Secret of the Dragon Page 11

Raegar stepped onto the deck. The Legate and Tribune Zahakis stood together in conversation in the place of honor near the dragonhead prow, watching while the soldiers erected an awning made of canvas on the deck, which would shade the Legate from the sun so that he could better enjoy the spectacle.

  Acronis should have invited Raegar to join them. He was, after all, the Warrior-Priest assigned by the Priest-General to serve on the Light of the Sea. Acronis saw Raegar and he said something to Zahakis, who grinned. Raegar guessed that they were discussing him. He gave a bow. Acronis inclined his head and turned away.

  Raegar was angered. As the representative of Aelon, Raegar was responsible for the souls of all those on board and that included the Legate and the Tribune. Raegar did his duty, preaching to the men about Aelon and how the God of Light cared for them and wanted them to live good and productive lives.

  Raegar was sincere in his belief in his god. He was sincere in his belief that all men must be brought to Aelon for the salvation of their souls. Raegar truly believed he had the good of the Legate and the crew and even the good of his Vindrasi kinsmen at heart. True, he had betrayed his kin into slavery. But as the Priest-General often said, if Aelon sometimes casts a dark shadow, it is only because the light behind him shines so bright.

  Life in Sinaria was not easy for a freed slave. Raegar had turned to Aelon out of desperation and Aelon had picked him up out of the dust and rewarded his hard work and dedication. Raegar strove to open the eyes of these people. What he did, he did for them. Yet, because he had blond hair and blue eyes, the brown-eyed, brown-skinned Southlanders saw only a barbarian, a man who had once been a slave.

  “What is the matter, my love?” Treia asked, seeing his face darken.

  The soldiers were having some difficulty with the awning, giving them time to talk.

  “Look at those two,” Raegar said. “They should have listened to me. They will be sorry. I warned the Legate about my cousin.

  “Aelon warned me that Skylan and the others were a danger to the faith,” continued Raegar in a low voice.

  “Aelon speaks to you?” Treia asked.

  “Not in words,” Raegar said, “but in feelings. When Skylan Ivorson first told me he was Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, I felt in my heart and my soul that he had to die.”

  Treia raised her eyebrows. Her eyes widened.

  “I have experienced such strong feelings before and the Priest-General says they come from Aelon and that I should act on them. I told the Legate he should kill Skylan and the others. Not Aylaen,” Raegar added hurriedly, glancing around for her. She had gone off by herself, was standing at the rail, gazing out to sea. His voice softened. “I have hope your sister will become a convert to Aelon as you have.”

  Raegar had strong feelings for Aylaen, though these feelings did not come from Aelon. He had always thought her beautiful and desirable, but he knew she was in love with Garn and he could never hope to win her away. Garn was dead now and Raegar thought he might have a chance with her. He was careful not to mention his hopes and his plans. Not yet. Treia was jealous of him. He would have to ease her into his way of thinking.

  “If Aelon is so powerful,” Treia said, “why is he afraid of Skylan?”

  He gave her a frowning glance and asked sternly, “Do you mock the god?”

  “Of course not,” said Treia hurriedly. She closed her hand over Raegar’s in apology. “I meant only that Skylan is a mortal. He is your slave. Aelon is a god and all powerful. . . .”

  “I do not question,” said Raegar. “I only know what I felt. If you think I am wrong—” He started to pull his hand away.

  “No, no!” Treia clutched him. She looked at her stepfather and the other men, chained hand and foot, and her lips tightened. She said abruptly, “I think you are right.”

  “I warned the Tribune about these men. He laughed at me. He walks in darkness, Treia,” Raegar said earnestly. “I seek only to try to bring him into Aelon’s light. Yet he has no respect for me. Why is that?”

  “You are an outsider. No matter that you have lived among these people for years, you are not one of them and you never will be. I know,” Treia said bitterly. “They treat me the same way. Forget about trying to help them and concentrate on helping yourself.”

  Raegar thought about the insults, some veiled and others not. He thought about the fact that he—a high-ranking priest—was never invited to the homes of the nobles. When Raegar had wanted to marry again, he’d sought the hand of a well-born woman. She had laughed in his face.

  Raegar brought Treia’s hand to his lips. “You are a wise woman, my love.”

  Treia flushed in pleasure.

  The soldiers finally completed the task of raising the awning. The Legate’s servant had brought the collapsible stool and placed it in the shade. The Legate sat down; Zahakis took his place next to him.

  The soldiers unlocked Skylan’s leg irons and freed Sigurd from his leg irons and manacles. Accustomed to walking with the heavy weight on his ankles, Skylan took a step and almost fell over. Sigurd stood chafing his bruised wrists. Skylan searched the deck for Wulfe and was worried, at first, that he couldn’t find him. Then he realized that he was probably hiding in the hold, away from the swords and the fighting.

  Acronis indicated he was ready to begin. “I understand that the Bone Priestess will be the judge of this contest.” He looked at Treia.

  Raegar spoke up. “Bone Priestess Treia will have nothing to do with this heathen blood letting.”

  Sigurd and Skylan exchanged grim glances.

  “I’ll kill that whoreson,” said Skylan.

  “Not if I get to him first,” said Sigurd.

  “Winner of the Vutmana gets to gut Raegar.”

  “Agreed,” said Sigurd, and then he added gloomily, “If there is a Vutmana. What if Acronis won’t allow it now?”

  Aylaen turned from the rail. Her green eyes fixed on Skylan. “I will judge the Vutmana,” she said. “This man does not deserve to be Chief of Chiefs.”

  Zahakis sent his soldiers down into the hold where they had stored the Vindrasi weapons with orders to bring two swords and six shields, three for each man.

  The Torgun watched in a tense and brooding silence, broken only by Erdmun, who was nervously fiddling with the lock on his leg irons.

  His brother, Bjorn, jabbed him in the ribs and whispered, “Stop that! You’ll attract attention.”

  Erdmun whispered back fretfully, “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do!”

  “Wait,” said Bjorn. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “All that means is that you don’t know what we’re supposed to do either,” Erdmun grumbled.

  His brother ignored him.

  Skylan burned with impatience. Sigurd stood scratching his jaw. A soldier led Aylaen to the crude circle that had been painted on the deck. Raegar had flushed in anger when she had come forward and had started to try to stop her. Treia had said something to him and he had kept silent. Aylaen paid no attention. The expression on her face was grave and solemn.

  “Do you think she knows? Guesses?” Sigurd muttered.

  Skylan shook his head. He had no idea.

  Aylaen’s gaze went from one of the men to the other. “Do both of you agree to abide by the judgment of Torval?”

  “I trust to Torval’s judgment,” said Sigurd.

  “Do you, Skylan Ivorson?” Aylaen asked, and then added with a tremor in her voice, “You are the one who lied and cheated and committed murder. Do you trust to Torval to judge you?”

  Skylan was startled by her brutal words. He opened his mouth to say that he did trust in Torval, but the words suddenly stuck in his throat. Torval had punished Skylan for his crimes, for what could be worse than being a slave? Still, Torval was known to be a vengeful god with a memory as long as time. Perhaps he had not yet finished with Skylan.

  “I trust in Torval,” Skylan said at last and he knew, in his heart, that he meant it. Whatever happened, he had faith in his g
od.

  Aylaen’s green eyes turned gray as the sea. “I pray that Torval will judge you as you deserve.”

  “If he does, I’ll be chief,” said Sigurd. “First blood, remember?”

  Aylaen directed the two combatants to their places, facing each other on opposite sides of the circle.

  Acronis explained the rules to his men, relating how each of the barbarians would be given a chance to strike his opponent, who was permitted only to deflect the blow with shield or weapon. He could not defend himself or fight back. Either man who was forced out of the circle was disgraced, dishonored.

  Last-minute bets were exchanged. Current money was on Sigurd. Everyone except Raegar and Treia settled themselves to watch. The disapproving priest and priestess showed their disdain by walking off to stand at the stern, as far from the fight as they could get, and feigned disinterest by looking out at the water.

  Skylan saw without seeming to see Bjorn and Grimuir and the others start surreptitiously to quietly free themselves from the manacles which they had unlocked the night before.

  Skylan, as the one challenged, had the right to strike the first blow. He hefted one of the shields and grasped his weapon. The soldier had chosen weapons at random. Skylan had no idea what had happened to his sword, Blood Dancer, but had been hoping Torval would drop it into the soldier’s hand. Either Torval didn’t want Skylan to have his sword or the sword wasn’t even there. He recognized the blade the soldier had chosen for him. Skylan had given the sword to Bjorn as a gift before they had sailed. He looked at Bjorn and raised the sword in salute. His friend gave him a half smile and a nod.

  Sigurd planted his feet on the deck and lifted the shield, bracing himself for the blow. He and Skylan had agreed that they would fight a few rounds, wait until the soldiers were concentrating on the battle, and then attack their foes.

  Skylan stood poised for his charge at Sigurd when he was halted by a gasp and a cry. He turned to see a soldier holding Aylaen, a long-bladed knife to her throat.

  “She will not be harmed,” Acronis called from where he sat at his ease on the stool beneath the canopy, “so long as you use those swords on each other and not turn them on me.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  * * *

  BOOK ONE

  Sick with defeat, Skylan struck Sigurd’s shield with a strength born of rage and frustration. Sigurd staggered beneath the blow and almost fell. His shield split in two. His arm tingled from wrist to elbow. He flung down the pieces of his shield. Skylan walked back to his place in the circle, as the rules required, waiting for his opponent to recover.

  As he did so, he glanced at Bjorn, who scratched his beard and gave a jerk of his head. That was the signal; the men were all free of their shackles and ready to fight. For all the good that would do them now.

  Sigurd picked up another shield. His expression was grim and dark. His fingers hovered near the hilt of his sword and suddenly he grinned—the wide, crazed grin that he wore when he was standing in the shield wall covered in his enemy’s blood. Sigurd wasn’t supposed to draw his weapon. By the rules of the Vutmana, he had to stand there and take the hit. Skylan knew the moment he saw Sigurd’s mouth split in that rictus grin that Sigurd didn’t give a damn about freeing himself or the others. He was out for Skylan’s blood.

  Skylan dropped his shield and advanced, sword in both hands. He struck Sigurd’s shield and, watching his enemy’s feet, saw Sigurd shift to bring up his sword. Skylan was hampered in his attack by the fact that he needed Sigurd alive. Skylan twisted, kicked, and, dropping to the deck on his hip, slid feetfirst into Sigurd, taking him out at the knees.

  The astonished Sigurd pitched over Skylan’s head and landed on top of Skylan. He lay there a moment, gasping. Skylan throttled him; he had to half choke him to get the blood-crazed man to listen and then he had to repeat his words twice.

  “Our warriors are free! You stupid bastard, our warriors can fight!”

  Sigurd grunted, then he clouted Skylan in the mouth, splitting open his lip.

  “What about Aylaen?” Sigurd asked.

  “I’ll take care of her,” said Skylan, and he flung Sigurd off and scrambled out from under him.

  “This is against the rules,” called Acronis, and he sent Zahakis to break up the fight and send each warrior back to his own side.

  As Sigurd walked past Skylan, he grinned and pointed and said, “First blood.”

  Skylan could taste the blood from his cut lip in his mouth. Sigurd picked up his shield, and Skylan walked slowly back to his place.

  Ordinarily the Torgun would have been yelling and cheering, but they were too tense, waiting for the order to attack. That was all wrong, and Skylan was surprised Zahakis didn’t notice. The soldiers of Oran were making noise enough, each shouting for his man. Money switched hands. Acronis watched with interest. Pointing at Skylan, the Legate said something to his scribe.

  Skylan, feigning a limp, took his time retrieving his sword. He looked about, taking note of everything and everyone and, as sometimes happens on a winter’s day, when the sun makes the snow sparkle and the air is breathless and nothing moves and there is no sound, he saw everything in stark, clear detail.

  Acronis, seated beneath the dragonhead prow, was wearing loose-fitting robes, comfortable in the heat. He was not armed. His bodyguards, standing one on either side, wore armor and each carried sword and shield. The other soldiers were scattered about the ship, either leaning on the rail or squatting on the deck. Some wore armor, some did not. All wore their short-bladed swords.

  Aylaen and her guard stood close to the circle marked off for the fight. Zahakis, in full armor and wearing his sword, was about two strides away from Aylaen. The Torgun were chained to the bulkheads, near the stern.

  A desperate plan formed in Skylan’s mind. His only concern was how he was going to rescue Aylaen. He looked at her. Their eyes met. He knew that outthrust jaw, the quivering lips, the green fire in her eyes. Aylaen wasn’t afraid. She was angry. She dropped her gaze. Her hand stole to her belt. She made the motion of fingers closing over a hilt.

  She was telling him she had a weapon. She could take care of herself.

  Skylan picked up his sword. Sigurd held his shield, yelling and jeering at Skylan, urging him on. As Skylan took a step, he saw Aylaen’s hand dart to her belt. A flash of metal, and the soldier holding Aylaen gave a horrible cry and dropped his knife to grab hold of himself. Blood poured from a wound in his groin. Moaning, he fell to the deck and lay rolling about in agony. Aylaen dragged the man’s sword from its sheath.

  Skylan ran for Zahakis and barreled headlong into the man, taking him down onto the deck before he could draw his sword. He could hear behind him the battle howls of the Torgun warriors as they threw off their chains and came thundering across the deck.

  Skylan slugged Zahakis across the jaw twice, saw him go limp, and was on his feet, running toward Acronis with Sigurd on one side and Aylaen on the other.

  “Capture the Legate!” Skylan yelled at Aylaen. “Take him alive! Don’t kill him!”

  Aylaen looked astonished, but she gave a brief nod. The Legate’s bodyguards had their swords drawn and were standing in front of him. Skylan took one guard and Sigurd took the other. Sigurd was used to fighting with spears and axes. He was clumsy with a sword, and ended up using it like a battle-axe, chopping and bashing at his opponent’s head and shoulders. The guard sliced open Sigurd’s chest, but Sigurd never seemed to notice. His blood was up, the madness of Torval had seized him, and his foe withered under Sigurd’s brutal assault.

  The madness of Torval seemed to have claimed all the Torgun. Either that or the madness of freedom. Using the manacles and chains that had bound them as weapons, the Torgun knocked swords out of hands, struck men across the face, tangled their legs. When a soldier fell, one of the Torgun was on him, seizing his sword and turning to fight the next.

  Skylan, trying to watch his foe and keep an eye on Aylaen, who was circling around Acr
onis from behind, made a mistake that was nearly his last. Thinking to end the fight quickly, he feinted and then drove home his blade, only to realize at the last moment that the soldier was waiting for him. A frantic sideways leap saved Skylan, but just barely. The blade scraped along his ribs.

  Skylan drove his sword into the soldier’s hairy armpit, left unprotected by the segmented armor, severing tendons and breaking bones. Skylan yanked his sword free and jumped over the soldier as he was falling.

  “I have him!” Aylaen cried.

  She stood behind Acronis, smiling in triumph, her sword at his throat.

  Acronis did not appear unduly alarmed. He seemed detached, as though all of this was happening to someone else. His scribe was on his knees on the blood-covered deck, his hands in the air, shaking and pleading for his life.

  Skylan looked around the ship and found, to his amazement, that they had won. Some of the soldiers had jumped overboard. Others were being tossed over the rail by the Torgun who first stripped them of their armor and weapons. Only one person was missing.

  “Where’s that bastard, Raegar?” Sigurd shouted.

  The last Skylan had seen Raegar, he was standing by the stern. Skylan whipped around, but they were too late. Both men turned in time to see Raegar leap into the water. Treia was screaming. He was calling to her. Treia hesitated a moment, then climbed over the rail and dropped into the sea.

  Aylaen cried out and dropped her sword to run to the rail. Leaning over, she called to her sister. Raegar had hold of Treia and was half swimming, half dragging her through the water. Treia couldn’t swim and she was gulping and choking and clinging to him with a deathlike grip. She stared at Aylaen and then looked away. Aylaen fell silent and stood watching, stricken.

  Sigurd now had hold of Acronis. Erdmun was binding the man’s hands behind his back.

  “What do we do with our friend the Tribune?” Bjorn asked grimly.

  Zahakis had recovered consciousness and was on his feet. Bjorn and Grimuir had bound his arms behind him with rope.