Skylan hesitated. Once he would have agreed immediately, certain that Torval would not let him lose. But Skylan was not so sure of Torval’s favor these days. He had broken an oath to the god. He had lied, invoking Torval’s name. True, he had fought a heavenly battle against serpents at Torval’s side, though he had to admit that might have been a dream.
Skylan put his hand to the fresh weal on his chest obtained when the tail of the serpent had lashed him, knocked him out of the heavens, and sent him tumbling back to earth. If it was a dream, it had left its mark. He had faith in Torval, whether Torval had faith in him or not.
“I agree,” he said. “In Torval’s name.”
“So what is this plan?” Sigurd asked.
“We start by convincing the Southlanders we want to kill each other,” said Skylan.
Sigurd grunted and grinned. “I think I can do that.”
Wulfe had not gone ashore with the rest, but had remained on board the Venjekar. The soldiers frightened him. They stank of iron. He waited until all of them were quiet except for their snoring, and then he softly and silently crept off the ship.
He was bored. He tended to sleep a lot during the daylight hours, dozing in the sun. He liked being up at night, when he could do what he wanted with no Ugly to yell at him. He thought he might go talk to Aylaen, who had returned to the ship, try to cheer her up. He had come to like Aylaen. But Treia was down there with her and Wulfe hated Treia.
She and Raegar had caught him practicing his magic, bringing flocks of seagulls to save Skylan and the others from the giants. Treia had termed him “fae,” hissing the word. Raegar had done worse, calling him “daemon spawn.” Wulfe was not even sure what a daemon spawn was. If it meant he had frequent battles with the daemons who lived inside him, who often urged him to do terrible things, then Raegar was right. Wulfe wanted to do terrible things to Raegar and to Treia, but Owl Mother had warned him that the daemons were evil and he must not give way to them.
“They seek to harm you, to get you into trouble,” Owl Mother had told him. “That is because they are miserable and they want you to be miserable, too.”
Wulfe was miserable now and he hadn’t even given in to the daemons. He was miserable because Skylan and his friends were miserable. Wulfe tried to be hopeful. He had his magic. If only he could figure out a way to use it to help.
Wulfe pattered down the gangplank, grateful for the rain that blotted out the light of moon and stars and hid him from the sentries. He waited until no one was looking, then he scampered onto the beach, ran across the sand until he reached the treeline, and vanished into the shadows.
He tried to strike up a conversation with the dryads, who lived in the trees, but they were sleepy and told him to go away. The animals that prowled by night were intent upon their own business and wished him well and scurried past. Wulfe walked in the woods.
He always hoped, on these walks, that some night he would venture into a coppice and there he would find his mother, beautiful as a moon glade, her hair bound with stars, dancing with the other faeries. He imagined her catching sight of him, laughing with joy and holding out her hands to him, calling him to come join her. He would dance with her and she would take him back to the faery kingdom and they would be happy together always.
“Still, then I would have to leave Skylan,” Wulfe said to himself. A hard choice. He could never decide, from one night to the next, which he would choose.
Fortunately, this night, Wulfe was not called upon to make the choice. He saw no faeries. On a drizzly, dark night like this, they were probably snug and cozy in their underground dwellings, sipping honey wine from clover cups and listening to beautiful songs about how wonderful their world had been before the gods of the Uglies had come and ruined it.
Leaving the woods, Wulfe returned to the beach. He had traveled a good distance away from the ships and the soldiers with their horrible smell of iron. He took off his clothes and left them on the beach and ran into the water. The oceanaids—beautiful denizens of the sea, guardians of the sea and all who lived within it—were awake and they came to play with him.
The Uglies could not see the oceanaids, for their skin was translucent, taking on the color of the water in which they lived. The oceanaids brought dolphins for Wulfe to ride and kept him company until the sky began to grow light. He bid them goodbye. He had to sneak back on board ship before anyone saw him.
He shook off the water like a dog and, shivering a little in the cool air, he put on his clothes—a pair of wool trousers and a wool tunic. He had been given stockings and boots, but he never wore them and had no idea where they had got to.
He ran down the beach, keeping watch on the sentries, planning to time his dash up the gangplank the moment no one was looking. Wulfe was drawing near the Venjekar. So were the sentries, but, fortunately, they stopped to talk. Wulfe started heading for the ship, then something white, sloshing about in the waves, caught his eye.
He thought it was a fish, caught in a tide pool, and he went to free it. Drawing nearer, he saw that it wasn’t a fish. He wasn’t certain what it was—a large shell, maybe. He was curious now and he squatted down to pick it up. When he knew what it was, his hand froze in midair.
It was a spiritbone. The spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg.
Wulfe felt eyes staring at him, the dragon’s eyes. He trembled, afraid to look up at the dragonhead prow, knowing he would see the dragon’s eyes, red and baleful. The Dragon Kahg did not approve of him, or so Wulfe believed, for the dragon always seemed to be glaring at him.
“Don’t worry!” Wulfe said to the dragon, risking a glance at the head that towered above him. “I won’t touch it!”
He stood up and heard one of the men yell, “Hey, someone’s out there!”
“Put your sword up. It’s only the kid,” said his comrade.
“What the devil is he doing traipsing about in the middle of the night?”
“Up to no good, I’ll wager. Hey, you, kid—” The soldier shouted and began running toward him.
He would see the spiritbone in the water. He was bound to see it. Wulfe snatched up the spiritbone and shoved it hastily in his trousers as the soldier came splashing through the water. The man made a grab for Wulfe.
Terrified, the boy dropped down to all fours and ran off, dashing over the sand on his hands and feet. The soldier was so startled by this odd spectacle that he stood and stared.
“Would you look at that? Kid runs like a goddam dog!”
The soldiers laughed and, seeing that he went back on board the ship, they walked off, continuing their conversation.
Wulfe crouched among coils of rope in the stern, far from the eyes of the dragon, and wondered what to do. He should go down to the hold, take the spiritbone to Aylaen. He would have if she’d been alone, but Treia was there and Wulfe knew that she would be horrid and nasty. She would probably accuse him of stealing the spiritbone. She would turn him over to Raegar, who wanted him dead.
Wulfe pulled the spiritbone out of his trousers. The spiritbone reeked of magic, dragon magic. He didn’t want it and he was tempted to throw it back into the water, but he was afraid the dragon would be mad at him. Wulfe longed to talk to Skylan, to ask him what to do. That meant leaving the safety of the ship and venturing onto the beach, where Skylan was sleeping. The soldiers would catch him.
Wulfe made up his mind. He rose from his hiding place and crept across the deck. When Wulfe had first come to Luda with Skylan, after his disastrous adventure with the druids, the boy had lived aboard the Venjekar. He spent much of his time wandering around the village of the Torgun and he often found objects imbued with faery magic; objects the Uglies had either discarded or misplaced or, sad to say, that he stole.
Among these magical objects were a child’s tooth, a wooden thimble (which he’d picked up by wrapping a bit of cloth over it), a charred finger bone from the site of Garn’s funeral byre, and locks of hair belonging to Skylan, Aylaen, and Treia. Wulfe had planned to sneak off
with some of Raegar’s hair, but Raegar had foiled him by shaving his head.
Wulfe had discovered a loose plank on the bulkhead directly beneath the dragon’s head. He had worked diligently to pry it from the nails that held it in place. He made a cubbyhole in the bulkhead, lined it with some of the cloth used to make sails to keep it dry, and then deposited his treasures inside. Now he removed the plank, taking care to avoid looking at the dragon, and thrust the spiritbone inside. Wulfe closed up the compartment and, putting his hand on the plank, whispered a little rhyme.
“Keep safe from thieving hands.
Keep safe from spying eyes.
Let them meet a swift demise.”
He wasn’t certain what a “demise” was. His mother had taught him the magical rhyme and she had not bothered to explain. Probably she didn’t know either. His little song sung, he yawned and walked across the deck to where he had made himself a bed. Turning about the blanket three times, he curled up and went to sleep.
CHAPTER
8
* * *
BOOK ONE
The next morning, Sigurd tried to strangle Skylan.
Skylan was barely awake. He was stumbling groggily to his feet when Sigurd jumped him from behind, flinging the chain that connected the manacles on his wrists around Skylan’s neck and jerking him backward. The two crashed to the ground, kicking and flailing.
The soldiers immediately broke it up, dragging the two apart. Skylan’s neck was bruised and bloody, and Sigurd was limping from where Skylan had kicked him in the shins in an attempt to make him loosen his hold. Neither was seriously injured. Both of them glared at each other from the grasp of their captors.
“You two again,” said Zahakis, regarding them grimly. “I swear by Aelon’s arse, I’m tempted to slit your throats and leave your bodies here to rot! You’re more trouble than you’re worth. Take them on board,” he ordered his men. “And no food, only water for the rest of the day!”
Skylan sullenly took his place at the tiller. Sigurd made a muttered remark as he limped past him. Skylan clenched his fists and started to rise. Zahakis shoved him back down.
“Why is there bad blood between you two?” Zahakis asked as the Venjekar set out to sea, following in the wake of the war galley.
“He challenges my right to be chief,” said Skylan, casting a dark glance at Sigurd, who continued to glower at him from where he sat chained to the bulkhead.
“You a chief?” Zahakis said, amused. “You are just a boy!”
“I have seen eighteen winters,” Skylan said. He started to say, “Our god made me chief.” But he knew that was open to question. He touched the silver sword he wore around his neck, asking Torval’s forgiveness and his blessing and said instead, “I fought a battle against the old chief and I won.”
“So what right does Graybeard over there have to challenge you?”
Skylan swallowed. He didn’t like admitting the truth, but Zahakis might ask for confirmation from Raegar. Skylan had to make this convincing.
“Sigurd thinks I cheated in the ritual contest. He believes that I murdered Horg, the old chief. Poisoned him.”
Zahakis raised his eyebrows. “Did you?”
“No,” said Skylan.
“So did you kill him in combat or was this Horg poisoned?”
Skylan stared moodily out to sea and did not answer. Even now, he did not like to think about that time. He had been so proud of himself, so cocksure that he had broken his oath to his father, to his god. Only to find out that it was all a lie.
“You people really are savages,” Zahakis said. He leaned against the rail, making himself comfortable. They had a long journey ahead of them and nothing to do. “Tell me about this ritual combat.”
Skylan related the history of the Vutmana, describing the battle in detail, how the priestess measured out the ceremonial cloth on which the warriors stood, how each warrior was given three shields and one sword, how each had to stand still and take the blows from his opponent until first blood was drawn.
“That means our god, Torval, has made his decision and the priestess declares the winner,” Skylan said.
“So you had to stand there and let this Horg try to kill you? You couldn’t fight back or defend yourself?” Zahakis shook his head. “That takes guts. I would like to see this Vutmana.”
“You can,” said Skylan. “Let Sigurd and me fight. This night when we make landfall. Let me prove to my warriors that Torval chose me!”
He spoke with an anger and intensity that was not feigned. Skylan wanted this fight and he knew, from the bruises on his neck, that Sigurd wanted it as well.
“If you keep on getting into trouble, I will kill both of you before the voyage ends,” Zahakis remarked. “You might as well entertain us. I will speak to the Legate. You are his property, after all.”
When Zahakis walked off, Skylan looked across the deck at Sigurd and gave a slight nod. Sigurd rubbed his chin and nodded back.
They made landfall that night. The next day, according to Zahakis, they would head out to sea and not see land again for weeks. The Legate was not happy with the amount of meat they had salted down for the long sea voyage and he again sent out hunting parties to acquire more. Zahakis took advantage of the opportunity to speak to Acronis about Sigurd and Skylan, proposing that the barbarians be permitted to settle their differences.
Acronis listened with interest as Zahakis described the strange way in which the barbarians conducted their ritual combat.
“You are right, my friend,” said Acronis. “One man forced to do nothing except defend himself while the other tries to slaughter him requires extraordinary courage. It does sound entertaining.”
“Too bad it’s just a ruse young Skylan is using to try to escape,” said Zahakis, grinning.
“Do we really appear to be that stupid, Zahakis?” Acronis asked, half in jest and half serious. “Do they honestly think we would give them shields and swords and that we would then be shocked when they left off fighting each other and turned on us?”
“The two men do appear intent on killing each other. We could let them fight when we are in open water, far from land. It would help alleviate the boredom. We’ll see how the voyage goes.”
“An excellent idea!” said Acronis.
He glanced over to where Skylan sat on the ground, eating fish paste with his fingers and every so often casting a glance in their direction.
“He knows we’re talking about him,” said Acronis. “So the young man is a chief. I look forward to seeing how he handles himself in a fight.”
He added, as an afterthought, “I suppose we must consult Raegar in this? He is our priest, after all, and concerned with our spiritual well-being.”
“I already did,” said Zahakis. “Raegar is opposed, of course. He says that the ritual contest will only encourage the Vindrasi in their barbaric beliefs. He wants them to turn their thoughts to Aelon.”
Acronis sighed. “I don’t mind confessing to you, Zahakis, that I find Aelon to be a very tiresome god. He pokes his nose into our affairs, keeps his eye on us at all times, demands that we do this, do that . . .”
“Rather like my wife, sir,” said Zahakis.
Skylan was forced to tell Sigurd that there would be no Vutmana, at least not tonight. Sigurd grumbled that Skylan must have said something or done something to spoil their plans. Skylan said Sigurd was an ass and once again the soldiers had to step in to break up the fight.
The next day dawned fine. The wind continued blowing strong and the Light of the Sea and the Venjekar sailed out into the Sea of Tears. They had now entered waters unknown to the Torgun. Accustomed to sailing within sight of land, navigating by landmarks, the Vindrasi had no idea where they were. They knew by the position of the sun that they were heading south, but that was all.
The concept of sailing at night was unknown to them. Sailing in the dark was dangerous within sight of land. A ship could founder on rocks or run aground. There were no such dangers in
the middle of the ocean. The main danger there was in losing their way. Without landmarks, Skylan had no idea where they were.
Raegar had tried to show Skylan how to read a map, to use it to tell where he was and determine where he was going and how to get there. The maps had proven useless to Skylan. Neither he nor any of the other Vindrasi could read or write.
He had come to see how maps could be of value, however. The thought had come to him that once they escaped, he would have to sail the Venjekar home through these strange waters. He began to think that the ability to unlock the mystery of these baffling lines and squiggles might be worthwhile.
Zahakis had a map on which he noted the progress of the Venjekar. When Skylan expressed an interest in learning about such means of navigation, Zahakis pointed out to Skylan where they were, where they were headed, where they had been. He showed Skylan his own homeland, tracing the route they had followed with his finger.
“What is the route you took to reach my homeland?” Skylan asked.
Zahakis glanced at Skylan sharply. Skylan kept his gaze fixed on the map, feigning interest, though to him it was nothing but scrawls and pictures.
“We sailed east from Oran and then north.”
The wind is blowing us south to Oran, Skylan considered. If we take back our ship, we would not have the wind. We will have to row and our numbers are few. We would have to sail close to land, make landfall every night. The voyage will be a long one, but we could manage.
“Raegar told me that men could find their way across the open sea using some sort of tools that take measurements of the stars or something like that,” said Skylan. “I didn’t believe him,” he added hastily, not wanting Zahakis to think him gullible.
“On the contrary, this time Raegar was telling you the truth,” said Zahakis. “I don’t understand the workings of such scientific instruments myself. They make little sense to me. The Legate is adept at their use. He takes readings daily and marks down our position on his charts.”
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