Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Acronis watched, transfixed, as the rising surge of water took shape, forming around the single bone that had been thrown into the sea. Bone sprang from bone, muscle wrapped around bone, heart beat beneath bone, skin and scales flowed over bone, wings jutted out from bone. A magnificent head lifted on a great, curved neck. Red eyes flared.

  Acronis caught his breath.

  The dragon spread his wings and rose from the water that cascaded off the glistening body in sheets and rained down on the lifted faces of those who stared up at him, awestruck and terrified.

  Acronis saw movement—one of the archers, raising his bow.

  “No!” Acronis cried, and he jostled the man’s arm.

  The dragon circled the two ships slowly. He was the green of the sea when a storm is coming. He was the blue of the sea when the water is calm and children play in the waves. He was the gray of the sea in the winter when the waves break against the rocks along the shore. His crest was white as sea foam.

  Acronis gazed upward as the water poured off the dragon’s body, spattering cool on his face. Across the water, the Torgun prisoners shouted at the dragon, calling him by name, urging him to attack.

  The dragon turned flaring red eyes upon Acronis, who stood transfixed by the awful beauty of the creature. The sunlight shone through the membrane of the wings. The dragon was so close Acronis could see the branching blood vessels, red amid the green. The Dragon Kahg began a stooping dive.

  Raegar called out the name of Aelon and demanded that the dragon obey him and surrender. His words bounced off the dragon, who paid no heed. The crew on board the galley shrieked in terror and fell over each other trying to seek shelter belowdecks. The soldiers drew their weapons. The archers raised their bows. Acronis might be dead in the next few moments, and all he could think of as he stared at the marvelous beast was that death was a small price to pay for having been privileged to see such magnificence.

  Raegar shouted again, calling for Aelon.

  “Kahg!” The Torgun shouted the dragon’s name in warning and pointed. “Behind you!”

  The dragon snaked his head around. Three winged serpents, creatures of Aelon, skimmed over the top of the ocean, speeding toward the dragon like a flight of arrows, slicing through the tops of the waves.

  The Dragon Kahg reversed his dive, clawing at the air to gain altitude, wings beating. He sucked in his breath, his rib cage expanding, and spewed forth a great gout of white foaming water.

  The water struck the lead serpent with the force of a tidal wave. The serpent twisted, flipped, and flailed, and sank into the water with a bubbling hiss. The other two serpents sped toward the dragon, separating, outflanking him, attacking from the left and the right.

  Kahg could not evade them, and they struck him before he had time to draw another breath.

  The serpents attempted to wrap their bodies around the dragon, trying to squeeze the breath from his lungs and crush his bones. The Dragon Kahg slashed at the serpents with his clawed feet and tore at them with his fangs, ripping out chunks of scaly flesh that he spit into the sea.

  Blood rained down on Acronis. One of the serpents, bleeding from a ragged tear that had nearly split its body in two, sank beneath the waves. The other struck at the dragon’s hindquarters with its tail. The Dragon Kahg caught hold of the serpent in his claws. The serpent writhed and coiled and struck repeatedly at the dragon’s head and wings.

  Some fool archer let loose an arrow, aiming for the dragon. Kahg, battling for his life against the serpent, never saw it. The arrow fell harmlessly into the sea.

  The wind strengthened, whipping up the waves so that the Venjekar and the Light of the Sea rocked violently. Dark clouds boiled up from the horizon. Thunder rolled and lightning flared. The blasting wind seized the dragon and the serpent and carried them, still battling, up into the clouds. The dragon and the serpent, tangled together, were swallowed up by clouds and vanished from sight.

  The Torgun fell silent. Raegar stood on the deck of the Venjekar, glaring at the heavens. Men on board the galley were dazed, dumbstruck.

  Acronis was the first to speak, and his voice shook with rage.

  “I want the man who fired that arrow whipped!”

  CHAPTER

  7

  * * *

  BOOK ONE

  On board the Venjekar, the Torgun gazed into the thunderclouds, praying desperately that the Dragon Kahg would fly back to destroy their enemies. Time passed. The thunder ceased. The clouds drifted off, casting dark shadows on the sparkling water. The dragon did not return.

  “This proves our gods are dead,” said Erdmun glumly.

  “The Dragon Kahg killed two of his foes,” said Skylan. “The dragon and our gods are alive and fighting. If you want further proof,” he added with grim satisfaction, “look at Raegar.”

  Raegar’s face was purple, his neck red, cords bulging, blood vessels throbbing. He had just seen the creatures of his invincible god go down in defeat. He was so furious that he lost control and raised his hand to strike Treia, blaming her for his failure. Aylaen stepped between Raegar and her sister.

  “Touch her,” said Aylaen, “and you will die.”

  Her voice was soft with menace and, though she had no weapon to carry out her threat, Raegar lowered his hand. The Torgun were shouting and yanking on their chains. Zahakis decided this had gone far enough and he stepped in to try to regain control.

  “One of you men, take the women below,” he ordered sharply, then turned to confront Raegar.

  “What the hell are you doing? Your kinsmen are trouble enough without watching you mistreating their women. Keep it up and they will rip their chains out of the bulkheads to get at you!”

  Raegar glowered, hands clenching and unclenching. He began to try to say something, but Zahakis coolly cut short the man’s raging.

  “We have bigger worries. How do you propose we sail the ship now that the dragon is gone?”

  “I will order the prisoners to sail it,” said Raegar. The flush was slowly fading from his face, leaving it an ugly mottled color, red with whitish-yellow spots.

  “I’m sure they’ll be eager to obey you,” said Zahakis dryly.

  Raegar gave an unpleasant smile. “Leave it to me, Tribune. I know these brutes.”

  “Because you’re one of them,” muttered a soldier standing near Skylan.

  Raegar walked over to face his former friends and kinsmen, who told him what they’d like to do to him. Raegar looked smug and Skylan tensed.

  Whatever the whoreson is planning, he is confident of the outcome.

  “You will sail this ship,” Raegar said loudly, “or I will order Tribune Zahakis and his men to whip you until the flesh falls from your bones and you bleed to death. You will go to Torval in chains, bloody from the lash, the mark of the slave upon you. Is that how you want to die?”

  Skylan held rigidly still. The Torgun fell silent. No man moved. No man spoke.

  To die a slave was to die dishonored. Torval would spurn them, turn them from his Hall. They would be forced to spend the afterlife alone, separated from their loved ones, who would refuse to acknowledge them out of shame.

  Skylan rose slowly to his feet. “Release me. I will sail the ship.”

  “Coward!” Sigurd sneered, spitting the word from the side of his mouth.

  The others by their baleful expressions agreed with him.

  “I will not die in chains,” Skylan said. “And I swear to Torval I will not die without first taking my revenge on the man who betrayed us.”

  Bjorn and Aki muttered agreement and it seemed they might join him, for both stood up. Sigurd barked a sharp command. Erdmun whispered something and Bjorn, casting a glance at Sigurd, sat back down. No one else raised his head.

  The Torgun could not always rely upon the dragon to sail their ship, for the dragon was often away on his own business. In that instance, the Torgun would raise the sail or row the ships themselves; each warrior sitting on his sea chest, plying an oar.


  Skylan reached down to his sea chest and yanked it open. Wulfe stared up at him. Skylan gave a nod and the boy, relieved, scrambled out. The soldiers all laughed and even the stern Zahakis smiled. Raegar glared, not amused.

  “What is he doing here? That boy is the spawn of daemons!” Raegar said, seething. “Throw him over the side.”

  “The boy is just a boy,” said Skylan. “If you want me to sail the ship, I will need his help.”

  Zahakis looked across the sea at Acronis. The galley’s crew was raising the sails. The galley had two—one in the center and one in the front. The sails billowed, catching the wind, and the galley began to glide through the water. The Legate stood on the deck, watching the proceedings on board Venjekar. He could not hear what was going on, but he could undoubtedly guess. Acronis, seeing Zahakis’s glance, nodded his head. The Legate was impatient to return home.

  “Strike off this man’s chains,” said Zahakis. “Do not remove the leg irons. I don’t want him tempted to take a swim. As for the boy, he does look dangerous, I admit, but I think twelve armed soldiers can handle him.”

  His men grinned. Raegar muttered something and stalked off.

  He must be questioning his god about now, Skylan thought. Either that or asking Aelon to send down his holy fire to consume everyone on board, starting with Zahakis.

  They took the manacles off Skylan’s wrists and freed him from the chains. With Wulfe’s help, Skylan raised the Venjekar’s single sail, then he pointed to the stern to the single oar-like rudder.

  “I must use that to steer the ship.”

  “I will come with you,” said Zahakis. He placed his hand on the hilt of his short sword. “In case you decide to run the ship into a reef, I will take Raegar’s advice regarding the boy and throw him overboard.”

  Skylan grasped hold of the tiller. He felt it bite and steered the ship so that the wind caught the sail. The galley was well ahead of them. The Venjekar followed in her wake; the lighter, swifter ship soon gained upon the massive galley.

  “You are a wise young man,” said Zahakis, taking his place alongside Skylan. “Sometimes it takes more courage to live than to die.”

  “I’m alive for one reason,” said Skylan coolly. “So I may have the pleasure of killing you. After I gut Raegar.”

  Zahakis smiled briefly and shook his head. Leaning on the rail, he gazed out over the sea.

  “I am thankful that dragon of yours didn’t rip our heads off,” he said, and he added as he walked off, “but wherever the beast does its fighting, I hope it wins.”

  The Venjekar and the Light of the Sea put into shore that night to take on fresh water and send out hunting parties. Finding game had proved a failure on the Dragon Isles. The men could see the tracks, but traps and snares caught nothing and hunting parties returned empty-handed.

  Raegar took advantage of the opportunity to transfer from the Venjekar to the Light of the Sea. He did not take Treia with him. He still blamed her for his failure to command the dragon.

  After the ship made landfall, Treia and Aylaen were permitted to leave the hold. Treia watched in bleak unhappiness as Raegar walked up the gangplank onto the Light of the Sea. He did not spare a glance for her.

  “He asked me if the Dragon Kahg was dead. He thinks I should know,” Treia told her sister.

  “Do you?” asked Aylaen.

  “No,” said Treia bitterly. “Do you?”

  Aylaen shook her head.

  Their captors escorted them to a freshwater stream to perform their ablutions. The women had no privacy; the soldiers kept close watch on them. Aylaen laved her face and neck with the cold water and then sat on the bank of the stream, shivering in the waning light.

  Treia rinsed her long hair and wrung it out. She scrubbed her face and washed her body as thoroughly as she could, given the fact that she could not take off her clothes.

  She is trying to make herself pretty for Raegar. Aylaen did not know whether to weep for her sister or slap her.

  Once their bath was finished, the two returned to camp. Treia gripped Aylaen’s arm and, keeping an eye on their guards, whispered, “If the spiritbone comes back to you as it did the last time, you must tell me!”

  Aylaen turned to her, eyed her coldly. “I swear to you, Treia, that if the spiritbone came back to me I would crush it to powder beneath my heel.”

  She broke loose from her sister’s grasp and walked off. Treia hesitated a moment, then hurried after her.

  “You don’t mean that,” said Treia. “Raegar says—”

  “Raegar!” Aylaen repeated angrily. “Raegar is a traitor to our people. He is a traitor to you, Treia! Can’t you see that? How can you still love him?”

  “Raegar has the good of our people at heart—”

  “His god wants to destroy our gods, Treia! Why is that good?”

  “Our gods brought their doom upon themselves,” said Treia. “They were careless of their creation.”

  Back in camp, a bright fire burned. A hunting party must have been successful. They smelled roasting meat.

  Aylaen’s stomach turned. “I’m going back aboard ship.”

  “You have to eat,” said Treia.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ll make yourself sick. . . .”

  “Good!”

  “Sister, I know you are angry with me, but think about this.” Treia paused, then said abruptly, “How can you believe in gods who let Garn die?”

  The sky was gray. The sea was gray. A light rain began to fall. Drops splattered on the burning logs and hissed and sizzled. Aylaen lifted her face to the rain, let it run down her cheeks. She tried to weep for Garn, but the tears would not come. She had no more tears left.

  The sky wept for her.

  Skylan and the others did not receive a share of the roasted meat. They were forced to sit and smell the tantalizing aroma that made their stomachs growl and their mouths water. They were given a noxious paste of ground fish known as garum, bread, fresh water, and the fruit of Oran known as olives. Skylan ate the strange food, even choked down the fish paste, determined to keep up his strength.

  After the meal, those soldiers not on duty guarding the slaves held a wrestling match. They drew a crude circle in the sand. Two of the men stripped naked and, stepping into the circle and sweating and heaving, each tried to force his opponent to step out of the circle or pin the opponent so that he could not move and was forced to give up.

  Punching was not permitted. The men had to rely on strength and quickness and agility. Zahakis acted as the judge. When a man broke one of the rules, Zahakis separated them and forced them to start over. Acronis was an honored guest, and he clapped and called out when one of the wrestlers did particularly well. The Legate made wagers with his soldiers and crew, laughing good-naturedly and paying up when he lost, waving away his winnings when he won.

  The Torgun warriors at first tried to pretend they weren’t interested. But wrestling matches were extremely popular among the Vindrasi. Men and women both took part (though they did not fight naked, which the Torgun found shocking). Eventually the warriors gave up the pretense and began to watch.

  Aki, a renowned wrestler himself, was so impressed that when one of the wrestlers flipped the other over on his back with a skilled maneuver, he gave a shout of approval. The other warriors glared at him, and Aki flushed and grinned and shrugged.

  When the matches ended, the losers paid up or promised they were good for it, and everyone made ready for sleep. The fires were allowed to burn out. The soldiers wrapped themselves in blankets. The sentries paced the beach in the fitful rain. The prisoners lay down in the wet sand and tried to sleep. Zahakis had ordered the Vindrasi to be chained together, side by side. Skylan had managed to see to it that he was chained to Sigurd.

  Skylan kept an eye on the sentry, waited until he was some distance away, then said softly, “Sigurd, I need to talk to you.”

  “Go talk to yourself, piss-shit coward,” Sigurd muttered, rolling ove
r, turning his backside to him.

  Skylan managed to control his anger, though the bile burned holes in his stomach.

  “I have a plan for us to escape,” said Skylan.

  Sigurd was silent a moment, then he started to turn.

  “Don’t move!” Skylan cautioned. “Just listen.”

  “Well?” Sigurd said churlishly.

  “These Southlanders enjoy a good fight. Let’s give them one.”

  Sigurd shifted position slightly, managing to peer at Skylan over his shoulder. “I’m listening.”

  “We will wait until we have been out to sea for several days, when the soldiers are good and bored, then you and I will get into a fight. The soldiers will break it up. I’ll tell Zahakis—”

  “Hush!” Sigurd warned.

  Boots crunched in the sand. The sentry was making his rounds. Skylan closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

  When the sentry had passed, Skylan said softly, “I will tell Zahakis that you have challenged me for the right to be chief of the warriors and that we must fight to see which of us it will be.”

  Sigurd grunted. “A Vutmana?”

  “Of sorts,” said Skylan.

  “Go on,” said Sigurd. “I’m starting to like this.”

  “I will say that tradition demands that you and I fight with sword and shield. We will start our battle, and when the soldiers relax their guard, we will stop fighting each other and turn on them.”

  Sigurd snorted in disgust. “Even a blind cat can still smell the rat. The Southlanders are stupid, but not that stupid.”

  “Like I said, I have a plan.”

  “We all know your plans have worked out so well so far,” said Sigurd, sneering.

  “Are you with me or not?” Skylan asked.

  “On one condition.”

  “What is that?” Skylan asked warily.

  “We fight the Vutmana for real. Whoever draws first blood is chief.”