Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  As the heat rose in shimmering waves off the still water, Skylan sat in chains on the deck of his captured ship and stared in dazed amazement at the sights of the city known as Sinaria that was yet in the distance. Zahakis had said that the population of Oran’s capital city, Sinaria, was greater than the population of the entire Vindrasi nation.

  Skylan had, of course, not believed him.

  Now he stared at the rows upon rows upon rows of buildings made of stone and wood, stacked one atop the other, covering the sides of the hills, jutting from the tops of the hills, spreading into the valleys. Narrow streets, twisting like snakes, crawled up and down and slithered sideways among the buildings.

  The port was crowded with vessels of all types, from small fishing boats to merchant ships loaded with amphorae and passengers lounging on deck beneath awnings. The moment the war galley was sighted, boats put out from the shore, their occupants offering to sell everything from wine to food to whores, who brazenly showed their wares and called out the names of the streets on which they could be found.

  Warehouses lined the port. Wagons carried goods from the ships to the warehouses. When night fell, the wagons would roll into the city. The streets were so crowded and narrow that wagons were not permitted to enter the city until after dark. Behind the warehouses, guard towers constructed of wood rose at intervals from a high wooden fence that formed the port’s fortifications. The hot wind blowing from the land carried with it the stench of the docks, mingled with smells of smoke, fish, rotting garbage, refuse, and filth.

  “What are those buildings?” Skylan asked Zahakis, who had come on board the Venjekar along with a master seaman to undertake the tricky maneuvering of the broken ship in the crowded port.

  “Homes, shops, businesses,” Zahakis answered.

  Skylan stared, incredulous. “They look like the outbuildings we use to keep our pigs from wandering off.”

  “Your pigs probably fare better than those who live in those hovels,” said Zahakis. “Sometimes twenty people—the old, the young—are packed into a dwelling that consists of only a single room. They sleep there, eat there, cook there, rut there, die there.” His tone was grim and Skylan, glancing at him, saw the man’s face was dark.

  “Which is the Legate’s dwelling?”

  Zahakis gave a brief, mirthless laugh. He pointed off into the distance. “You see the muddy river water that pours into the sea over there? That is the River Cydron. Sail up that river and eventually you will come to Acronis’s grand estate. That is where you will be living.”

  “Not living. I will be a slave,” said Skylan.

  Zahakis shook his head. “You think yourself ill-used, young man, but when you walk the streets of Sinaria, you will realize you are fortunate to be a slave of the Legate and not one of the poor devils forced to live in the city’s slums. At least the Legate will see to it that you do not starve, that you are not knifed in a fight over a rotten cabbage, that you do not have to teach your sons to steal or prostitute your daughters for food.”

  Zahakis stood gazing at the slums, his jaw working, his eyes shadowed with pain.

  “You wonder why I am loyal to the Legate,” Zahakis said suddenly. He nodded in the direction of the city. “Acronis saved me from that life. I was nine years old. I tried to rob him. He could have killed me on the spot. Other men would have done so and not given it a second thought. Acronis took me to his fine house. He fed me and clothed me. He located my family and sent them to one of his farms where there was work. When he returned to the provinces, I went with him. He saw to it that I learned to read and write. I joined his legion, when I was old enough, and, although I had his favor, he made me sweat my way through the ranks. That is why I am loyal to Acronis and why I will be loyal to him to my death.”

  Zahakis leaned on the rail. “No crops grow on those hills. Only misery.”

  “What about your ruler?” Skylan asked.

  Zahakis gave a snorting laugh. “The Imperial guard dare not set foot on many of those streets. They are ruled by gangs whose leaders hold more sway over the populace than does our newly crowned Empress. The gangs could take over the city if they wanted. They don’t. There’s no profit in it.”

  “Why doesn’t this god of yours, this Aelon, do something to help his people?” Skylan asked.

  “Aelon is no god of mine,” Zahakis said grimly. “Still, I have to give him credit. He did try to clean up the city. One night a fire swept through the tenements located on the north side of the river. The fire consumed block after block, moving so fast people had no time to flee. Thousands died, including Raegar’s wife and children. Aelon’s priests claim that the fire was sent by the god, a cleansing fire, to burn away the sins of the people.”

  “And you call us barbarians,” Skylan muttered.

  Zahakis gave a thin-lipped smile. “There will come a reckoning. Even now the pot simmers. Someday it will boil over.” He remained silent a moment, then shook his head and continued pointing out the sights of his city. “You see those twin hills there. The building on the hill hiding behind those great stone walls is the Imperial palace. Our new Empress and her family live there in that complex. The very grandiose building on the hill opposite is the Shrine of Aelon. There used to be a temple of the old gods on the site, but Aelon’s priests tore it down. The old temple was lovely: white marble, surrounded on all sides by a columned portico, simple and elegant. Aelon demanded something more splendid.

  “The Shrine of Aelon is surmounted by a golden dome. The sunlight reflects off the dome with such brilliance that it seems to be another sun come down from the sky to grace our city. Even at night, the dome of the shrine continues to shine, its light brighter than the moon. People who live near it claim it is so bright they can’t sleep.”

  Skylan listened in wonder. He had never heard words such as “slum” or “palace,” “Imperial” or “Empress.” He stared until his eyes ached at the Shrine of Aelon and its surrounding gardens and fountains and the other structures that dotted the hillside, white against the green of the clipped lawn. He could not comprehend such wealth, such magnificence. The Hall of Vindrash, which was the largest and most beautiful building Skylan had ever seen, could be dropped down whole into the Shrine of Aelon and go unnoticed.

  Skylan could not comprehend such wretched poverty either.

  We may not build such grand and imposing structures, but we do not let our children grow up in pigsties, he thought.

  The Light of the Sea crept forward at a crawl, mainly to avoid running down the flotilla of boats that had swarmed out to greet her. Some of these now brought men of prominence, who came on board to speak to Acronis. Skylan thought they must be merchants or nobles, but Zahakis laughed and said that, no, they were fellow scientists, eager to hear about his voyage. He pointed to Raegar, who stood apart, frowning at them in haughty disapproval.

  “The priests do not approve of thinking,” said Zahakis wryly. “People who think begin to question. Aelon does not like questions.”

  “You speak of the old gods,” Skylan said, eyeing Raegar balefully. “What were they like?”

  “From what you have told me, our old gods were much like yours,” said Zahakis. He shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps our gods were your gods. Just called by different names.”

  Before Skylan could make a cutting remark, Zahakis was hailed by Acronis’s scribe, shouting from the deck of the trireme.

  The ship dropped anchor at last, some distance from the docks. Word of their arrival had spread, including word that they had brought back a dragonship filled with barbarians. Raegar had gone ashore, saying he had to report to the Priest-General.

  While he was gone, Aylaen transferred to the war galley at Raegar’s insistence. She argued against going, but not very hard, Skylan noted. He could not blame her. She had lived alone in the hold on board the Venjekar and undoubtedly missed her sister, unworthy as that sister was. Treia waited impatiently for Aylaen and, putting her arms around her, hustled her belowdecks.
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  Raegar was gone for almost the entire day, returning at night with word that the Empress had decreed that a parade would be held in the Legate’s honor, the chief feature of which would be the fearsome dragonship he had captured. Unfortunately, the Venjekar, to the Legate’s vast disappointment, did not look all that fearsome.

  Carpenters from the Light of the Sea had worked diligently throughout much of the voyage to try to restore the dragonhead prow. For some reason that they could not explain, whenever they tried to mount the dragon’s head on the stump of the prow, the head fell off.

  The first time, the head of the Dragon Kahg splashed into the sea and had to be fished out. The attempt to retrieve it cost the Legate a day’s sailing. The second time, the head toppled onto the deck, nearly killing the carpenter’s son. The carpenter told Acronis he could not work properly while they were at sea. He would mount the dragon’s head once the ship reached land.

  The stubborn refusal of the Dragon Kahg to cooperate did much to lift the spirits of the captive Torgun. Skylan knew what his friend, Garn, would have said. That the prow was only a piece of wood carved to resemble a dragon, that it did not have a mind or a will of its own, that a log could not rebel.

  Skylan honored Garn’s memory, but he knew in this regard his friend was wrong. Perhaps somewhere the Dragon Kahg was being held captive. Perhaps the dragon was fighting back the only way he could. The wooden eyes of the dragon no longer seemed empty.

  “Don’t give up,” the eyes seemed to say.

  The ship behaved sluggishly and erratically, much to the frustration of Zahakis, who could not understand what difference the loss of the decorative prow could make to the sailing of the ship.

  “This proves our dragon is not dead,” Skylan told him.

  “It proves the Legate hired bad carpenters,” said Zahakis.

  Despite this disappointment in the matter of the dragon’s head, Acronis was pleased with the spectacle he was going to give the people. Raegar demanded the honor of carrying the head of the dragon, insisting that Aelon had prevented the head from being mounted on the ship. The Legate told Zahakis, with some amusement, that he did not see why Aelon had the right to ruin his parade, but if Raegar wanted to walk miles in the heat carrying the heavy head, who was he to argue?

  Acronis would ride in his chariot with an honor guard of his soldiers, marching in formation. The men had spent the long days at sea polishing their armor and helms to a blinding sheen. With them marched the rowers, a reward for their hard and back-breaking labor. The Venjekar, mounted on wheels, would be hauled through the city by the Torgun warriors. The two captive barbarian women would be displayed with the ship.

  Zahakis explained to the Torgun warriors what they were going to do. The men listened with disdain, their eyes staring out across the water, refusing to acknowledge the man’s existence. That ploy didn’t work for long.

  When the Torgun heard they were to drag their beloved ship past gawking crowds, they were enraged.

  “We will die first!” Sigurd cried.

  Zahakis pointed to the Light of the Sea. The men turned to see Aylaen and Treia standing on the deck, an armed soldier beside them. So that was why they had taken Aylaen.

  “We hold your women hostage,” said Zahakis.

  “Our women will die as well!” Sigurd said angrily.

  “In that case,” said Zahakis, his calm voice overriding the tumult, “I will have you chained to the hull of the ship and you will be whipped through the streets of Sinaria. Think about it.”

  He walked off, leaving the Torgun in an uproar, swearing that they would let their skin be flayed from their bones before they would give in. Skylan was as angry as the rest. The thought of being put on display, like a fat sow at the market, made his gorge rise.

  They won’t have to kill me, he spoke to himself. I will die of shame.

  Zahakis, passing close by him, paused to say, out of the corner of his mouth, “I think you should know that Raegar is hoping your men will refuse. The guards who will be walking the streets with you will be warrior-priests, like himself. If you and the others do not obey, they have orders to beat you to death.”

  “Your Legate wants us alive,” said Skylan, frowning, his anger burning. “I’ve heard the two of you talking. He wants us to fight for him in some game.”

  Zahakis stopped and, under pretext of adjusting the ties on his boots, said softly and quietly, “Acronis won’t have anything to say about it. He will be riding at the end of the procession. You will be with the warrior-priests. For some reason, Aelon wants you dead.”

  Zahakis straightened. “If it were me, I wouldn’t give the god the satisfaction.”

  “Why do you care what happens to us?” Skylan demanded.

  “Damned if I know,” Zahakis muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at Skylan and shrugged. “We have a saying here, young man, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ ”

  He walked off, heading back to the Light of the Sea to continue his preparations for landing.

  Skylan pondered the man’s words. He didn’t understand what was going on. The nature of the animosity between Acronis and this god, Aelon, was beyond Skylan. He didn’t really give a rat’s ass anyway. Let their serpents devour them all. What he did know was that he might be able to use this animosity between the Legate and Raegar to his benefit.

  Provided they stayed alive.

  Skylan listened to the men raving and raging and he gave an inward sigh. He, the wild, impetuous, never-look-before-you-leap Skylan Ivorson, was going to be the voice of calm reason. In Torval’s Hall, Garn was laughing.

  Skylan drew in a breath. He was about to make himself very unpopular.

  “I say we do it,” said Skylan. “We obey the Legate’s orders.”

  “Bah!” Sigurd shrugged. “All know you are yellow as dog piss.”

  “We are Torgun,” said Skylan sharply. “We are prisoners in the city of our foes. Do you want us to enter this city as slaves, hauled through the streets, driven by the whipmaster?”

  Sigurd sneered and turned away, muttering to his buddy, Grimuir. Bjorn looked thoughtful, however; his brother uneasy. The rest at least decided to hear Skylan out.

  “Would you enter this city as a slave or will you walk through the ranks of our foes proud with your head held high and songs of defiance on your lips?” Skylan asked.

  Sigurd scoffed at them. “Don’t listen to this barking pup. Go lick Zahakis’s ass, Skylan, and leave us men alone.”

  “I want to hear him,” said Farinn, quietly defiant.

  “I am Chief,” said Sigurd angrily.

  “And this is a council meeting,” returned Bjorn. “All have the right to speak. Go on, Skylan.”

  “Look at us.” Skylan lifted his manacled hands. “We stink like pigs. Our beards are long. Our hair is filthy and matted. What do we look like? What do we smell like?”

  “Slaves,” said Erdmun.

  “We look and smell like slaves. I say we show these Southlanders that although they have chained our feet, they can never chain our souls.”

  The others nodded at this. Even Sigurd quit scowling.

  “What is your plan?” Bjorn asked.

  Skylan explained. The others listened and looked at Sigurd. “I guess it might work,” he said grudgingly.

  “I like it better than being whipped to death,” Erdmun said in a low voice to his brother.

  That night, when Zahakis came back on board, Skylan met him on deck.

  “We will do what you ask,” Skylan said. “We will haul our ship through the streets.”

  “You’re a clever bastard,” said Zahakis. “How did you get Graybeard to go along? Last I heard, he was all for dying just to spite us.”

  “I want something in return,” said Skylan.

  Zahakis snorted. “Slaves don’t bargain.”

  Skylan shrugged. “Your Legate wants to impress the people. If you grant our request, we will put on a show that the populace will be talking about for m
onths.”

  “What do you want?” Zahakis asked, a smile flitting over his lips. “Your weapons? You tried that once and we fell for it. We’re not likely to do that again.”

  “We want to take a bath,” said Skylan.

  Zahakis looked startled. He started to laugh, then stopped, for he saw that Skylan was in earnest. Zahakis eyed Skylan suspiciously. “What are you up to, young man?”

  “Do you want live slaves or dead ones?” Skylan countered.

  “I will speak to the Legate,” said Zahakis.

  Skylan heard laughter and glanced back at his comrades. Sigurd was grinning at him. He said something in a low voice to Grimuir, who gave a snigger.

  Skylan turned away. In death, valiant heroes meet in Torval’s Hall, friends and enemies alike. A man who dies in combat will share a drink with the honorable foe who killed him.

  I will drink with Zahakis in the afterlife, Skylan determined. I will slug Sigurd.

  Zahakis crossed the gangplank to the Light of the Sea. The galley rode at anchor, waiting to sail into the harbor tomorrow in triumph.

  Zahakis found the Legate in his small office, planning his triumphal entry. Acronis’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “They want to what?”

  “Bathe, my lord.”

  Acronis shook his head. “This is a strange request. They are plotting something.”

  “Of course they are, though I admit I do not know what, unless they plan to try to swim for freedom.”

  “Skylan may be clever, but he is not foolhardy, nor is he stupid. He must know that any attempt by his warriors to try to flee will be hopeless. We hold his womenfolk hostage and I’ve seen the way he looks at the red-haired beauty. He is hopelessly in love with her. He would never leave her behind. And if these barbarians did somehow manage to escape, where could they go? With their blond hair and blue eyes, they could not very well lose themselves in the crowd.”