes were brief, especially as the wind was starting to freshen, coming out of the south like a breath from the god. The breeze would carry the ship northward, toward home.
A few awkward embraces, several attempts at jests, messages to carry to loved ones, and then Sigurd and his men boarded Torval’s Fist. They spent a few tense moments trying to figure out how to steer the clumsy ogre vessel, then the triangular sail caught the wind and carried them over the gray and misty sea, into the fog, and they were gone.
Skylan stood watching until he could no longer see them. He was assailed by doubts.
In the shield wall, all the warriors stand together, shoulder to shoulder, their shields overlapping. Here he was surrounded by enemies, and he had shattered his shield wall, split his forces, sent his warriors away.
Because of a dream.
Wulfe wandered over to announce cheerfully that if the ogres killed Skylan, he, Wulfe, would change into a man-beast and rip out their throats.
“I’d rather they didn’t kill you, though,” Wulfe added after some thought.
“Me, too,” said Skylan.
CHAPTER
6
The Venjekar drifted on the water, rolling on the uneasy waves. Torval’s fog was now only scarf-like patches of mist hanging above the sea. The sun rose. It was morning. But what morning? Skylan had lost track of time. Today might be today or it might be yesterday or maybe tomorrow. He didn’t suppose it mattered. He went to take the tiller. The Dragon Kahg had kept them from drifting in the fog. Now that the sun was up, Skylan would have to set a course.
As the wind whisked away the last vestige of mist, Farinn, who had been posted as lookout from the stern, gave a cry and Acronis, standing at the prow, gave a shout. Skylan did not know where to look first. He turned one direction to see an ogre ship with ogres clustered at the rail, gabbling in amazement at the sight of the sleek, dragon-prowed Venjekar. He turned the other way to see Raegar’s war galley raising its anchor.
The ogre ship was closest, so close that Skylan could hear an ogre, presumably a godlord, roaring orders. Skylan could not see the activity on the deck, but he could judge by the sounds of clashing steel and thudding feet that the ogres were arming themselves.
Raegar’s war galley was still some distance away. Lost in the fog, fearful of blundering unwittingly into the ogre fleet, Raegar would have given orders to drop anchor and lower the sails. Now that the fog was gone, he could resume his attempt to capture the Venjekar.
Acronis had his spyglass—what Wulfe called his “magic seeing glass”—to his eye.
“He’s sighted us,” Acronis reported to Skylan. “The war galley is sailing, though I’m not sure how. They don’t have their sail raised and there are no rowers.”
“Look at the dragonhead prow,” said Skylan. “What do you see?”
Acronis shifted his spyglass. He gasped in astonishment. “I see a dragon! The dragon’s head appears to be alive! I see gleaming scales. The mouth is wide open, the eyes flash…”
“Raegar has summoned his dragon,” said Skylan. “The Dragon Fala is sailing the ship.”
“I’ll be!” Acronis let out a soft sigh. “Will we summon our dragon?”
That, thought Skylan grimly, was a damn good question.
Raegar’s war galley—named Aelon’s Triumph—sped toward them, white foam flying as the dragon imbued the ship with her power. It was yet some distance away. Skylan had first to deal with the ogres. He walked back to the stern. The ogres had raised their singular triangle-shaped sail, but the ship wasn’t moving. Several ogres were now leaning over the rail, staring into the water, trying to figure out what was wrong.
“Their anchor’s fouled,” said Farinn.
“Thank you, Torval,” Skylan said, and he looked back over his shoulder at Raegar’s ship.
Aelon’s Triumph slowed. Raegar must have spotted the ogre ship. Raegar was proceeding cautiously, not wanting to bite off more than he could chew.
Skylan had one more ship to worry about. He shifted his gaze to a lone ogre ship that was sailing entirely the wrong direction, heading east and north instead of toward the ogre realm to the west. The rest of the ogre ships apparently had risked sailing through the fog, for they were little more than specks on the sun-spangled sea. As Acronis had predicted, none of the other ogre ships were paying the least attention to their wayward brother. Nor would they be returning to assist the unfortunate ogre ship with the fouled anchor.
The godlord was bellowing curses at his men and keeping a wary eye on the Venjekar. Ogres knew and respected the dragonships of the Vindrasi nation. The godlord could see that Skylan had only a handful of crew, but he might well have warriors stashed in the hold. And now, judging by yells from the ogres, they had just spotted Raegar in his dragonship.
An interesting situation. The ogres feared Skylan would ally with Raegar, while Raegar feared Skylan would ally himself with the ogres.
And as if Skylan didn’t have enough trouble, Treia came up to talk to him. She had, of course, seen Aelon’s Triumph. Treia’s pale cheeks were tinged with a faint blush. She must believe her lover was coming to save her. She circled around the body of Keeper, catching hold of the hem of her bedraggled robes, holding them up so as not to brush against the corpse of the man she had murdered.
She glanced at Aylaen, but found no help there. Aylaen turned her face away, looked out over the restless sea. Undeterred, Treia came to join Skylan. He kept his hand on the rudder, his attention fixed on the ogres.
“I wanted to thank you, Chief of Chiefs, for saving my life in Sinaria,” said Treia. She thought to flatter him by using the title that she herself had said he had no right to use. She even tried to insinuate some warmth into her tone.
She could have spared herself the tr
ouble. Skylan didn’t respond. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Treia’s glance slide to Raegar’s dragonship and come back to Skylan, who smiled inwardly at her dilemma. Treia frowned, drummed her fingers on her arms.
“The ogre ship is helpless!” she said abruptly. “Why don’t you flee while you have the chance? Your cousin Raegar’s ship is filled with troops. He would gladly protect us.”
“He would gladly make us slaves again,” said Skylan grimly. “I would join my friend Keeper in Torval’s Hall before I let that happen.”
“That is because you are a warrior and live for death,” said Treia. “If you have no care for yourself, Skylan Ivorson, think of Aylaen. Will you sacrifice her to your pride?”
Skylan cast an uncertain glance at Aylaen and said nothing. Treia saw the look and, like a skilled swordsman, moved in for the kill.
“Raegar is your kinsman, Skylan. He never wanted to enslave you. Raegar was following the orders of that man—Legate Acronis. And yet you trust him more than your own kin. Raegar will let you go free, Skylan. You and Aylaen can sail back to your homeland. You will be welcomed as a hero.”
“My cousin would do all this for me,” said Skylan dryly. “Raegar is truly magnanimous. What does he expect in return?”
Treia missed the sarcasm.
“Give up the Vektia spiritbone,” said Treia eagerly. “It doesn’t belong to you anyway.”
“It damn well doesn’t belong to Raegar,” said Skylan.
Treia lost her temper. “You will never win, Skylan. Your own gods are against you! If you continue with this quest, it will end in tragedy.”
Skylan didn’t trust Treia, but he was forced to acknowledge that she had once been a Bone Priestess, close to gods who must have granted her the power to use the Vektia spiritbone, though not the power to control it. Her words had the ring of truth. Skylan remembered the fury who had been sent to kill him, the druid’s enigmatic warning about powerful enemies.
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