The Palace of the Empress, the Shrine of Aelon with its garish light, and the city with its noise and stench and crowds were many miles distant, separated from his villa by the surrounding hills.
The weary captives saw the villa—its white walls stained pink with the setting sun—only from a distance. The villa was so different from their own long houses that they had no idea it was a dwelling. Nor did they care. The Torgun were exhausted and disheartened when they straggled onto the spacious grounds, dragging their ship behind them. Their high spirits, their defiance, was gone. Their song had come to an end.
Muscles cramped. Their hands were raw, their hearts ached. When told that they had arrived at the compound they would henceforth call home, they were so tired most collapsed, never bothering to look at their surroundings.
Skylan looked and his brow furrowed. “This is odd,” he muttered.
The compound looked like an old pen that had once been used to hold sheep. A stone wall, squarish in shape, enclosed a large grassy sward located at the bottom of a hill. A rusty iron gate had been set into the wall. Inside the compound, a few wedge-shaped tents made of goatskin were being set up by the soldiers. Skylan could see, in the distance, the waning sunlight drifting on the surface of a body of water, probably a river.
What was odd was that the wall came only to Skylan’s thigh. He could easily hop over it. What sort of prison was this?
They hauled their ship into the compound. Acronis had been going to mount his trophy in front of the villa, but not until the dragon’s head prow had been repaired. Until then, the Venjekar was also a prisoner.
The warriors sat on the ground like men stunned.
Wulfe appeared suddenly at Skylan’s side and settled himself down on the grass. Skylan had been wondering all day what had become of the boy.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Hiding in the ship’s hold,” said Wulfe. Edging closer, he said, “I hate this place. When are we leaving?”
Skylan looked at the boy and looked away.
Aylis, the Sun Goddess, was giving up her fight and sinking into the west. Red streaks smeared the sky. The shadows lengthened. Many of the Torgun had already fallen asleep on the grass. Though he was exhausted, Skylan was uneasy and restless. He had a feeling worse was to come to them before the end of this day.
The Legate would not keep slaves in a compound from which they could easily escape without some means of controlling them. Skylan’s feeling was confirmed when he saw four strange-looking wagons pulled by horses come rolling to a stop at the compound.
The wagons looked like small dwellings on wheels. Constructed of wood, the walls and arched roofs protected the occupants against inclement weather. Side panels could be opened or closed, permitting the occupants to see out or remain private. A door at the end allowed entry. Raegar, accompanied by six priests and two soldiers, emerged from the carriages and walked toward them. Zahakis and twenty soldiers, armed with spears and swords, guarded them.
“Trouble coming,” Skylan warned his men.
Bjorn shook Erdmun awake. The rest were already on their feet. Wulfe started to run, but Skylan grabbed him.
“Too late. Raegar saw you. Go to Aylaen. She’ll take care of you.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Wulfe said.
“There’s going to be a fight,” said Skylan, and Wulfe ran over to Aylaen and ducked behind her. She gave him an uncertain smile that wasn’t much comfort.
Wary and suspicious, Skylan and the others watched Raegar approach. The two soldiers must have been warrior-priests, for they wore the same armor, marked with a serpent and sun, as did Raegar. The other six priests were dressed differently. They all had shaved heads, like Raegar’s, and the serpent tattoo. But they wore long, belted gowns that flowed from their shoulders. Golden bracelets wound like snakes around their bare arms.
“Their men dress like women,” said Sigurd with a snort.
“Their men are women,” said Bjorn, incredulous.
A closer look proved Bjorn was right. Skylan could now see the more delicate feminine bone structure of the faces of the six priestesses. As the women drew closer, Skylan saw to his astonishment that the bracelets on their arms were not bracelets. Living serpents twined around the bare arms of the women. The serpents twisted and coiled and flicked their tongues.
“This is bad magic,” said Wulfe. “Very bad magic.”
Skylan didn’t need the boy to tell him. He could feel the badness crawling around him, see it slithering toward him. He would have rather faced axe-wielding ogres.
He glanced at Zahakis, saw the man’s face was grim and stern. Whatever was about to happen, Zahakis didn’t like it.
Raegar came to a halt in front of the Torgun. He lifted his head and raised his arms to heaven. He was about to launch into a speech, when Aylaen called out, “Where is my sister?”
Raegar was annoyed at the interruption, but he managed a smile. “Treia is safe within the Temple enclave. You will see her shortly. I will take you there this night—”
“No, you won’t,” said Zahakis in flat tones. “The Legate wants her for the Para Dix. She is his slave. He was generous in giving you the other woman. Now get on with what you came here to do so that we can all go to our beds.”
Raegar flashed Zahakis an irate glance. He seemed about to make some argument, then thought better of it. Drawing himself up, he addressed the Torgun.
“Aelon has tried to bring you people into his blessed light, but you have refused. Aelon does not blame you. The god realizes that you are stubborn and rebellious children whose parents have long spoiled you. Aelon knows that, like spoiled children, you truly yearn for discipline and authority.”
“I truly yearn to kick you in the balls,” said Sigurd, and Skylan and the others laughed loudly.
Raegar did not grow angry, which Skylan took as a bad sign. He kept his eyes on the female priestesses with the serpents.
“I have brought with me those we call Spirit Priestesses. Their task is, among others, to help guide those stumbling in darkness to Aelon’s light. You men are stubborn. You stop your ears to my words. You refuse to heed my teachings. Therefore, the god will speak with you directly. You will be branded with the sign of Aelon.”
The Torgun said nothing. They came together, shoulder-to-shoulder, silently forming a shield wall to face their foes. They had no weapons. They had no shields. They did not expect to survive this encounter, but Torval would smile upon them when he welcomed them to the Hero’s Hall.
Aylaen started to join them. Wulfe gave a low cry and clutched at her hand, holding her back.
“Don’t leave me,” he begged. “Don’t let him take me. He’s going to kill me!”
“Hush, Wulfe, no, he’s not,” said Aylaen, but she stood apart from the others, holding on to Wulfe’s hand.
Skylan thanked her with a smile. She pretended not to see him.
Raegar watched them and shrugged. “You make it all too easy.”
Skylan tensed, expecting Raegar to order Zahakis and the soldiers of the Legate to attack. To his surprise, Raegar gestured to the six priestesses.
“Prepare these barbarians to receive Aelon’s blessing.”
“What about the boy and the woman?” a priestess asked.
“The boy comes with me,” said Raegar harshly. He added, his voice softening, “The woman is under my care.”
Raegar smiled at Aylaen, an ingratiating smile, his eyes glittering. Skylan’s stomach roiled. His hand itched for a sword to cut that smirk off Raegar’s face. Aylaen flushed deeply and, to avoid looking at Raegar, bent down to say something comforting to Wulfe, who crouched, quivering, at her side.
The six priestesses with the serpents coiled about their arms joined hands and began to chant, calling upon Aelon. Wulfe shrieked in terror. Aylaen tried to hold on to him, but he pulled free and started running. Raegar barked a command to his warrior-priests, who ran off in pursuit, armor rattling and clanking.
> Skylan did not look to see what became of Wulfe. He could not take his eyes from the chanting women. The words to the prayer slithered into his head like the snakes they wore on their arms and twined about his brain, hissing. He tried to shut out the voices. He wanted to cover his ears, but his arms wouldn’t work.
Skylan was tired, tired of fighting, tired of hoping, tired of hurting. Even drawing in his breath seemed to take more effort than he had to give. Much easier to let go.
Much easier . . .
Skylan was sitting on the grass. Night had fallen and he had no memory of how he had been there. Two of the snake-singing priestesses were kneeling in front of him. One had hold of his hands and was examining both of them by torchlight. Skylan watched with detachment. Why should he care? The hands were not his. They belonged to someone else.
Raegar stood over him. “This one is right-handed. Put the tattoo on his sword arm.”
The priestesses nodded. One of them held a bowl of dark liquid, which she placed on the ground. She drew out a vial filled with tiny crystals that sparkled in the torchlight. Removing the stopper, she carefully measured out a small portion of glittering, multi colored crystals into the dark liquid.
“Pulverized gemstones,” said the woman, noting Skylan staring. “Crystals of quartz, amethyst, and other semiprecious gems, all blessed by Aelon.”
She gestured to her forehead where red rubies gleamed in the light.
“There is nothing to fear, young man,” she said. “We have received Aelon’s blessing ourselves. The god speaks to us as he will speak to you.”
Skylan didn’t like that. In his mind, he was struggling, fighting to escape. His mind could not connect with his body, which wasn’t his body. It belonged to someone else. Someone who was sitting on the grass, watching the gems lose their luster in the dark liquid.
“Squid ink,” said the woman, stirring the crystals into the ink. “The sacred mixture is ready.”
The other priestess drew a slender knife made of silver from a pouch. The blade was decorated with serpents holding suns in their mouths. The handle was made of bone and was old and worn and yellow with age.
Skylan watched as the woman rested the knife’s sharp point against the skin of his right forearm. He watched the knife pierce his flesh, watched the red blood well up from the wound. He watched the trail of blood follow the sharp blade of the knife down his arm to form a crude S-like shape that reminded him of the snakes the women wore on their arms. He watched. He knew he should do something to stop this, his brain raged at him to fight, but he was under the thrall of this strange lassitude.
The priestess dropped the bloody knife in the grass and began to spread apart the lips of the fresh wound. The other priestess poured the squid ink laced with the crystals into the fresh wound and then began to grind them deep into his flesh.
The pain was excruciating. Skylan cried out in wrenching agony and fought to get away. He didn’t move. His body persisted in just sitting there, watching.
Her work with the crystals finished, the priestess wound a bandage tightly over the wound. Skylan watched the blood mingled with dark ink seep through the ban dage.
“Do not take off the wrapping for several days,” said the priestess with the crystals.
Rising to her feet, she moved on to young Farinn, who had been observing Skylan with a look of horror on his face. When the priestess lifted Farinn’s arm, he flinched. He did nothing else. He sat on the ground and watched them put the tip of the knife against his flesh.
Skylan was outraged. The sight of them hurting Farinn pierced him worse than the blade of the knife. Skylan had grown to like the quiet young man, who sometimes sang to himself very softly when he thought no one heard him. In his mind, Skylan was leaping to his feet and attacking the priestess, twisting her wrist to make her drop the blade, breaking her arm if he had to. He sat and watched them slice open Farinn’s arm, watched the blood flow, watched the young man shiver in pain, and, to his shame, he did nothing.
Skylan was suddenly reminded of the terrible time back in his homeland when the ogre shaman had cast a magic spell on him, freezing his limbs, preventing him from fighting.
“Bad magic,” Wulfe had warned him.
Skylan shuddered and even that seemed to take an immense amount of effort.
When the priestesses finished their work, they emptied their bowls and packed up their silver knives and their squid ink and crystal vials.
“We will go back to the carriages and wait for you there,” one said. “What do we do with the woman?”
They were talking about Aylaen, who had been watching the proceedings with a bewildered expression on her face.
“She stays here,” said Zahakis. “To begin her training.”
Raegar scowled. “I will speak to the Priest-General about this. He will not be pleased.”
Zahakis shrugged. The priestesses who had been holding Aylaen released her. She hurried to join the warriors. The men sat on the ground, staring listlessly at nothing. Aylaen eyed them helplessly, not knowing what was wrong, uncertain what to do. The priestesses departed.
Raegar remained, waiting impatiently for the return of the warrior-priests he had sent off in pursuit of Wulfe.
“You and your soldiers can leave now,” Raegar told Zahakis with a dismissive gesture. “Your swords are no longer needed. The Torgun are not a threat.”
“I have orders from the Legate to escort you and your people off the premises,” said Zahakis.
Raegar scowled and drew in a seething breath, but he made no argument. Skylan wondered what Raegar meant about them no longer being a threat. For himself, he planned to be a threat to Raegar so long as the traitor drew breath.
“You’re never going to find the kid in the dark,” Zahakis added caustically. “Call off the chase.”
“I will not have that fiend running around loose,” said Raegar. “You and your men can leave, go to your beds. As I told you, you are not needed.”
Zahakis shook his head and remained where he was, keeping his soldiers on the alert.
Skylan’s wound throbbed and burned and stung. The ban dage was too tight. He decided to take it off and he was surprised and gratified to see his hand obey his brain’s command. He was fumbling at the strip of the cloth, trying to find the end to start unwinding it, when he heard a shrill screeching.
The two warrior-priests had hold of Wulfe. The boy squirmed and twisted and kicked wildly. Looking very grim, the two men dragged the boy back to where Raegar was standing.
“What do we do with the little turd?” one asked.
“Take him to the Temple,” said Raegar.
Wulfe cried out in terror and struggled frantically to escape.
Skylan rose to his feet. The strange and frightening lethargy appeared to be wearing off. “You’re not taking him anywhere, Raegar. The boy stays with me.”
He started to take a step toward the warrior-priests who had hold of Wulfe. Pain shot through Skylan’s right arm. He gasped and stifled a groan.
Raegar continued to issue orders. “Take the boy to the enclave. Lock him in the special prison cells where we keep his kind. I will attend to his purging tomorrow—”
Wulfe twisted about and sank his teeth into the priest’s arm. The priest gave a cry and let go his hold. Wulfe squirmed out of the other guard’s grip and ran to Skylan.
“Don’t let him take me,” Wulfe cried. “He’s going to murder me!”
“Fetch him,” said Raegar, glowering at the priests.
Skylan put his arm protectively around Wulfe. “He stays with me—”
The pain was like nothing Skylan had ever experienced, as if he’d thrust his arm into a kettle of bubbling, red-hot, molten iron. He doubled over, clutching his arm and moaning.
The other Torgun watched in uneasy silence, not sure what was happening.
“Thus does Aelon punish those who defy him,” said Raegar. He gestured. “Take the boy.”
Wulfe gave a howl. Skylan could
do nothing to help him. He felt as though his arm were being burned off. Aylaen took hold of Wulfe and wrapped her arms around him.
“You can leave him with me, Raegar,” she said. “I will be responsible for him.”
Raegar hesitated, not quite certain how to handle this situation. He did not want to offend Aylaen, but he did want the boy.
“You do not understand, my dear,” he said at last. “I am taking him to the Temple because he puts all of us in danger. I am doing this for your own good. He is a child of the fae. He is a danger to everyone, including yourself.”
“He is a boy, Raegar,” said Aylaen, and her voice was tinged with scorn. “He will be safe with me.”
“You are blinded by ignorance, Aylaen, and therefore Aelon forgives you for your defiance,” Raegar said. “I don’t want to have to harm you—”
“Enough!” said Zahakis. His face grim, he walked over to Aylaen, seized hold of Wulfe, and wrenched him from her grasp. When Aylaen started to protest, two of the soldiers drew their swords. She stood by helplessly as the warrior-priests walked off, dragging Wulfe with them.
Wulfe twisted around to look over his shoulder. “Skylan, don’t let them take me! He’s going to kill me!”
“Torval,” Skylan prayed grimly, “I need your help.”
Zahakis was standing directly in front of Skylan, his back turned. Zahakis was weary, or he would have never made such a mistake. Skylan’s right arm still burned like it was on fire. Using his left hand, Skylan reached for the Tribune’s sword.
It seemed to Skylan as if every bone in his right arm shattered. He could no longer feel his hand. Nausea wrung him. He fell to his knees, retching.
Zahakis bent down.
“I’m going to give you some advice, young man,” Zahakis said softly. “Quit fighting. You cannot win.”
“Would you?” Skylan demanded hoarsely. His face was bathed in sweat.
“Yes. Because I am a man of sense. You might even grow to like it here,” Zahakis added. “You and your people will fight in the Para Dix, which means you will be treated far better than most slaves. You might earn your freedom—”
Secret of the Dragon Page 15
