“I say we slit his throat!” Aki said, and the other Torgun shouted in agreement.
Zahakis faced Skylan and smiled as best he could with a broken nose and a split lip and one side of his face bruised and bloodied.
“He lives,” Skylan said shortly, raising his voice so that it could be heard throughout the Venjekar and across the water to the Light of the Sea. “He lives so that he may tell the world that the Torgun are valiant warriors who will never be slaves to any man!”
Sigurd didn’t like it, but the other Torgun were pleased. The Vindrasi often set free foes who had survived a battle, knowing that their tales of the Vindrasi’s ferocity and courage would spread fear throughout a region.
Skylan took charge of Zahakis. Placing his sword in the man’s back, he gave him a shove toward the ship’s rail. Once there, he cut the man’s bindings.
“I owe you for saving the boy,” Skylan said quietly.
Zahakis gave a rueful smile. “I underestimated you barbarians. What will you do with the Legate?”
“Use him as a hostage.”
Zahakis nodded. “I will come after you, you know.”
“I know,” said Skylan. “And we will be ready.”
He yelled for Bjorn to help him. The two picked up Zahakis and heaved him over the rail. He landed with a splash, floundered a bit as a wave swamped him, then began swimming with swift, strong strokes for the ship.
Aylaen gazed sadly across the water to where men were dragging Treia onto the trireme. The rest of the Torgun raised a cheer. They were free and they were on their way home.
CHAPTER
12
* * *
BOOK ONE
The sail hung limp. The sun-baked air was breathless. The seas flat. Unless the dragon returned, the Torgun would have to man the oars, and there were only seven of them. If the dragon had been with them, Kahg could have sailed them to the World Tree and back. Skylan cast a pleading look at the carved head on the prow.
The wooden eyes stared impassively at nothing.
Skylan sighed and shook his head and took grim stock of their situation. Most of his men had suffered some sort of injury in the battle, though none severe. They had taken the Southlanders completely by surprise. Few of the soldiers had been able to draw their swords before the Torgun were on them. Fighting had been hand-to-hand, resulting in split lips and swelling eyes, bruised cheeks and bloody knuckles. He had a wound in his side, but it wasn’t severe. Grimuir had a knife slash across his shoulder that would leave a fine scar to attract the women, so he said with a grin.
The Torgun were excited now. Their freedom had gone to their heads like strong wine. They were disappointed that the gods were not helping, but they did not fault them or complain. The gods of the Vindrasi were stern parents who went their own way, lived their own lives, and expected their mortals to do the same. If life knocked you down, you got back up, wiped off the blood, and charged back into the fray; you didn’t run home sniveling.
The Torgun shoved the sea chests into place and began hauling out the oars. Sigurd roamed the deck, issuing orders, urging the men on. The Torgun knew what they were about, however, and no one needed Sigurd to tell them how to thrust the oars into the oarlocks or ready themselves for rowing.
When they were settled and the oars bit into the water and the ship lurched forward at a dismal crawl, they raised their voices in an ancient sea chant. Skylan couldn’t bear the pain. He went down into the hold, muttering something about going to fetch their weapons.
The chest where their swords and battle-axes were stowed was open. He could see tiny slivers of sunlight shining on the blade of his sword, Blood Dancer. He did not pick it up. He stood in the darkness of the hold and he leaned his head against one of the beams and he closed his eyes in despair.
Was he the only one who understood that their predicament was hopeless? They had no dragon to lend his spirit to the ship, carry it over the sea. They were a long way from land with only a vague notion of their location in this vast ocean. Their numbers were far fewer than they needed to row the ship. They were weak from being chained to the deck for days and eating nothing but fish paste. And, not far off, Zahakis walked the deck of the war galley, with two hundred rowers, rested and well-fed.
Skylan sighed deeply. No good would come of cursing the darkness. He buckled on the sheepskin sheath that he’d had specially made for his sword, sheathed the fine weapon, and felt better. He went back up on deck to seek out Aylaen, who was standing at the rail, staring across the water at her sister. Skylan motioned her to walk with him, away from the others, over to the ship’s prow. She went, but she made it clear by her stiff back and rigid posture that he was to keep his distance.
Skylan spoke in a low voice, so that the men did not overhear. “Aylaen, does Treia have the spiritbone? Did she take it with her?”
“No, of course not!” said Aylaen, rounding on him angrily. “If she did, don’t you think she would have asked the dragon to help us?”
Skylan looked across the sea at the war galley. He could see Raegar on deck, Treia standing beside him. Aylaen saw his gaze go to her sister on the enemy ship, and Aylaen’s eyes flared.
“You think she’s a traitor, too!”
“Aylaen . . .” Skylan began in mollifying tones.
“She doesn’t have the spiritbone. I know she doesn’t because we searched for it! Both of us!” She added in a choked voice, “You know as well as I do that if the Dragon Kahg wanted us to have the spiritbone, we would not need to search at all. Face it, Skylan. The dragon has abandoned us. The gods have abandoned us!”
She lowered her head, blinking her eyes rapidly.
“Aylaen—”
“And it’s your fault!” she cried.
“I know it is,” said Skylan, his voice somber. “But that thread has snapped and I can’t tie it back together, no matter how much I want to. I need you to forget about blaming me. I need you to forget about your sister. She made her choice and it was hers to make. I need you to be a warrior, Aylaen. You will have to stand guard over the Legate. All the men will be needed at the oars.” He handed a sword to her, wrapped in its sheath. “I found it in the hold.”
Aylaen wiped her eyes and, taking hold of the sheath, drew out the shining steel blade with its worn ivory hilt, the sword that she had found in the temple of Vindrash. The goddess had given the sword to Aylaen, or so Aylaen believed. Her hand closed over the hilt. The sword was smaller than a man’s, weighted to suit a woman.
She hefted the sword and gazed at Skylan, then shifted her gaze to Sigurd. She called out to him, “I will guard the Legate, Chief. You need all the men for rowing.”
Sigurd waved his hand in approval. Aylaen thrust her sword into the sheath and buckled it around her waist. She turned on her heel, without a word, and walked across the deck to where Acronis sat on his collapsible stool, his arms bound behind him, his feet tied at the ankles.
He watched Aylaen walk toward him, regarded her with a bemused smile. “You won the day for them. Stabbing your captor like that took courage and a cool head. Are all the barbarian women trained in the art of warfare?”
Aylaen shook back her red curls. “I would like very much to jab my sword into someone’s belly right now,” she said, her voice grating. “If I were you, I would keep my mouth shut.”
The Legate raised an eyebrow. Skylan was going to take his place at the tiller, but first he stopped to make certain their captive was securely bound.
“I take it you are using me as a hostage,” said Acronis. “You will kill me if Zahakis attempts to recapture the ship.”
“Something like that,” Skylan answered.
“Your plan was brilliant and well-executed,” the Legate said. “I would be interested to know how you managed to get hold of the key to the manacles from Zahakis.”
Skylan could have said he was interested in knowing the same thing. That made him remember Wulfe and he realized he had not seen the boy since the fighting began.<
br />
“You did make one mistake,” Acronis added.
“What was that?” Skylan asked.
“You should have killed Zahakis. He has been the commander of my forces for many years and he is very loyal. He will come after you.”
“I am counting on that,” said Skylan.
Acronis frowned, puzzled.
“Zahakis is so loyal,” said Skylan coolly, “that when I bind you with chains and throw you into the sea, he will stop his pursuit to try to save you.”
Skylan went back down into the hold, yelling for Wulfe. He found the boy hiding in an empty barrel.
All that day, the Venjekar crawled over the water. Skylan took his turn at the oars, sending Erdmun to man the tiller.
The gods were not only disinclined to help them, the gods seemed to be actively working against them. The sun goddess, Aylis, beat on them relentlessly. Svanses held her breath. Akaria caused her waters to roll sluggishly beneath the keel.
The men stripped bare to the waist, wearing only their trousers. Sweat rolled off their bodies and dripped from their hair and beards. Days of inactivity and poor food had weakened their muscles and drained their stamina. But every man, whenever he grew weary, looked at the chains that had once bound him and found new strength.
The Light of the Sea was far behind them, but not as far as they had hoped. Zahakis was an able commander and he had managed to drag his soldiers out of the sea and put an end to the crew’s confusion and fear over the loss of the Legate. He ordered the rowers to the oars and the war galley was able to chase after the Venjekar after only a brief loss of time. Not only that, the galley was making better time than they were.
Every man on board the Venjekar could see that the trireme was slowly gaining on them.
“If only we had the dragon,” the Torgun said.
Wulfe heard the men talk about the dragon. He heard their prayers to the dragon goddess, Vindrash, and he didn’t know what to do. He had overheard Skylan talking to Aylaen about the spiritbone. That was when he’d decided to run and hide in the empty water barrel.
He knew where the spiritbone was—it was secreted in his little cache in the bulkhead right under the dragon’s nose. The spiritbone had come to him—Skylan had said so. The dragon wanted him to have it.
Well, maybe.
Wulfe wasn’t exactly sure about that. Perhaps the dragon had wanted Aylaen or Treia to have it and Wulfe had just stumbled upon it by accident. In that case, he had taken what didn’t belong to him and he was certain to get into trouble. Skylan might punish him by making him clean his sword again.
Still, Wulfe thought, Skylan and the others might be so glad to have the spiritbone and the dragon that they wouldn’t be mad.
Wulfe spent the day dithering. He watched the men working and suffering at the oars, sweating in the bright sun. The war galley that looked like an ugly snapping turtle with a hundred legs crawled inexorably toward them. Wulfe made up his mind.
Wulfe could not possibly walk across the deck with the eyes of everyone on him and retrieve the bone. Everyone on board the ship would know about his hiding place, and while he liked some of the Uglies, such as Skylan and Bjorn and Aylaen and maybe Farinn, there were others, such as Sigurd and Grimuir, Wulfe didn’t like one bit. The only two Uglies he trusted were Skylan and Aylaen, and Wulfe’s trust in them went only so far. Skylan had made the boy clean his sword and the iron had burned him. Aylaen was Treia’s sister and Wulfe hated Treia and Aylaen told Treia everything. Wulfe had eavesdropped on the sisters enough to know.
Wulfe decided to wait until darkness fell, when everyone would be asleep. The chase would come to a halt at night, for the rowers on both ships would have to rest.
The sun was still a blood-red stain on the horizon when Sigurd gave the order for the men to cease rowing. The order was hardly necessary. Only a few had kept grimly to the task. Progress was almost negligible. He woke those who had already fallen asleep where they sat, and they drew in the oars and stacked them in the center of the ship, ready for use in the morning. Skylan raised the sail in hope that a breeze might come up in the night. The sail hung limp and drooping; a banner for their spirits.
Skylan walked over to check on the Legate. Both Acronis and Aylaen had fallen asleep. Aylaen lay on the deck, her hand resting on her sword’s hilt. The Legate slept on his stool, his chin on his chest. His position was uncomfortable, his hands were bloody from the tight ropes. He’d been given water to drink, but Sigurd was rationing the food and he’d had nothing to eat. Acronis had made no complaint, sat stoically upon his stool.
Skylan cast a last, weary glance at the Light of the Sea before the sun sank and the ship, swallowed up by darkness, would vanish from his sight. He saw, to his vast relief, that she was bringing in her oars, as well. He had been afraid that the zealous Zahakis would push his men, force them to row long into the night.
But then, why should he? Skylan asked himself bitterly. Unless the gods relent, Zahakis will easily overtake us, perhaps as early as tomorrow.
Skylan looked at his men, sleeping where they had fallen on the deck, too tired to make beds or even to eat. Their skin was sunburnt, their hands raw meat. The Torgun rarely had to row their ships. They could generally count on either the wind or the dragon to carry them over the seas.
Perhaps, this night, there would come a miracle.
Skylan touched the amulet and prayed to Torval more fervently and earnestly than he had ever prayed in his life.
“I don’t care what you do to me, Torval,” Skylan said. “Let your wrath fall on me with the full force of a hammer blow from your strong arm. Crush me and feed me to Freilis’s daemons. Save my men. Save Aylaen.”
He lay down on the deck, stared up at the stars, and he did not fall asleep so much as drop into an exhausted stupor.
Wulfe waited impatiently until he saw Skylan’s head loll to one side, his eyes close, and his breathing grow regular. Even then, Wulfe waited a little more to make sure Skylan and the others were deeply sunk in sleep. When he was certain that he was the only person awake on the ship, Wulfe stole noiselessly on bare feet across the deck to the dragonhead prow.
Wulfe worked free the wooden “plug” and removed it. The spiritbone was still there, nestled inside, snug and safe. Glancing back at the slumbering men to make certain no one was watching, Wulfe reached his hand into the niche.
He had the feeling someone was watching him. Wulfe froze and looked around. The men were asleep. Aylaen was asleep and so was the Ugly who sat tied up on the stool. Wulfe slowly lifted his gaze. The dragon’s head faced straight out to sea, but Wulfe was certain the dragon’s eyes were glaring at him. The sight startled Wulfe so that his hand jerked back.
“I don’t want the spiritbone.” Wulfe sought to reassure the dragon. “I’m going to give it to Aylaen.”
He reached again into the niche. He wanted nothing more now than to be rid of the spiritbone. Once it was gone, the dragon would leave him alone.
As if Svanses had been holding her breath until it hurt and now she was forced to let it go with a whoosh, the wind for which Skylan had been praying blasted across the sea and struck the Venjekar. Wulfe heard a splintering sound above his head. Looking up, he saw the fierce head of the Dragon Kahg swooping down.
Wulfe shrieked in terror and crouched, screaming, as the carved wooden head of the dragon toppled to the deck and landed with a crash on top of the oars, barely missing braining the boy. The freakish wind died away as if it had never been, leaving not a whisper behind.
Wulfe stared in terror at the wreckage. He saw again the head coming straight at him and, in his mind, he knew the dragon had tried to kill him because he’d been going to touch the spiritbone. Wulfe slammed the wooden plug back into the cache and made a dash for the hold.
Skylan was wrenched from a black sleep by a horrific noise. He was on his feet before he was awake, staring about dazedly in the lambent light of the stars and a thin, sullen moon. Sigurd and the others were all awak
e, stumbling about, demanding to know what was going on.
“What the—”
The words died on Skylan’s lips. He stared in appalled disbelief, his insides twisting like worms in the mud, at disaster.
The head of the Dragon Kahg lay on top of a pile of broken oars. The head was intact. It had not been damaged in the fall.
The dragon’s empty eyes stared into the empty heavens.
The next day, Zahakis captured the Venjekar without a fight.
The Torgun, stunned by despair, sat listlessly on the deck, paying no heed as the soldiers locked the iron manacles and reattached the chains. Zahakis freed the Legate and he returned to his war galley. Men stretched a heavy cable from the Light of the Sea to the Venjekar and took the broken ship in tow. Treia shouted across the water, trying to persuade Aylaen to come aboard the Light of the Sea. Raegar added his pleas, as well. Aylaen would not speak to either of them.
A favorable wind, sent by Aelon, filled the sails of the Light of the Sea. The war galley sailed south to Sinaria—a wealthy city, a fat city, a city that knew it was destined to be the capital of an empire that would someday rule the world. The Venjekar rolled and bobbed sluggishly in the galley’s wake. The head of the dragon lay on the deck, seemed to glare at the Torgun accusingly.
Skylan stared at the broken prow, feeling the heavy weight of the manacles on his legs and thinking that the weight was heavier on his heart.
“Maybe the gods have abandoned us,” he said to no one in particular.
To his surprise, it was Aylaen who answered.
“When you are in battle, you cannot hear your children wail,” she said, speaking softly, more to herself than to him. “You hear only the clash of arms. So it is with our gods.”
CHAPTER
1
* * *
BOOK TWO
The Light of the Sea sailed slowly into the Trevalis Bay early in the morning. Though the sun had barely risen, the day was already hot. The Torgun hated the heat. In their homeland, the days were pleasantly warm in summertime, the nights were always cool. In this part of the world, the heat was constant. The only change night brought was that sometimes the wind died, leaving them sweltering and sweating and unable to sleep.
Secret of the Dragon Page 12
