Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Erdmun did not answer.

  “Someone bring me a light! What is the matter with you pissants? Don’t tell me you are afraid of a bunch of bones!” Sigurd called out.

  Still no one answered him and his annoyance changed to anger. He was Chief and yet no one obeyed him. They were continually questioning his orders, arguing with him. Wait for Skylan, they said. To the daemons with Skylan. There were tunnels that led to the sea. There had to be.

  Sigurd walked on, moving slowly, feeling his way through the darkness.

  “Grimuir!” he shouted, calling upon a trusted ally. “Bring me a torch!”

  Finally, someone obeyed him. He could see light shining on fair hair and a beardless face. Sigurd recognized Farinn and he let out a gusty sigh. He didn’t like to admit it, but he had been starting to grow nervous.

  “About damn time!” he said angrily.

  Farinn came to a halt. He stood in a pool of light, a battle-axe in his hand. Sigurd snatched the torch from him.

  “What’s the matter with you? Why do you stare at me like that?” Sigurd demanded.

  Farinn made no answer. Gripping his axe with both hands, he swung it.

  Sigurd saw the flash of the axe blade and he leaped backward. The blade whistled past his midriff. If he had not moved, it would have sliced him in half.

  “Farinn, what the—”

  Farinn swung the axe again. Sigurd dove to the ground, dropping the torch. The blade clanged on solid stone. Sparks flew, and Sigurd crawled backward on all fours. He did not go far before he bumped up against a wall. Farinn kept up the attack. Fortunately for Sigurd, Farinn fought like someone who had never before used a battle-axe. He swung wildly, without skill.

  Sigurd knew the young man was generally silent, but it seemed he should be saying something, at least telling Sigurd why he wanted to kill him.

  The torch lay on the floor, but it continued to burn. The light slanting upward cast leaping shadows on the walls. Sigurd jumped to his feet, holding his sword so that Farinn could see it, see his danger.

  “I don’t want to hurt you—”

  He stopped, staring. Farinn’s eyes had been a bright, vibrant blue. No longer. Now his eyes were white as an egg, with no pupil, no iris. Farinn tried once more to kill him.

  Sigurd ducked the wild blow and then leaped at Farinn. Plowing straight into him, he carried him to the ground. Sigurd smashed the young man in the face with his fist and the horrible eyes closed. Sigurd wiped the sweat from his forehead and stood up and looked around.

  A body, still and pallid as the stone faces on the tombs, wispy and ephemeral as smoke, floated toward him. A hand, like chill mist rising from a frozen lake, reached out to him.

  Sigurd screamed and tried to flee, but the mist wrapped around him and his scream ended abruptly.

  Semelon, the Spirit Priestess, watched from the darkness outside the ancient shrine. Enveloped in a dark purple stoa, she was part of the night. Raegar was beside her, keeping behind a pillar, his armor covered by a thick black cloak. Treia pressed against him, keeping hold of him. With her weak eyesight, she was effectively blind, and that always made her nervous.

  They had been here when the warriors arrived. They had listened to the men argue about waiting for Skylan and Aylaen, watched Sigurd push open the bronze door, watched the warriors go inside.

  “Where could Skylan and Aylaen be?” Treia wondered. “Why aren’t they here with the others?”

  “Don’t worry. Skylan would never give up this chance to escape. He will be along shortly. As for Aylaen”—Raegar glanced at Treia, frowning—“you said she was staying behind. You said you had persuaded her to join us.”

  “I said I tried to persuade her,” Treia returned in some confusion.

  Raegar’s frown deepened and Treia added hurriedly, “You know how stubborn she can be. I reminded her of the bright future you promised her. She spurned and mocked me. She will never worship Aelon. Let her go, my love.”

  “But if she enters the catacombs, she will die with the rest of them,” said Raegar. “You don’t want her to die!”

  Treia started to speak, but he hushed her.

  “Don’t worry. I will find a way to rescue her. I know how much she means to you, how sorry you would be to lose her.”

  Treia clenched her fists in the darkness to keep her fear under control. Hevis required a sacrifice—someone Treia cared for. Treia could not sacrifice Raegar; that was out of the question. She loved him with a passion that sometimes frightened her. And it was because of her love for Raegar, her desire to make him happy, to promote his ambition, that she was willing to sacrifice the only other person she cared about—Aylaen.

  Treia had not known how much she cared about her sister until that moment on the ship when Hevis demanded her promise. Treia had felt a pang of remorse and then she reminded herself that Aylaen wanted to die; she wanted to be re united with Garn. Treia was granting her sister’s wish. The fact that Treia would also be ridding herself of a lovely rival made her decision that much easier.

  Treia had spent a sleepless night devising various ways to kill Aylaen and had at last been forced to admit that she could not do the deed herself. She could not stab Aylaen or give her a cup of poisoned wine. She could not watch her sister writhing in agony. She could not see the accusing look in her sister’s dying eyes.

  Hevis had not specified that Aylaen had to die by Treia’s hands. When Raegar and the Priest-General devised their plot to kill Skylan and the other Torgun, Treia had simply added her sister to the mix. True, she had promised Raegar she would keep Aylaen from going into the accursed catacombs with the others. Treia would much rather break a promise to her lover than break a promise to a god.

  Aylaen should be here with the others. But she was not, for some reason, and now Raegar was planning to save her.

  Which meant that Raegar needed to be somewhere else.

  Treia tried to think of a plausible excuse to send him away and could not come up with any.

  Hoarse cries and screams of terror echoed from inside the catacombs. The Spirit Priestess shook her head and began to chant.

  “What is she doing?” Treia asked, alarmed. “Why does she summon the dead? It is too soon! Skylan is not here!”

  Raegar said something to the Spirit Priestess, who halted her chanting a moment to reply, then immediately resumed.

  “She is not summoning the dead,” Raegar said. “She is trying to calm them. Unfortunately, the lemures who guard the tomb are angered by the invasion and will not be appeased. The spirits of the dead have seized the men’s bodies and are forcing the warriors to attack each other.”

  “All except Skylan and Aylaen,” Treia said frantically. “Where are they?”

  As if in answer, blobs of firelight gleamed in the night. Skylan’s voice shouted out that this was a trap. He came crashing through the trees. The ogre, Keeper, pounded along at his side.

  “Here he is,” said Raegar with satisfaction. “Just in time to die.”

  “But where is Aylaen?” Treia asked, peering into the bright torchlight that hurt her eyes. “Is she there? I can’t see her!”

  “Here she comes! And that demonic boy is with her,” Raegar said. “Go to her, Treia.”

  Treia ground her teeth. She had no choice. If she refused, Raegar would be furious. Even now, he was fuming at her hesitation. “What are you waiting for? Don’t let her enter the catacombs!”

  “Hevis!” Treia prayed in desperation. “You want this as much as I do! Help me!”

  She felt Raegar’s hand suddenly tighten on her shoulder. His fingers dug into her flesh. Afraid of his anger, Treia raised her eyes fearfully.

  He was no longer paying attention to her. He stared into the darkness, his eyes unfocused.

  “Raegar,” said Treia, but he could not hear her. He was listening to another voice. The Watchers were speaking, summoning the faithful in Aelon’s name. The Spirit Priestess ceased her chanting abruptly and turned her head in the directio
n of the Temple.

  Treia watched the two in growing alarm. Raegar’s jaw sagged, his face darkened. The priestess Semelon’s customary calm was shaken. Her lips quivered, then tightened.

  Raegar looked at Semelon.

  “You heard?” he asked.

  The Spirit Priestess nodded and said softly, “We must have faith in Aelon. We should return to the Temple—”

  “What is wrong?” Treia demanded.

  “We can’t leave,” said Raegar. “Not until we know the barbarians have been killed.”

  “What is going on?” Treia demanded loudly, annoyed at being left out of this conversation.

  “The ogre fleet has been sighted rounding the point,” said Raegar.

  Skylan, Keeper, and Aylaen were pulling on the bronze door, shouting to the men trapped inside. Wulfe had apparently run off.

  “But . . . that can’t be!” Treia gasped. “The Priest-General said it would be weeks before the ogre ships arrived. His spies said—”

  “His spies were wrong,” Raegar said. “Instead of making landfall on Ardon, the ogres kept sailing. Their foul gods gave them a favorable wind and fine weather and now they are here, by the thousands, and our defenses are not ready!”

  “But we are,” Treia said in low, fierce tones.

  Raegar turned to her with a puzzled look. She glanced sidelong at Semelon, and drew him away out of earshot.

  “What are you talking about?” Raegar asked.

  “The Vektan dragon!” said Treia, barely speaking above a whisper. “I can summon it.”

  Raegar stared at her, at first uncomprehending. Then he drew in a deep breath of exultation.

  “You are certain?”

  Skylan, the ogre, and Aylaen entered the catacombs.

  They would all die. Aylaen would die. Treia breathed a sigh of relief. “I am certain,” she said. “Tell Semelon we are taking the carriage back to the Temple. She should remain here to make certain that Skylan and the others do not leave the catacombs alive. If Skylan finds out about the Vektan dragon, he will try to stop us.”

  “But what about Aylaen!” Raegar turned back toward the catacombs. “Where is she? Did she go inside?”

  “I am afraid she did,” said Treia. “There is nothing we can do for her now, my love.”

  “But she is your sister,” said Raegar, agonized. “We can’t send her to her death. If I went after her, I could save her.”

  “There is not time!” said Treia, seizing hold of him. “How long before the ogres come ashore?”

  “Ogres do not fight at night. They will attack with the dawn.”

  “Think of all we have to do before now and then! We must go to the shrine, tell the Priest-General, enter the storeroom, and retrieve the bone of the Vektia. Then we must find a suitable location and prepare for the ritual. We should leave now—at once.”

  Still Raegar continued to hesitate. “But, Aylaen . . .”

  Treia dug her nails into the palms of her hand to keep from slapping him. She was offering him the chance to make history, to be the savior of his people, to gain esteem in the eyes of gods and men, and all he could think of was his own carnal desire.

  “The god has given us this chance to save your people, my love,” Treia said. “I know it is hard, but we must make this sacrifice.”

  Raegar looked down at her. “I am sorry, Treia. You are right. I will tell Semelon we are leaving.”

  Raegar went to speak with Semelon. While they were talking, Treia heard a noise, a rustling in the undergrowth. She turned and saw Wulfe standing there, staring at her with his yellow eyes. He had heard everything! She drew in a hissing breath and was about to make a grab for him when Raegar returned.

  “Semelon will wait here. We will send the carriage back for her. What is it, my love?”

  Treia looked back. The boy was gone.

  It doesn’t matter, she thought. He’ll soon be dead. They’ll all be dead.

  Treia took hold of Raegar’s arm and the two hastened from the shrine. He kept his hand on her elbow, guiding her through the tangle of vegetation, the full moon lighting their way. As Raegar lifted Treia into the carriage, she heard Aylaen scream—a shrill wail of pain and terror.

  Treia shuddered, then said softly, beneath her breath, “Hevis, accept the sacrifice!”

  CHAPTER

  11

  * * *

  BOOK THREE

  Skylan ran into the catacombs with Keeper at his side holding a torch in one hand and a war hammer in the other. They could hear in the distance the sounds of battle—the clank of metal hitting metal. But those were the only sounds. The cries and shouts of men under attack had ceased.

  “Strange,” said Skylan, and his steps slowed. He came to a halt only a short distance from the bronze door. “I can’t see anything. Can you?”

  “Nothing,” said Keeper. “And you are right. It is very strange.”

  Skylan was not surprised when Aylaen arrived at his side, her sword in her hand. He had told her to stay behind with Wulfe, and, of course, she had disobeyed.

  “Why are you just standing here?” she cried, gesturing into the darkness. “Our friends are fighting in there, maybe dying!”

  “If so, it’s a strange sort of battle,” said Skylan.

  “What are you talking about?” Aylaen asked.

  “Do you hear Sigurd shouting commands? Grimuir yelling at Aki to watch his back?” Skylan stared into the darkness, frowning, then he glanced around. “Where’s Wulfe?”

  “He’s outside. He kept yammering about lemures being angry at us.” Aylaen shivered. “Maybe he’s right.”

  “I never heard of ghosts wielding swords,” said Keeper.

  “We can’t just stand here!” said Aylaen. “I’m going—”

  Skylan caught hold of her. “We will all go. But we will go slowly. Whatever is down there, I want to see it before it sees me.”

  “You sound like your father,” said Aylaen irritably. “What did you used to call him? An old granny?”

  She is right, Skylan realized. Not so many months ago, I would have raced headlong into the fray. Now I go slowly, eyes and ears open.

  He thought of Norgaard and the grief he had brought his father. There were many mistakes he had made, actions he had taken that he had come to regret. But few lay heavier on his heart than that.

  “You pay me a compliment,” Skylan said.

  Aylaen looked at him startled, then her face softened.

  “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “I guess I do.”

  She reached out her free hand to him. Her fingers were cold, but her touch warmed him like hot spiced wine. He looked back into the past and saw what he had been—Skylan, Chief of Chiefs, brash, bold, arrogant, demanding her love, becoming angry when she loved another. He had never stopped to consider that love, like respect, must be earned. He was no longer Skylan, Chief of Chiefs. He was only Skylan, trying every day to make up for the past.

  Hand in hand, they moved deeper into the catacombs. Then Skylan stopped, staring. Keeper jabbed him hard with his elbow, and Aylaen gasped.

  A chill mist hung in the air near where they were standing. The mist flowed from the walls and drifted over the floor of the catacombs. Trapped in the mist, his friends were doing battle.

  Not against a foe. They attacked each other.

  As Skylan watched, Sigurd took a swing with his sword at Bjorn. Grimuir attacked Aki. Farinn hacked at Erdmun with an axe and Erdmun slashed at Farinn with his sword. The men fought in an eerie silence. None of them spoke. None cried out in pain, though Skylan saw blood running freely from their wounds.

  “Have they all gone stark raving crazy?” Skylan said, watching in amazement. He raised his voice. “What do you fools think you are doing? Sigurd! Bjorn!”

  His voice jarred the silence. Sigurd turned slowly toward him. Aylaen screamed.

  “His eyes! Torval save us, Skylan, look at his eyes!”

  Skylan could not take the time to look at anyone’s eyes. Sigur
d was running straight at him, his sword raised.

  Skylan shifted his body sideways and thrust out his foot. Sigurd tripped, stumbled, and fell to the ground.

  “Take him outside!” Skylan cried to Keeper. “Aylaen, go with him. Treat his wounds.”

  She hesitated, and he yelled at her, “Take him out. I’ll try to save the others.”

  Keeper grabbed hold of Sigurd, lifted him by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him bodily out of the catacombs. He tossed him onto the ground and stood over him, ready to bash him with the war hammer if he tried to attack.

  Aylaen bent over Sigurd. He was unconscious and, remembering the hideous eyes, she was loath to touch him.

  “Ah, a lemur got him,” said Wulfe, creeping up out of the darkness. “I told you so.”

  The boy sniffed at Sigurd and wrinkled his nose and gave him a poke in the arm with his finger.

  Sigurd groaned and sat up. Wulfe scrambled away in terror. Aylaen jumped to her feet, her sword poised, ready to strike. Sigurd blinked his eyes and looked up at her. “Treia lied,” said Sigurd. “It was a trap.”

  Inside the catacombs, Skylan was moving up on Bjorn, who had turned to attack his own brother. Bjorn’s back was to Skylan, and he hoped to hit his friend on the head, knock him out. He paid no heed to the mist that curled around Bjorn’s boots and began to slide toward him.

  “The lemur!” Keeper thundered a warning. “Don’t let it touch you!”

  A ghostly figure rose before Skylan, ghostly hands reaching out for him.

  Skylan’s stomach clenched. The hair raised on his arms and prickled on the back of his neck. He backed away. The ghost glided toward him.

  “How do I fight it?” Skylan called.

  “You don’t,” said Keeper. “You run.”

  Skylan shook his head. “I won’t leave my men.”

  “You can’t help them if you end up like them,” Keeper told him.

  Swearing, Skylan turned and ran for the bronze door. He dashed outside with Keeper right behind him.