The fury had passed close by Skylan in her triumphal circuit of the arena. The blood-oozing eyes stared directly at him, seemed to pay particular attention to him. The beautiful lips parted in a smile made hideous by the crimson tears that rolled down her cheeks and dribbled into her mouth. Her snakes hissed, uncoiled.
Skylan felt his stomach clench. He clasped the amulet of Torval and averted his eyes. He saw Sigurd’s face go rigid. He felt Bjorn, standing beside him, shudder. Erdmun made a sound that might have been a whimper, and Farinn gave an audible gasp. Aylaen stared at the ground, twisting her hands. Keeper was holding some sort of charm, rubbing it and muttering to himself. Skylan had thought Owl Mother’s wyvern a fearsome beast. The wyvern was a tame crow compared to the fury.
“Who is that man with her?” Aki asked, his voice harsh with fear. “Is he one of the foul faery folk, as well?”
“No,” said Skylan. “He’s a druid.”
Wulfe had told him that of all the Uglies, the druids were the only humans the fae trusted.
The druids Skylan had encountered on the Druid Isles feared the Southlanders, who were threatening to take their beautiful island home away from them and cut down their sacred trees to build cities of stone. So what was a druid doing here in Sinaria? Was he a slave, a prisoner? And what was he doing in company with the fury?
The druid turned to look directly at Skylan, almost as if he could hear his questions and wanted to answer them. Skylan had no idea what the druid might be trying to say. Skylan tried to remember if he had seen this man before. He didn’t think so. The druids he had encountered had been elderly graybeards. This man was young, in his twenties.
The druid kept his gaze on Skylan. Obviously, although Skylan did not recognize him, the druid recognized Skylan. Remembering how shamefully he had treated the druids, Skylan felt his heart sink.
“The creature looked straight at me!” Grimuir was saying in a shaking voice. “I saw in her face the face of that old woman I killed in a raid. Her death was an accident. I was aiming for a warrior and the old woman got in the way. My spear went clean through her! I saw her face. . . .”
Acronis and the other Mirchan were climbing up the stairs to the platforms that overlooked the field of play. Keeper thrust his charm in a pouch and told Skylan and the other players it was time.
The Para Dix was about to begin.
Skylan and his friends would be walking out onto the field to fight in a game they did not understand. They were going to have trouble enough and they needed their wits about them, especially Aylaen, who was a “loris,” one of the key players, or so Keeper kept telling her. Aylaen could move in any direction and take any path on the game board, whereas Skylan’s movements and those of the others were restricted.
Skylan was a “pradus,” which Keeper had described as a kind of chief. Being pradus, Skylan was the only “piece” permitted to fight the opposing pradus for control of the fire in the center of the field. Unfortunately, getting to the center was no easy task. Skylan could not simply walk over there (as he had tried yesterday and been knocked on his butt). According to the rules, he could not move to any square without being accompanied by another “piece.” And for some reason, if an opposing piece came between him and the fire, he had to move back to the “touchstone,” one of the six boulders.
Skylan had only the vaguest idea what he was doing and why he was doing it. The other Torgun were equally bad, equally confused. And instead of standing firm, concentrating on the foe.
All he could see was Garn’s face and the faces of all those men who had died because of him. Like vipers, they uncoiled, hissed at him. . . .
The clang of metal on metal broke the spell. Slaves hauled handcarts filled with weapons out onto the field. Keeper ordered his players to choose a weapon and a shield.
Skylan gazed glumly at the collection of swords the slaves placed on the ground. All the weapons were designed to be used in the game, which meant—according to Keeper—that they were made for show. They looked well to the audience, but the blades were of poor quality with blunted edges.
Skylan picked up a sword—the best of a bad lot. All players were supposed to use the same type of weapons, but Keeper had explained that the champion players were permitted to fight with weapons of good quality, which they had specially made for them. The referees turned a blind eye.
Skylan hefted his sword, noting the poor balance, and was about to turn away when he stopped to stare at the pile of weapons more closely. He had seen one of the weapons before. The sword was Aylaen’s, given to her by the Goddess Vindrash. He looked at Keeper in astonishment.
“She fights for her goddess,” Keeper said. “It is right that she should use the sword the goddess gave to her.”
Aylaen stared straight at the sword, but made no move to pick it up. The sword had been long neglected when Aylaen had found it in the Hall of Vindrash. She had been proud of it. Skylan remembered her cleaning it with loving care, spending days rubbing the blade with oil and sand to remove the rust, polishing it with a soft cloth.
“What is the matter with the female?” Keeper asked, scowling. “I took a great risk smuggling that sword from the storage room for her.”
The ogre picked up the sword and tossed it into the ground at Aylaen’s feet. The blade struck point first in the dirt and stood there, quivering.
“A fine sword,” he said loudly. “Suited to a female’s hand.” He lowered his voice. “Take it! Do not offend your goddess.”
“I have already offended the goddess,” Aylaen said. “I will not further offend her by using her sword.”
Aylaen picked up an axe. She was good with the sword, not nearly so good with an axe.
“Say something to her!” Keeper told Skylan.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Aylaen warned. “I won’t use the sword. Vindrash would curse me if I touched it. You don’t know, Skylan. You don’t know what I have done!”
The trumpet sounded, calling the players to the game.
Keeper, shaking his head, picked up the goddess’s sword and flung it back onto the pile.
CHAPTER
5
* * *
BOOK THREE
At Keeper’s direction, the players lined up on the sidelines. He was about to describe to them the opening moves when Sigurd, hearing the trumpet, hefted his axe and ran onto the field.
“Arsehole, get back!” Keeper yelled, and stormed out after him. “Back to the sidelines, you dolt!”
Sigurd stopped and looked around. “Me? What the hell is wrong?” he asked, astonished. “It’s not our move!” Keeper cried, seething. “Get off the field, you bloody idiot, before we have to forfeit a turn! And next time wait until I call the play!”
The crowd needed a break in the tension generated by the fury, and they found this hilarious. The players on the Empress’s team grinned and jeered, asking if the Barbarians wanted to forfeit the game now and spare themselves humiliation.
Sigurd realized everyone was laughing at him. His face flushed dark with shame and he slouched off the field. Reaching the sidelines, he flung down his axe, muttering and swearing that he would die before he’d participate in the “stupid, bloody game.”
Keeper summoned Aylaen, Bjorn, and Farinn. He told them the play. The three stared at him blankly and he patiently repeated his instructions, ignoring the boos from the audience. Acronis, as Marchin, called the plays, giving his players a goal to achieve this turn. Keeper told the players the goal and sent them onto the field of play. It was up to the players to determine how to achieve that goal, always keeping in mind that each could move only according to the nature of his or her piece.
Bjorn, as a chaveus, could move as many as four spaces, the final move being toward the fire pit. Farinn, as a kovas, could move an equal number of spaces, but his final move had to be away from the pit. Aylaen, the loris, could move as many spaces in any direction as she wanted. Skylan, the pradus, could not even come out onto the field during the f
irst turn.
They all knew this. They had all practiced it. But not one of them could make any sense of it.
The game started with one player from each side advancing onto the playing field. Keeper sent Aylaen out first, telling her to go to the middle square on the outer ring.
Aylaen stared in dismay at the crowd. The noise they were making seemed to shake the ground. All she could see were gaping mouths. She shrank back.
“I can’t go out there!” she said. “I feel sick. . . .”
“It’s only stage fright,” said Keeper. “You’ll get over it.”
He gave her a shove that sent her stumbling and staggering onto the field amidst roars of laughter from the crowd.
Skylan tensed. The player sent out by the Empress’s Marchin was their loris—the fury. The fae creature walked with sensuous grace onto the field, her gown wafting around her, the black feathers in her wings ruffled by the hot afternoon breeze. People saw her and their laughter ceased. An uneasy silence fell.
“You can’t send Aylaen to fight that thing!” Skylan said angrily. “Send me out there instead!”
Keeper shook his head. He looked grim, worried. “You’re the pradus. You’re not allowed to move this turn. Don’t worry, they will not fight. This is a classic opening gambit. The loris of the Empress will move one square—”
The fury made her move, but it was not one square. Spreading her wings, she rose into the air and took flight.
Her lips parted in a hideous grin. She extended her clawed hands and, folding her wings, dove down on Skylan.
He heard Aylaen cry out and Bjorn shout a warning.
Skylan remembered what he himself had said about the fae being afraid of iron, and he raised his sword to block her attack.
The fury screeched in anger. Flapping her wings, she hovered over him. Her gaze fixed on the sword. A beam of light, hot and white, flared from her bleeding eyes. The light struck Skylan’s sword. The iron began to melt. Steel dripped like an icicle to the ground.
The fury struck Skylan before he had recovered from his shock, hitting him with the weight of her body, knocking him to the ground. She perched on top of him, driving her knees into his stomach. Her stench was foul, like a week-old corpse. Her wings beat. The vipers on her head hissed and struck at him. Her lips parted in a screech showing bloodstained teeth. She dug her nails into Skylan’s throat.
Skylan choked, tasting blood. He grabbed hold of her wrists trying to break her hold. She was immensely strong, and she only laughed horribly at his efforts to save himself. He could not breathe. Pinpoints of light burst in his eyes. He was starting to lose consciousness when suddenly the fury’s hands released their grip.
Bjorn and Keeper and Grimuir had thrown themselves on the fury and managed to wrestle her off Skylan. He drew in gulping breaths and rolled over, too weak to do anything except watch as the three men fought her.
Bjorn let go with a howl of pain and fell back, clasping his arm where blood was starting to well up out of two puncture marks on his skin. One of the vipers had bitten him.
Sigurd yelled for the others to get out of his way. Keeper and Grimuir fell back and Sigurd ran at the fury, his axe raised. She turned her white-hot gaze upon the weapon and the axe head dissolved into a lump of molten metal and fell off. Swearing, Sigurd struck at the fury with the wooden handle. The fury seized the axe from him and smashed him on the temple with such force that the wood splintered. Sigurd fell to the ground. He heaved himself up, groaned, and collapsed. He did not get back up.
Farinn picked up a spear and was about to fling it. The fury saw him and spewed a glob of spit into his face. Farinn screamed and dropped the spear. He dug the balls of his hands into his eyes and moaned with pain.
Keeper snatched up a sword from the pile of weapons on the ground and tried to stab the fury from behind. One of the fury’s beating wings touched the iron. There was a strong smell of burnt feathers and she shrieked and whirled on him. Drops of blood flew from her eyes, striking his blade. The sword began to glow red-hot and Keeper dropped it with a cry.
The fury shifted her gaze to the pile of weapons. Axe heads melted. Sword blades started to bubble and dissolve. Satisfied that her foes could no longer attack her, the fury turned her blood-dripping eyes again on Skylan.
Wings beating, the fury rose up into the air. Skylan grabbed a wooden shield wrapped in leather and held it in front of him while he searched frantically for something to use as weapon. He looked at the smoldering mass of metal and saw Aylaen’s sword, untouched. The steel had not melted.
He made a lunge for it. The fury dove at him and he had to duck behind the shield, holding it braced as the fury struck the shield with her fist.
The wood splintered. The shield was covered in leather and remained intact, at least for the moment. He looked back at the sword and yelled and pointed. His warriors were focused on the fury, hovering near, wanting to help, but uncertain what to do. No one was looking at the sword except him. He shouted again and jabbed his finger at the weapon.
Aylaen saw and understood. She ran to the pile, snatched up the sword, and came to stand by Skylan’s side.
The fury glared at the sword in hatred. The magical white light beamed from her eyes. The sword caught the beam of light and reflected it back, striking the fury in the face. She screeched in anger and flapped away, staring balefully at the sword.
“Why didn’t it melt?” Aylaen gasped.
“Because Vindrash blessed it? I don’t know!” Skylan raised the shield. “I’ll cover. You strike.”
Aylaen was ready to thrust the sword into the fury’s body when a gray-robed figure darted in front of her, his hands raised.
“Don’t hurt her!” the druid cried.
At first, Skylan thought the druid meant that the fury was not to hurt Aylaen, and then he realized he was talking to Aylaen about the fury.
He cast a glance around the field, where Sigurd lay in a pool of blood, Farinn had his hands over his eyes, and Erdmun was sucking the poison out of his brother’s snake bite.
“Get out of my way,” said Skylan grimly. “I don’t want to kill you, too, but I will if I have to.”
“Please!” the druid begged. “Let me talk to her. I have been searching for her throughout Oran. I finally found her here. Unfortunately, I was too late.”
He turned to face the fury and began speaking to her in some unknown language. His voice was calm. He seemed to be trying to placate her.
The fury pointed at Skylan and her lips curled back from her bloodstained fangs.
Skylan kept his shield raised, not taking his eyes from the fury.
The druid spoke to the fury again. His voice was stern. The fury grew angry. She screamed something in reply and pointed with hatred at Aylaen’s sword. The snakes on her head writhed and hissed.
The fury snarled something and spit at Skylan. The saliva struck his shield, burning a hole through it. The fury spread her wings and leaped into the air. She flew over the heads of the spectators, laughing shrilly. Her flight was swift. She soared into the blue sky, winging her way northward.
No one dared moved, fearing she might return. When she was a distant speck, chaos erupted.
Soldiers swarmed onto the field.
“I believe they are going to arrest me,” the druid said with a smile.
“Lose yourself in the crowd,” Skylan told him urgently. “We’ll cover you.”
The druid folded his hands over the front of his gray robes, calmly assessed the situation, and gave a nod. “A good idea. But before I go there is something I must tell you, Skylan Ivorson. You have made a very bad enemy. The fury was sent to kill you.”
Skylan stared in shock. The druid bowed and walked without haste toward the stands. Five soldiers were hot on his heels within arm’s length and were about to nab him, when both the soldiers and the druid were swept to the side by a throng of spectators rushing the playing field.
Skylan feared the mob was going to attack, and he
grabbed Aylaen and pulled her behind him, raising his shield to protect them both. Hands reached out and he braced himself, only to find that the people were pounding him on the back or trying to shake his hand or simply wanted to touch him.
A woman tore Aylaen from his grasp, but it was only to embrace her. People began cheering them, hailing the Barbarians as heroes.
A group of men seized hold of Skylan and lifted him onto their shoulders. Several tried to pick up Keeper, but that proved impossible; the ogre was far too heavy. Men commandeered the handcart in which the weapons had been stored and hoisted Keeper up over the side.
Fearing Aylaen would be trampled, the ogre pulled her up with him. She stood beside Keeper looking dazed, holding on tightly as the young men began to drag the handcart around the field. People followed after them forming an impromptu parade. Another group of men grabbed the chariot in which the fury had ridden and lifted Legate Acronis into it and drove it in triumph.
Watching from the royal box, Chloe had been almost suffocated with terror and now she was crying from relief. She shouted herself hoarse and clapped her hands. When the men carried Skylan past the royal box, she waved at him and called out his name. She waved at her father and he smiled back at her.
Chloe followed her father’s gaze and looked around to see the Empress rising angrily to her feet and stalking out. Her slaves tumbled over each other to gather up fans and wine jugs, pillows and food baskets, and the lap dog. Her courtiers, caught by surprise, scrambled to follow her, and the box soon emptied out until the only other person remaining was the Priest-General. He sat at his ease, watching the tumult on the field without expression.
Secret of the Dragon Page 31
