Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

“And if she orders the dragon to kill us all?” Zahakis asked wryly.

  Acronis glanced at his friend with a slight smile. “Are you now a believer in faery tales, Zahakis?”

  “You pay me to be prepared for all eventualities, Legate,” said Zahakis.

  “So I do, Tribune. Raegar claims this woman is in love with him and that she will do whatever he tells her. We have nothing to fear.” Acronis clapped Zahakis on the shoulder. “It will be exciting, Tribune. A break in the dull routine.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Zahakis said.

  “We will make the attempt tomorrow morning. Take whatever precautions you feel are necessary. And don’t forget to show me which of the savages is Ivorson.”

  Acronis paced the deck, his gaze always on the Venjekar.

  “If I see a dragon and live to tell about it,” Acronis said to himself, “what a wonderful story I will have to take home to Chloe.”

  Skylan watched the sun set from the deck of the Venjekar. Aylis, the Sun Goddess, slid out of a cloud bank, where she had been hiding most of the day. Hot and molten, she began to melt into the water. In the last minutes, before she sank, she seemed to glare at him, point at him with a red, accusing finger that lanced across the sea.

  “What are you doing, sitting there like a lump?” the goddess seemed to ask him. “Are you giving up? We need you to fight for us. . . .”

  “What are you doing?” Skylan was tempted to ask her back, for even as the goddess chided him, she sank into the sea and the water closed over her.

  As if in answer, Skoval, God of Night, began to skulk about among the tree trunks and slide slowly out of the distant mountains, stealing up on the world stealthily, as though afraid someone might notice. The commander of the Southlanders, Zahakis, returned, bringing with him ten soldiers and dismissing those who had been guarding the Vindrasi all day, sending them ashore to get some sleep. He ordered the archers back to the galley, telling them to eat and rest, for they would be needed in the morning.

  Skylan wondered why. What was going to happen in the morning that required archers? Was there going to be a battle? Had they sighted an enemy? Two other Vindrasi dragonships had set out for ogre lands along with the Venjekar. Skylan had lost contact with his two ships during the storm. He hoped that they were now sailing to his rescue.

  Skylan’s head told him this was improbable, that the other two ships had likely sunk or were lost at sea in battle, but his heart wanted to believe. He imagined the ships attacking the Light of the Sea, warriors hurling spears and firing arrows to kill as many men as possible before they boarded the galley and finished off the rest.

  He himself would kill Raegar. Skylan, chained up on the deck of the Venjekar, wasn’t certain how that would come about, but this was his dream and he gave himself his sword, Blood Dancer, which Raegar had taken from him. He put himself on board the galley where he single-handedly fought and killed Raegar, then rescued Aylaen, who would be so thankful that she would fling her arms around him and tell him she loved him. He would carry her back in triumph to the Venjekar, where he would be welcomed as a hero and men would once more call him Chief of Chiefs.

  Skylan was jolted suddenly back to bleak reality. Aylaen and her sister, Treia, came walking up the gangplank of the Venjekar. The two were escorted by Raegar.

  Treia cast a look of sullen defiance at the warriors, especially her stepfather, Sigurd, who shouted out, “You foul bitch! What are you doing here in the company of that traitor? You are no daughter of mine. You and your whore of a sister.”

  “We are not your daughters!” Aylaen said scathingly, her green eyes flaring in the fading light. “A blessing for which we thank Torval daily!”

  Aylaen put her arm protectively around Treia, and the two walked across the deck to the ship’s hold. Raegar pulled open the hatch and the two women descended down into the small cabin below. Aylaen paused before she went down to cast a sweeping glance around the deck. Her gaze found and fixed on Skylan.

  He took this for a hopeful sign, but he was mistaken. Her narrowed, glittering eyes told him as clearly as words how much she hated him. When she was certain he understood her, when his gaze dropped beneath her withering fire, she made her way down the ladder.

  Raegar remained on deck. Bjorn, Grimuir, and some of the other Torgun warriors took this opportunity to jeer at Raegar, calling him traitor and coward, saying his mother had rutted with a snake (a reference to the serpent tattoo on his head), hoping to goad him into a fight.

  Skylan kept silent. He could have told them they were wasting their breath. Raegar grinned at the insults. He did not care what these people called him or what they thought of him.

  But he does care what his men think of him, Skylan realized, watching as Raegar cast surreptitious glances at the soldiers guarding the Vindrasi, making certain they noticed how little attention he paid to the insults being hurled at him.

  The faces of the soldiers were frozen, expressionless as long as Raegar had his eye on them. When he went down into the hold with Zahakis to make certain that all was secure with the women, the soldiers exchanged glances and one made a remark that caused the others to glower and nod. Skylan could not hear what was said, but he understood.

  No man likes a traitor, even if he’s on your side, Skylan reflected. For you can never be sure he is on your side.

  When Raegar returned to the deck, the Torgun greeted him with more insults.

  Raegar now seemed annoyed.

  “Tomorrow morning you will witness the power of Aelon,” he announced. His gaze swept over the Torgun and went to the soldiers, and he added sternly, “All of you.”

  Raegar leaped over the side and splashed through the shallow water to where the galley, Light of the Sea, rode at anchor. Once he had gone, the soldiers looked at each other. Some snickered, others grinned and shook their heads. The Torgun fell glumly silent.

  Skylan tried to go back to his daydream, but it had turned to ashes. The dream was stupid, a waste of time. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw and bloody from his efforts to try to free himself from the manacles, efforts that had utterly failed.

  His sword, along with the rest of their weapons, was stored in a locked chest in the hold of the Venjekar. Skylan took some comfort in the fact that the weapons were still on board the ship, though, he reflected gloomily, they might as well be on the other side of the world for all the good they could do him.

  Hope flickered again briefly when he considered that Aylaen and Treia were both down in the hold with the weapons. He wondered whose side Treia was on. He knew she was in love with Raegar, or rather she had been. But how could she love a traitor? Treia was a Vindrasi; she would be loyal to her people. Then Skylan thought of what Wulfe had told him and he wasn’t certain about her. Aylaen, on the other hand, was loyal. She would have no love for Raegar. But she did love her sister.

  As he was thinking about this, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sigurd had also been thinking about his stepdaughters, and started to rail against them.

  “The two spent the night on that galley doing the gods know what. No man will marry either of them now. Not that any man would have married Treia before. Dried-up old sour apple like her.”

  The other Torgun frowned and shifted uncomfortably, their chains clanking. Sigurd was in his forties, the eldest among them. He was valiant and courageous, a skilled warrior, but he was also a dour man, a hard man who had married his dead brother’s wife to make certain the land stayed in the family, not because he had any great affection for her. He openly kept a mistress and had fathered sons by her. None of the warriors particularly liked Treia and they might have all agreed in secret with what he said, but she was their Bone Priestess and she deserved their respect.

  Sigurd continued, complaining about Aylaen. “I would have made a good marriage for her. I was in negotiations with a wealthy landholder from Vindraholm who was willing to pay me two times the customary bride-price because his son was so besotted with her. Then she spoiled every
thing by cutting off her hair and cavorting around as a man and—”

  “She dedicated herself to the goddess,” said Skylan.

  Sigurd glanced at Skylan and said to the other warriors, “I thought I heard a noise. Like the yapping of a dog. Did anyone else hear it?”

  “I heard only the prattling of a coward,” said Skylan. “Only a coward would insult a woman, especially a woman who saved the coward’s miserable life.”

  Sigurd scrambled to his feet and, hampered by the manacles around his ankles, made an awkward lunge for Skylan, who rose up to meet him. Two soldiers went over to break up the fight. They halted when some of their comrades shouted to them to let the barbarians slug it out.

  “My money on the young one,” said several.

  An angry shout ended the match. Zahakis came up out of the hold, yelling to his men, who hurriedly drew their swords and intervened. They seized Sigurd’s chain and dragged him down onto the deck, then clouted him over the head. Another hit Skylan for good measure.

  Sigurd picked himself up off the deck. His face was bruised and bloody. He glared at Skylan, who wiped blood from a split lip and spit out a tooth.

  “We were only going to let the barbarians fight it out, sir,” said one of the soldiers. “It gives us something to do besides being forced to sit here and smell their stench.”

  “Who started the fight anyway?” Zahakis asked.

  “The older man, the one with the scar across his nose and the gray in his beard. I don’t know what the fight was about, sir, I wasn’t paying attention. But he went for the young one.”

  “The young hothead again. The Legate was asking about him,” said Zahakis. He turned to look at Skylan. “Acronis is considering him for the Para Dix. He has the physique of a fighter. Look at those thighs. Good biceps and chest musculature.”

  “Clean him up and the ladies will love him,” one of the soldiers said.

  “He’ll have to be trained,” said Zahakis. “I hear the barbarians’ idea of battle is to form two lines and start bashing each other over the head.”

  The soldiers laughed. Skylan blazed with anger. He was tempted to challenge the soldiers then and there, never mind that he was chained, outnumbered, and weaponless. He lifted his hand to touch the amulet of Torval he wore around his neck, commending his soul to his god. Then he paused; an idea came to him.

  The plan was desperate and Skylan wasn’t sure he liked it, for it required subtlety and Garn was always telling him that he was about as subtle as a shield wall made up of ogres.

  Skylan started to rub his aching jaw. Seeing the soldiers watching, he lowered his hand. He glanced at his fellow Torgun.

  “For good or ill, I am still Chief of Chiefs until the judgment of the Vutmana,” Skylan said to himself. “I am the one who is responsible for my people. I am the one who has to fix my mistake.”

  He turned his plan over in his head.

  The night deepened. The soldiers lit a lantern and gathered at one end of the ship to play some sort of game involving pebbles thrown out of a box onto the deck. The game seemed childish to Skylan. There was no strategy involved. One man threw the pebbles and the others placed bets in advance on how many he would toss. The game was simply an excuse to gamble. Small wonder the soldiers were bored.

  Skylan lay on the deck trying to sleep, which proved impossible. Whenever he dozed off, his chains would clank and wake him. He was just about to slip into slumber, clanking chains or not, when he felt a touch on his arm.

  Wulfe, sopping wet, squatted down beside him. The boy had been gone all day. Skylan would have once worried about him, but he had learned that Wulfe could take care of himself.

  Skylan grunted and rolled over. “Where have you been?”

  “Talking to the oceanaids,” said Wulfe. He cast a wary glance at the soldiers. Seeing they were involved in their game and had apparently not noticed that he had climbed over the ship’s side, he settled himself comfortably on the deck.

  Skylan yawned and closed his eyes. “So what did your dryads have to say?”

  “Oceanaids,” Wulfe corrected. “Oceanaids are different from dryads. Dryads live in trees and oceanaids live in the ocean.”

  Skylan was glad for the darkness; Wulfe couldn’t see his smile.

  “What did these oceanaids have to say?” he asked drowsily.

  “Your gods are still alive. They’re holed up in their Hall, under siege. The Gods of Raj and the Gods of the New Dawn think that your gods have been defeated and now they are going to fight each other.”

  “Good for them,” said Skylan.

  “The oceanaids told me that a fleet of ships has set sail from the ogre lands. The ogres are going to attack the lands of the Gods of the New Dawn. The oceanaids were going to sink the ships, but then they decided it would be more fun to watch you Uglies kill each other. When that happens, they say all the gods will go away and we faery folk will take back the world.”

  Wulfe curled up beside Skylan, pressing his back to his friend’s back to keep warm.

  “If that happens, I won’t kill you,” Wulfe told him sleepily. “I’ll let you stay with me. I’ll use my magic to protect you.”

  “Why don’t you use your magic to free me from these chains?” asked Skylan.

  “Do you want me to?” Wulfe asked, rousing. “I could do it. I was going to, but I was afraid you’d be mad.”

  Wulfe had once told Skylan that his mother was a faery princess and that his father had been a wolf. An outrageous lie, but an amusing one.

  “Sure. Use your magic,” said Skylan. “Turn my chains into flowers.”

  “I can’t work magic on iron,” said Wulfe. “But don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  He fell asleep and Skylan must have, too, for he dreamed of Torval in his Hall with the other gods, all of them wearing armor and carrying swords, ready for the last battle. The souls of the dead heroes were with them. Skylan looked for Garn, for Garn had died a hero’s death and he should be among them.

  Skylan spent all night searching for his friend among the honored dead and couldn’t find him.

  CHAPTER

  5

  * * *

  BOOK ONE

  The hold of the Venjekar was dismal and dark and cluttered, but it was better than the storage room of the galley, if for no other reason than that it didn’t smell of fish. Aylaen lay down on a blanket, saying she was tired, but Treia was restless and insisted on talking to her about the spiritbone.

  “I don’t know why you’re treating me so badly,” said Treia.

  Aylaen sighed. “If I had the bone, don’t you think I would use it? I would summon the Dragon Kahg and tell him to carry me to Garn . . . ”

  Treia regarded her uncertainly, then said slowly, “So you really do not have the spiritbone?”

  “I’ve told you time and again, Treia, the bone was lost at sea,” Aylaen said wearily.

  “But then . . . what I am supposed to do?” Treia asked, dismayed. “Raegar expects me to summon the dragon tomorrow morning.”

  Aylaen was so startled, she sat up. “Why would Raegar expect you to summon the dragon? If you did summon Kahg, the first thing he would do would be to kill Raegar.”

  “The dragon won’t kill anyone.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Raegar says Aelon has been victorious in battle against our gods. He holds Vindrash hostage—”

  “That’s not true,” said Aylaen sharply. She was about to say she had seen Vindrash in her dream, but she feared Treia would scoff. “Even if it is, it doesn’t matter. The spiritbone was lost—”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Treia. “When a wounded dragon heals, he returns the spiritbone to the priestess. The Dragon Kahg may have hidden his bone somewhere on board the ship. We have to look for it.”

  “If the dragon wanted you to have it, why would he hide it from you?” Aylaen asked, perplexed.

  Treia glared at her. “I’m trying very hard to be patient, Aylaen, but you ma
ke it difficult. The dragon would not hide his bone from me. He would hide it from our enemies.”

  Aylaen had to admit this made sense, more sense than anything else Treia had said. There was something more to this desperate need for the spiritbone, something Aylaen did not understand. But she loved Treia and she wanted to please her and, above all, she wanted her to leave her alone. And so she helped Treia search.

  The sisters lifted the lids off barrels and fished about inside. They shook out blankets and empty sacking. They opened the lids of all the sea chests except one, which was locked, much to Treia’s ire. The chest was heavy and gave off a metallic clanking when Treia kicked at it in frustration.

  “Raegar ordered his soldiers to lock our weapons in here,” said Aylaen.

  They had taken away her sword, a gift from Vindrash. She had found the sword in the Hall of the Gods back in Luda. The sword had been an offering to the dragon goddess from some long-ago warrior. It had been stashed away with other gifts and forgotten.

  Aylaen had been proud of it. The blade was old, but Skylan had assured her the workmanship was very fine, the steel good quality. Skylan and Garn had taught her to use a sword, back when they were children playing shield-wall.

  Tears filled Aylaen’s eyes at the memory. She hurriedly wiped them away. If Treia saw her crying again, she would be annoyed.

  “The Dragon Kahg wouldn’t hide the spiritbone in a locked chest,” Aylaen pointed out.

  “Here is my sea chest!” Treia exclaimed, astonished, from where she was groping about in a shadowy corner behind the ladder.

  “Well, what of it?” asked Aylaen.

  Treia dragged the chest out from beneath the stairs. “I searched for it after the storm, but could not find it. I assumed it had been washed overboard. I searched in exactly that place. It wasn’t here. I’m positive.”

  “It’s hard to see down here,” said Aylaen. “Everything was so confused then. You probably just overlooked it.”

  “No, it was not here.”

  There was no mistaking the chest, which had been a parting gift from the Kai Priestess, Draya. It was the only sea chest with a rune, the symbol of Vindrash, carved on the lid.