Skylan needed to talk to Aylaen about the spiritbone. But she saw him coming and offered to help pack the supplies they would need. She disappeared down into the ship’s hold with Grimuir and Aki.
Skylan caught sight of the dragon’s head leaning up against the railing. The dragon seemed to be regarding him with anger.
Wulfe came wandering over. “Treia was on the ship yesterday,” he said. “While you were fighting the fury. I had a dream about that. Did I tell you?”
“Treia was on the ship?” Skylan eyed the boy. “What was she doing here?”
“She was talking to a god,” said Wulfe. “She went down into the hold and put on her robes and talked to a god.”
“Treia was here, praying . . .” Skylan said softly. “Maybe I have misjudged her. Maybe she really does want to help us.”
“I don’t think so,” said Wulfe. “The god was a very bad god. But then,” he added on reflection, “the god is a god of the Uglies and, according to my mother, all your gods are bad.”
Skylan shook his head and walked off.
CHAPTER
8
* * *
BOOK THREE
The Torgun waited impatiently for the sun to set. The Sun Goddess, Aylis, was in no hurry, however. She shone bright and hot and long. The day dragged. The warriors surreptitiously polished the weapons and polished them again. Aylaen packed some of the precious healing salves in a bag. Skylan worried about Chloe. Keeper thought about his mate, his children, and the invasion that might lead to his family being re united. Farinn sat off to himself, murmuring words to a song he was making about their journey, a song that might or might not have a happy ending.
Everyone was tense, nervous, fearing that at any moment the plot would be discovered and the Legate’s soldiers would come swooping down on them.
But the afternoon passed without incident. The guards at the gates dozed in the sun or walked moodily about the compound or groused about the fact that they had to work when their comrades had been given leave.
At last, Aylis dipped behind the hills, trailing red and purple scarves of fire as she left the world. When the shadows slid down the hillsides and washed over the compound, the Torgun entered the hold of the Venjekar and handed out the weapons. Keeper was watching the guards. The men ate their meal and drank from the wineskins. When they slumped over, heads on their chests, the ogre gave the signal. The Torgun left their ship, all except Skylan.
He remained on board the Venjekar, running his hand fondly along the wooden rail, remembering everything the two of them—he and this ship—had been through together. He had fought ogres on this ship. He had sailed in triumph to the Vutmana. The Venjekar had carried away the body of the disgraced Chief Horg, never to be seen again. The Venjekar had taken him and Draya on that ill-fated voyage to the Druid Isles and had brought Skylan back, alone, with the draugr of his dead wife forcing him to play dragon bones. The Venjekar had survived a storm hurled at them by a furious goddess, only to fall victim to a powerful new god.
It hurt him to have to leave his ship behind. He wondered what would happen to the Venjekar after they were gone. He had no idea, but he made a vow to Torval that he would come back for her.
Leaving the rail, he walked over to stand in front of the dragon’s head. He placed his hand on the dragon’s carved snout to bid farewell. The wood seemed warm and quivered beneath his fingers.
“He doesn’t want us to go,” said Wulfe.
“He left us,” said Skylan. “He doesn’t get a say.”
Still he stood there, eyeing the broken prow, the peg that had been carved into the bottom, the slot into which it fit.
“I may have to leave the Venjekar behind,” Skylan muttered. “But I will not leave my ship broken.”
“Ivorson!” Grimuir called in a low voice. “You better come. Sigurd is getting impatient.”
Skylan picked up the dragon’s head, lifted it, and mounted it carefully, fitting the peg into the hole. He felt the prow settle into place. He gave it a gentle shove. The prow did not move. He followed with his eyes the graceful curve of the neck, the fierce head that gazed, unafraid, into the future. Looking into the painted eyes, Skylan thought he saw a flicker of red flame.
A trick of the dying light, he said to himself, and he turned away. He climbed over the ship’s hull, landing on the ground. Everyone was silent, staring at the dragon’s head that stood firmly, defiantly, in his accustomed place.
“How did you do that?” Bjorn demanded. “We tried to fix it and it kept falling off.”
Skylan shook his head. He had no idea.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” said Erdmun uneasily. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
“I’ll give you a sign,” Sigurd said grimly. He raised his fist and shook it under Erdmun’s nose. “That’s my sign. Now let’s get out of here. Time’s wasting.”
Skylan started off after the others, then realized that Wulfe wasn’t with him. Swearing softly beneath his breath, Skylan dashed back to the ship. It was hard to see in the failing light. The boy was over by the dragonhead prow.
“Wulfe!” Skylan hissed softly and urgently.
“I’m coming!” Wulfe called.
He stuffed something in the top of his leather breeches and then came racing across the deck. He jumped down beside Skylan, landing on all fours.
“What were you doing?” Skylan asked, helping the boy to his feet.
“Getting my treasures,” said Wulfe, patting the bulge beneath his frayed shirt. “I had a special place where I hid things. The dragon guarded them for me.”
“What things?”
Wulfe glanced back at the dragon. Then he shrugged. “Just things.”
Skylan thought no more about it. The others had ranged far ahead of them and were now approaching the entrance to the compound. He grabbed hold of Wulfe and hustled him along.
Sigurd motioned for silence. According to Keeper, the guards had fallen victim to the drugged wine. Still, they might be shamming. Sigurd padded soft-footed to the iron gate and peered out between the bars.
“I see one man sleeping,” he reported in a harsh whisper.
He motioned for Keeper to come forward. Their plan was for the heavy ogre to open the gate by brute force. Keeper planted his shoulder against the gate and gave a heave. The gate swung open easily, causing the astonished ogre to nearly fall through it.
Keeper drew back, suspicious. The others gripped their weapons. The thought crossed everyone’s mind that this was too easy, going too well.
“They just forgot to lock the gate, that’s all,” said Sigurd. “Torval walks with us.”
“So does Aelon,” said Bjorn grimly.
He pointed down at the tattoo. The warriors felt no pain, not so much as a twinge.
Sigurd thrust the gate open and walked through. No one challenged him. No one stopped him. The others followed. The soldiers lay on the ground. Wine jars lay upended beside them, the Legate’s wine spilling out onto the ground. The men lay very still, unusually still and quiet. Grimuir bent down, put his hand on a soldier’s neck.
“This one is dead,” he reported.
Bjorn squatted beside the other man and, grabbing his shoulder, rolled him over. The man’s arms flopped on the ground, his eyes stared into the twilight. There was froth on his mouth; his face was contorted in pain. His dying had not been easy.
“Treia said there would be a sleep potion in the wine,” Aylaen said, her voice strained. “Raegar told her it was a sleep potion!”
“This one did not drink a sleep draught,” said Bjorn. “The wine was poisoned.”
“Treia didn’t know!” Aylaen said defensively, and then she repeated softly, to herself, “She didn’t know. She couldn’t have.”
Skylan was standing beside her and he felt her shiver. He reached out his hand simply to touch her, to offer reassurance. Her fingers closed over his in a grip that was almost painful.
“Poison,” Keeper was saying, shaking his bald head. “A b
ad way for a warrior to die.”
The Torgun knew what the ogre meant. A warrior should die with his axe in his hand.
“We can stand here staring at corpses all night or we can escape,” said Sigurd angrily. “What’s done is done. Pick up those torches. We’re going to need them in the tunnels.”
Aki and Grimuir grabbed up torches. Sigurd took the lead, heading in the direction of the villa that was silhouetted on top of the hill against a pale purple sky. The villa was dark. No lights shone.
Aylaen let go of Skylan’s hand. She walked past the dead men without looking at them. Skylan pondered the deaths of the guards and his sense of foreboding grew. His unease wasn’t helped by Keeper, who fell back to walk with him.
“The Priest-General saw to it that the soldiers who guarded the house were sent on furlough,” said Keeper softly. “But it would have been mad folly for the Priest-General to have given the same order for those who guarded the slaves. There is a reason these men had to die. Sleep potions wear off, leaving men groggy, but not too groggy to handle a sword. Whatever is going to happen at the villa this night, Raegar is making certain that none of the soldiers will be around to interfere.”
“Raegar and his god are working hard to help us escape,” said Skylan, frowning.
He had the sickening feeling that every step he was taking away from his ship was taking him in the wrong direction. His wyrd was bound to the Venjekar like the rope tied to the anchor.
Sigurd started the warriors moving at a run. The Torgun swept up the hill toward the dark villa. Wulfe dropped down on all fours to run faster. Skylan watched the boy dashing through the grass like a dog—or a wolf. The hair prickled on the back of his neck.
“Stand straight,” he told Wulfe irritably. “Run like a human being.”
Startled at the harsh tone in Skylan’s voice, Wulfe stood upright.
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“I’m not mad at you,” said Skylan. “I’m mad at Sigurd. I’m mad at myself. I should have refused to go. There’s something all wrong about what we’re doing.”
He looked back over his shoulder. He could no longer see the ship in the darkness. But he could feel the dragon watching them.
“I said we would all escape or none of us. And now we’re leaving one behind.”
The Torgun climbed the steep hill that led to the villa. A broad, paved road—wide enough to accommodate two wagons traveling side-by-side—wound back and forth across the hillside. The road was made of crushed stone that glimmered white in the light of the stars and a round, fat, full moon that was a strange orange in color; the sort of moon one sees in autumn, not in the middle of summer.
The road was deserted, but the warriors kept to the shadows of the pine trees that grew alongside. Whenever they came to a curve in the road, they could see the villa, black against the stars.
Skylan noted that the tattoo on his arm had still not so much as tingled. He supposed this was good, though he did not find the notion that Aelon approved of what he was doing particularly comforting.
They reached the grounds in front of the villa and their pace slowed. No slaves bustled about attending to their duties. No soldiers kept guard. The villa was dark. The night was so quiet that a sudden, eerie wail made them all jump.
“Run!” Wulfe gasped, his eyes wide with fear. “It’s a lemur!”
“A what?” Sigurd asked, raising his sword and looking about.
“Lemures are spirits of the family’s dead ancestors,” Keeper explained. “Some say they are good spirits who guard the house, protect the living from harm.”
“We should leave,” Wulfe insisted, trembling. “The lemures don’t want us here.”
The wailing grew louder and now they could hear broken words and blubbering.
“That’s no ghost,” said Sigurd, relieved and angry that he was relieved. He mopped his face with the back of his hand. “It’s a woman weeping.”
“The Legate’s daughter is well loved,” said Keeper, and there was a catch in his voice. “The house-slaves grieve for her.”
The men glanced at each other, grim and uneasy. The sound of a woman sobbing in the night over someone about to die was unnerving, an ill omen.
“Lemures, you’ll see,” Wulfe muttered.
“Someone shut him up,” Sigurd ordered irritably. “Where is the shrine that leads to these catacombs?”
Keeper pointed off to the east. “Over that direction. It is an ancient shrine dedicated to the old gods. Behind the shrine are the catacombs where the dead are laid to rest. We don’t need to enter the house at all.”
“Keeper has a good idea,” said Skylan. “Let us go straight to this shrine. No one will know where we went. The Legate will wake to find us gone. By the time he figures out where we’ve gone, we will be far from Sinaria.”
“Always one to take the coward’s way out, aren’t you, Skylan?” Sigurd said, sneering. “You forget we need the key from the Legate to open the gates.”
“I remember a door made of bronze,” said Keeper. “But it was not locked. We can enter as Skylan says, with no one the wiser.”
“And I say we need a key,” said Sigurd, glowering. “And the man who has it is the one who made us a slave and I, for one, do not want to leave without having my revenge.”
“Would you jeopardize our escape to slit a man’s throat?” Skylan asked, holding back his temper. “There will be others in the house besides Acronis. Zahakis will be there and he will be armed. There will be physicians, priests, the house-slaves. We can sneak into the tunnels with no one the wiser, or you can go inside and create an uproar and maybe some of us will die.”
“Lemures or women mourning, the sound is an ill omen. The Goddess of Death, Freilis, walks that house this night,” said the usually quiet Farinn. “I say we leave them at peace.”
Sigurd gnawed his lip. “Torval will hold us to account. He will want to know why we did not take our revenge.”
“We will take it,” said Skylan. “When we return to our homeland, we will assemble the dragonships and come back here. We will free the Venjekar and have our revenge!”
Sigurd thought this over.
“Just do something!” Aki said nervously.
The wailing sound grew louder, harsh and piercing.
“Go ahead, Keeper,” said Sigurd. “Take us to the shrine.”
Skylan breathed a deep sigh of relief that caught in his throat when the door to the villa opened. Standing in the door, illuminated in the soft light of the flame from an oil lamp, was Acronis, or rather, what was left of him. His shoulders sagged. His head was bowed. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin sallow. He blinked burning eyes, trying to see, and raised the oil lamp so that its light fell on the warriors.
“Skylan . . . I did not expect you so soon.” Acronis glanced at the Torgun warriors. The weapons in their hands gleamed in the lamplight. “Thank you, men, for bringing him so quickly. I feared you would not . . . not get here in time.”
“What the—” Sigurd began.
“He thinks we are his soldiers,” said Keeper softly, awed.
“He’ll find out different when I slit his gut!”
Sigurd raised his sword and started forward. He was stopped by Skylan’s hand clamping down over his sword arm.
“The man is not armed,” said Skylan. “His child is dying. Will Torval honor you for killing a man whose mind is overthrown by grief?”
Sigurd muttered something and wrenched his arm free. He kept his sword lowered, however.
“You men are dismissed,” said Acronis sharply. “Return to your duties. Skylan, come with me now.”
“Is the Priest-General still here?” Skylan asked.
“I sent the bastard away,” said Acronis. “He told my daughter, my child, that because she would not profess her belief in Aelon, she was doomed to dwell forever in darkness.”
He swallowed, brushed a trembling hand across his eyes, and said brokenly, “It was my fault. The Priest-
General told me Aelon could save her. I couldn’t let her go!”
“I couldn’t let him go. . . .” Aylaen whispered. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Garn. I am so sorry!”
Skylan spoke in Sigurd’s ear. “Go quickly before the Legate realizes he has made a mistake. Keeper will show you the way. I will stay here, cover your escape.”
“We’re not coming back for you,” Sigurd warned. He turned, motioning. “The rest of you, come with me.”
“I will stay with Skylan,” Aylaen said.
Skylan tried to dissuade her. “Aylaen, there’s no need—”
“There is need,” she said calmly. She looked at him steadily, met his gaze for the first time since Garn’s death. “I have to tell you the truth.”
“I don’t think we should leave anyone behind,” said Bjorn.
“No one gives a crap what you think,” Sigurd snarled. “Skylan, take that brat of yours with you. Keeper, you’re with me.”
Keeper looked uncertainly at Skylan.
“Go, my friend,” said Skylan. “They need you.”
“I will lead them to the shrine,” Keeper promised. “Then I will come back for you.”
“Make haste, Skylan!” Acronis said urgently. “We must hurry.”
He raised the oil lamp to light the way into the house. He shut the door and there was a hollow, grating sound—the lock falling into place.
“You came dressed for the Para Dix,” Acronis said, glancing at their swords. “Good. That will please her.”
Acronis walked in front. They were alone in the entryway. Skylan could stab him in the back. He and Aylaen could catch up with their comrades.
The thought flitted into his head and was as quickly gone.
Acronis walked swiftly, and Skylan and Aylaen had to hurry to catch up with him. Wulfe kept close to both of them. The boy kept glancing fearfully into the shadows.
“The lemures are here,” said Wulfe. “But they’re not mad at us. They won’t hurt us. They’re waiting. . . .”
They hastened through the villa. Aylaen had never before been in the house and she slowed her steps, gazing in wonder. Oil lamps had been lighted in the living areas and she marveled at the large vases filled with cut flowers, the indoor ponds with the glistening, golden fish, the couches and chairs, the beautifully painted porcelain.
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