Rage of the Dragon dov-3

by Margaret Weis

  “My mother taught me the song. She taught me lots of songs and all of them are magic like this one. Only some of them are a lot more powerful.”

  “Like turning yourself into a wolf?” Aylaen asked, shivering. The chill was creeping into her bones.

  “My mother didn’t do that to me!” Wulfe cried, bouncing up angrily. “My mother loves me. She came to me every night and she held me and sang to me and told me to remember the songs because they would protect me from you Uglies who hate us and fear us.”

  “I don’t hate you,” said Aylaen gently.

  “But you’re afraid of me,” Wulfe mumbled. His eyes brimmed with tears that spilled over and ran down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the dirt. He dragged his hand across his nose. “Because I can change into a wolf.”

  Aylaen leaned back against the bulkhead.

  “I am afraid of you. Like you’re afraid of Skylan.”

  “I’m not!” Wulfe said indignantly.

  “Even though you know Skylan loves you and would never hurt you, you run away when he draws his sword.”

  “I don’t like swords,” said Wulfe.

  He sat down beside her. He was silent a long while, considering her words, then he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “I think I understand. And I want you to know that even if I am a wolf sometimes I would never hurt you or Skylan.”

  Aylaen smoothed back the shaggy hair from his forehead. “I’m not afraid that you would hurt me. I’m afraid because I don’t understand why this happens to you.”

  “My grandmother,” said Wulfe. “She put a curse on me because I am part human. My mother tried to lift the curse, but she couldn’t.”

  Wulfe sighed. “I miss my mother.”

  “I miss my mother, too,” said Aylaen.

  She put her arm around him and felt his tense body relax against hers.

  “I might hurt Treia, though,” Wulfe said, and before Aylaen could say anything, he jumped to his feet and ran off, disappearing into the fog. Aylaen could hear his bare feet pattering across the deck.

  Hurt Treia … Back in Sinaria, Treia had looked straight at Aylaen and cried in fury, This is your fault. You should be dead! Why aren’t you dead?

  “My fault,” Aylaen repeated softly. “I am the one who should be dead.”

  Aylaen was supposed to have died in Sinaria. But she had survived and her survival had somehow ruined Treia’s plans. Aylaen had tried for so long to love her sister. She had defended Treia. She had forced Skylan to rescue Treia from the dragon Treia had brought into being. Keeper had planned to take them to the ogres, speak for them. Treia had poisoned Keeper. Skylan had tried to warn Aylaen about her sister, but she had refused to listen. Now if the ogres captured them, they would die and it would be her fault.

  Aylaen heard Skylan calling softly to her. She stood up and groped her way across the deck, following the sound of his voice.

  “Where’s Wulfe?” he asked, and then his gaze went to her neck. His eyes widened in alarm. “Where’s the spiritbone?”

  “I hid it,” she said. “Wulfe helped me.”

  Aylaen was afraid he would be angry and was relieved when Skylan smiled. “He showed you his cubbyhole.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I know he has one. I don’t know where it is and I don’t want to know. Are you confident it is safe?”

  “I don’t even know how to find it,” said Aylaen. “It is hidden in the bones of the ship. If something happens to us, the Dragon Kahg will protect it.”

  “Nothing is going to happen,” said Skylan.

  Aylaen shook her head. She felt a heaviness settle over her soul, as though the fog had crept inside her. She was so tired. The battle was so hopeless. She looked bleakly at Skylan, expecting to see him grim, preparing for death. She was surprised to see he was smiling, his blue eyes bright in the mist. He was soaked to the skin, like all of them. He had removed the segmented plate armor of a Sinarian soldier and put on the familiar leather armor of a Torgun warrior. He must have been as exhausted as she was. Yet he was smiling.

  Aylaen was annoyed. “We’re going to die. You know that. What do you have to smile about?”

  Skylan shrugged. “I don’t know we’re going to die. Our wyrd is in the hands of the gods and I am smiling because I am not a slave anymore. I smile because the bravest warriors in the history of the Vindrasi are on this ship. They will fight at my side.”

  He held out to her the sword of Vindrash, the sword she had found in the temple.

  “I am not a warrior,” Aylaen said. “True, I cut my hair and dressed in men’s clothes and pretended to be a man-woman, dedicating myself to Vindrash, but that was all a lie.”

  “Vindrash does not think so,” said Skylan. “The goddess saw what was in your heart. She saw the truth. She gave you her blessed sword. I look at you and I see a warrior who is as brave and bold as any man on this ship. And who smells much better.”

  She laughed. He was pleased to see her laugh. She looked into Skylan’s blue eyes and her breath caught in her throat, her heartbeat quickened. His breath was coming a little faster. The fog closed around them. They were the only two people in the world. They drew near, their lips touched …

  Wulfe appeared out of nowhere, wriggling his way between them. He looked at them with wide, solemn eyes.

  “The oceanaids say we should leave. We’re not safe here.”

  At the dumbfounded look on Skylan’s face, Aylaen laughed again, laughed until she cried.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hauling the ogre’s heavy body up out of the hold proved to be a daunting task. Sigurd and Grimuir gripped Keeper by his massive shoulders, dragging the corpse up the ladder, while Bjorn and Erdmun and Farinn pushed from below. Sigurd called on Skylan to come help. Skylan didn’t hear. He stood in a daze, his hand tingling from Aylaen’s touch. She had kissed him. Well, she had almost kissed him, before Wulfe with his stupid oceanaids had interrupted. Skylan had tried to detain her, but she had hurried away and he lost her in the mist.

  What exactly did an almost-kiss mean? Was she falling in love with him?

  “Skylan! This was your idea!” Sigurd grumbled. “Stop daydreaming and come over and help us before we drop the bastard and he slides back down and we have to do this all over again!”

  Skylan went to help and, grunting and sweating and swearing, they hauled Keeper’s body up out of the hold and dumped it thankfully down onto the deck. Skylan wiped sweat and mist from his face and gazed down at the dead ogre with true grief and sorrow. Keeper had been Skylan’s trainer in the Para Dix game and although their friendship had started with a blow to the jaw that had knocked Skylan flat, the two had ended up friends. Skylan asked the ogre’s spirit to forgive him for the rough treatment.

  “When we meet in Torval’s Hall, I will explain and we will laugh over this together,” Skylan promised.

  He had no doubt that Torval would admit Keeper into the Hall of Heroes. Enemies of the Vindrasi who fought valiantly and died bravely were honored by both men and gods. Keeper had not died in battle with his sword in his hand. He had been basely murdered.

  Skylan, as a true friend, should promise to avenge the ogre’s murder, bring his killer to account. Treia had, of course, denied that she had harmed Keeper and Skylan had no way to prove she had. He had seen the truth on her stone-hard, cold face, the faint curl of her lips as she had watched the men carry the ogre’s body out of the hold. All Skylan could do was to leave her to the gods.

  The Venjekar was still wrapped in fog, though it seemed to Skylan that the mist was growing thinner. He could hear ogre voices and the flapping of their odd-looking triangular sails, but all sound was distorted by the fog and he could not tell if the ogres were near or a mile distant. He posted young Farinn, who had the keenest eyesight, and Wulfe to keep watch for ogre ships.

  “We’re going to carry Keeper to the prow,” Skylan said, keeping his voice low and warning the others to be as quiet as possible. “Arrange the body as Acronis told y
ou.”

  Bjorn carried Keeper’s heavy sword.

  “Damn thing weighs more than young Farinn,” Bjorn complained.

  “You’ve just grown weak,” said Skylan. “The lazy life you’ve been leading.”

  Bjorn grinned at him and Skylan grinned back. The shadow of Skylan’s misdeeds had once been dark between them. That was gone, their friendship restored. The same was true of the other men, even Sigurd, who would never like him, but at least had come to regard him with grudging respect. Skylan had worked hard to regain their trust and their confidence. They had forgiven him for the terrible things he had done. He could dare to hope now that Aylaen had forgiven him. Skylan would never forgive himself, but that was between him and the gods.

  Acronis directed the men to place Keeper’s hands on his chest and rest his sword in his hands. The rain had washed off most of his white and black face paint.

  “We have to put his paint back on,” said Acronis.

  The men stared at him.

  “Those designs marked Keeper as a godlord,” Acronis explained. “His people won’t believe us if we claim he is a godlord without them.”

  Skylan scratched his stubbly growth of beard. “A good idea, sir, except we don’t have any paint.”

  “We have flour we could use for the white paint,” said Aylaen. “I could make a paste and we could smear it on. I don’t know about the black paint…”

  “I have ink,” said a voice from the fog.

  For a moment no one could tell who had spoken. Then Grimuir grabbed hold of Farinn, who had been standing by the rail, watching for ogres, and shoved him forward.

  “Ink!” Skylan repeated, staring at the young man in amazement. “What are you doing with ink?”

  “I have been teaching myself to read and write,” said Farinn, ducking his head, as though confessing a shameful sin.

  “You are a warrior,” said Skylan. “A warrior needs to know how to wield a sword, not how to wield a pen.”

  Farinn flushed red and spoke in a nearly inaudible murmur. “I am making a song of our journey.”

  The men regarded Farinn in frowning disapproval. None of the Vindrasi could read or write. There was no need. Their laws and history were kept by the Talgogroth, who committed the laws and every major event and many minor ones to memory and, once a year, recited them to the people. Heroic battles should be told aloud in words that stirred the heart, not reduced to squiggly lines scrawled on animal skin.

  Skylan was as shocked as the rest of the Torgun, though he had to secretly admit that being able to read the squiggly lines on what Raegar termed a “map” might be of some benefit. Still, that was why he had brought along Acronis. The Sinarian was a scholar, as well as an able commander and an experienced seaman.

  “Fetch your ink,” Skylan said gruffly to Farinn. “We’ll put it to good use.”

  Farinn disappeared thankfully into the fog and could be heard tripping over the oars as he searched for his sea chest. Aylaen went down into the hold after the flour.

  A song of their journey. Skylan had never before considered such a thing. He tried to imagine years hence the Torgun people sitting around a Talgogroth to hear the Song of … what? What would be the title of this tale? The Song of Skylan Ivorson? Skylan smiled ruefully. Not long ago, he would have been arrogant enough to consider that title appropriate. A better title would be the Song of the Venjekar, he thought. He would have to remember to tell young Farinn.

  Not that the title would matter if neither Skylan nor Farinn nor any of the rest of his people were alive to sing it.

  * * *

  Aylaen descended into the hold. She lit a lamp, made of cloth soaked in olive oil, to help her search. The ship was well stocked for their journey. They had flour, olives and olive oil, salted pork, beef in brine. When Sigurd and the others, herself included, had believed Treia’s lie that she was going to help them escape, they had packed the hold of the Venjekar with supplies enough to last for a long sea voyage.

  Aylaen was glad to escape the sight of the others. She needed some time to herself, to try to sort out her new feelings for Skylan. She stood at the bottom of the ladder, in the fog-bound darkness, and realized that these feelings weren’t new. That was the problem. She had always loved Skylan. She had loved Garn more, or so she had told Skylan-and Garn.

  Aylaen closed her eyes and turned her gaze inward. In that moment, she was forced to see the truth. Her grief over Garn’s death was not because she had loved him well. She grieved because she had not loved Garn well enough. She had loved him because she was afraid Sigurd was going to arrange a marriage to some stranger. She had loved Garn to escape her home and her stepfather’s abuse. She had loved Garn because she had wanted a baby. She had loved Garn because-and this shamed her-she could control Garn. He would do anything she asked for love of her. And ever since she had been a little girl and knocked him flat on his ass for teasing her, she had loved Skylan.

  Skylan-brash, handsome, bold. Skylan, who had a string of women hanging from his line like fresh-caught fish. Skylan, who had claimed to love her, but who had really been in love with war and honor and being a hero and rising to power among the Vindrasi. Looking into his blue eyes then she had seen a boy’s arrogance, confidence, the idea that he could do anything he wanted, have anything he wanted.

  Now when she looked into his blue eyes, she saw the shadow of grief and loss and the bitter knowledge of his own failure. She saw a man trying to make up for his misdeeds, trying to earn the right to call himself a leader instead of claiming it, trying to regain his lost honor. She saw his love for her, a man’s love for a woman …

  He has changed and I have changed, Aylaen thought. We were children then. We are children no longer. We have waded through blood and ridden through fire. We fought the Vektia dragon side by side. He owes his life to me. I owe my life to him. We are bound together by our love for Garn and by grief at his death.

  What truly saddened Aylaen and filled her with guilt was that Garn had understood all of this. He knew that she was using him and he had gone on loving her because he also knew that she needed him. He had come back from the dead to make her understand, to make her let go.

  She was standing in the hold, lost in her thoughts, when a hand snaked out of the mists and grabbed her wrist. A shrill voice made her heart lurch.

  “Is Skylan going to kill me?”

  “Treia!” Aylaen gasped. “You scared me half to death!”

  Aylaen had forgotten her sister was down here. Treia gripped her, hard.

  “Is he going to kill me?”

  Treia’s face was livid. Her hair was wet and tangled. The thin robes of a priestess of Aelon clung to her body, revealing her breasts and the bones of her thin, spare frame. Her eyes were large and burned with a frightening luster.

  Aylaen shivered in the chill, dank closeness of the hold. The armor she wore was cold and it pinched. She tried to pull away.

  “No, of course he’s not going to kill you,” Aylaen said sharply. She tried to behave normally around her sister. All she could think of was Keeper’s body lying on the deck, Treia handing him something to drink.

  “Then Skylan’s a weak fool.” Treia let go of her sister’s arm and sank back down onto the sea chest. She smiled an unpleasant smile. “But I’ve always thought that. I overheard the two of you talking and now I know the secret that Vindrash kept from all the world. I know the secret of the Five Vektia dragons. I know that to control one of the Five, you must have all of the Five. And if Skylan does not kill me, I will find all five.”

  “And give them to Aelon?” Aylaen asked.

  “I won’t ‘give’ the Five to anyone,” said Treia. “The god will have to come to me.”

  “You poisoned the guards. You poisoned Keeper,” said Aylaen shakily. “I’ve tried to love you, Treia. I’ve defended you, even knowing you tried to kill me along with our comrades. You sent us into the catacombs knowing that Raegar was plotting our deaths. I am your sister, Treia! These men
are your friends!”

  Treia gave a bitter laugh. “Friends who mock me, call me ‘spinster,’ term me ‘frigid.’ My own stepfather deemed me too ugly to try to arrange a marriage for me.” She cast Aylaen a scathing glance. “As for you, I never asked you to love me.”

  Treia looked away. She sat on the sea chest, her arms clasped tight around her. She was tense, rigid, her jaw clenched. For all her talk, she was afraid.

  “Skylan won’t kill you,” Aylaen said. “He won’t kill you because he is Skylan and you are defenseless and alone, just as Keeper was defenseless and alone when you poisoned him.”

  “What else could I do?” Treia cried angrily. “You were going to surrender to the ogres. And Raegar was coming to save me. He loves me! No one else. Only him.”

  Aylaen understood. Treia was right. With Keeper, one of their godlords, on board the Venjekar to vouch for the Torgun, the ogres would have welcomed them as friends and allies. Keeper and Skylan planned to rally the ogres, urge them to attack Raegar’s new dragonship. Treia couldn’t allow that to happen and she had murdered Keeper.

  “I pity you,” said Aylaen softly.

  Treia stared into the darkness of the hold. “You should have died. If you had, all would be well now…”

  Aylaen turned away, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and went to search for the flour.

  “Aylaen,” Skylan called tensely down into the hold. “Are you all right?”

  “He must think Treia’s going to murder me,” Aylaen muttered. Remembering Treia’s burning eyes, Aylaen was suddenly glad she was wearing armor.

  She called back that she was fine as she made her way to the stern where the jars containing the supplies were stored. The jars were well secured. Only one had broken in the tumultuous trip downriver and that jar had not, thank the gods, contained the flour. Aylaen groped about until she found a piece of the broken jar to use as a crude bowl. She mixed some of the flour with the water to form a whitish paste.

  “Give me the spiritbone of the Vektia,” said Treia. “If you don’t give it to me, Skylan will die.”