Treia paused, waiting for Xydis’s reaction to her words. He gave a perceptible start. His brows raised. His eyes widened.
“You are saying that these dragons are made of the essence of the Creator. These dragons are . . .” He stopped, thunderstruck, and stared at Treia.
“The Vektan dragons are not true dragons. They merely take the form of dragons. They were born of creation,” said Treia. “They are the embodiment of creation. Whoever controls the Five gains the power to create whatever he wants—life, moons, stars, suns . . .”
Raegar was not impressed. “What does Aelon need with a dragon for that? He is all powerful.”
“No,” said Treia, “he is not.”
“You speak heresy—” Raegar began, his face red.
“Oh, shut up, Raegar,” said Xydis impatiently. “Proceed, Bone Priestess.”
“One day Aelon will be worshipped by every person on this world,” Treia said. “But even then, Aelon will never be the true ruler of this world. The old gods, the Gods of Vindrasi, will always rule.”
“These old gods are too weak to rule a dunghill!” said Xydis, scoffing.
Treia shook her head. “You may weaken them. You might even manage to slay them, as you did the Goddess Desiria. But the old gods can never be destroyed so long as they still control the Vektan dragons—the power of creation.”
“Aelon is all powerful!” Raegar repeated angrily. He looked to Xydis for confirmation, and when Xydis did not respond, Raegar faltered. “Isn’t he?”
Xydis remained silent.
He knows the truth, thought Treia. He doesn’t want to admit it. The truth is that these wandering gods such as Aelon and the Gods of Raj are trying to take over this world because they lack the power to create worlds of their own.
Xydis took out his frustration on Raegar. “You should have told me this bone was of such immense value!”
“I did not know, Priest-General,” Raegar said.
“He could not have known, Worshipful Sir,” said Treia, coming to her lover’s defense. “Not many of the Vindrasi know the truth about the Vektan dragons. One person knows the secret to the ritual used to summon the dragons into being. That person is the Kai Priestess. She keeps her secret until she passes it on to her successor when she is on her deathbed. At that time, she tells the new Kai Priestess the ritual.”
Xydis regarded her intently. “Where is this Kai Priestess now?”
“She is dead, Worshipful Sir. She died before she could tell anyone the secret of the ritual.”
Xydis eyed her shrewdly. “Then how do you know so much about the Vektan dragons?”
“Draya talked to the Goddess Vindrash,” said Treia. “They had a very close relationship. She took all her problems to the goddess, talked to her incessantly. And I was there with her, a novice, for servant.”
Treia did not conceal the bitterness in her voice. Even after all these years, she remembered the bone-numbing cold, the mind-numbing boredom.
“I was forced to wait on the Kai Priestess, forced to listen to her discussions. I had to kneel beside her on the floor, shivering, my knees bruised and aching. I heard everything she said. She talked often of the Vektan Five; of the great dragon, Ilyria; of the power of creation. She wanted to know if there was some way to use this power to ease the suffering of our people.”
“And you heard all this,” said Xydis. “Even though it was supposed to be secret.”
“I was just a child,” Treia said, shrugging. “Draya probably thought I wouldn’t understand. But I did understand. I often imagined, as I knelt there on the hard floor, that I was the Kai Priestess and I had control of one of the Vektan dragons. The first thing I would have done was order it to kill Draya.”
Raegar coughed and frowned. Treia thought she had perhaps gone too far and she cast a nervous glance at the Priest-General. He was gazing intently at the spiritbone and seemed not to have heard.
“You say there are five of these dragons and each had its own spiritbone,” Xydis said abruptly. “We have one. Where are the other four?”
“I know where to find two of them,” said Treia. “You have one. The ogres have another.”
“Ogres!” Xydis exclaimed, aghast.
“Blessed Aelon!” Raegar said in a low tone. “I had forgotten about that. This is a calamity.”
Xydis stared intently at Treia. “You are saying, Priestess, that the ogres have one of the Vektan bones?”
“Yes,” she said. “They stole the bone . . . It is a long story. . . .”
“The ogres worship our foes, the Gods of Raj. And now the ogres have one of these powerful dragons in their possession.” Xydis glanced at Raegar. “You are thinking what I am thinking.”
“Now we know the reason why the ogre army is sailing to invade Sinaria,” Raegar said grimly.
Treia was appalled. “Ogres? Coming to Sinaria?”
“We have been wondering why the ogres would think they are powerful enough to attack Sinaria,” Xydis explained. “Now we know. They have a Vektan dragon.”
“They are coming here?” Treia asked. “How do you know?”
“We have spies in the ogre kingdom,” Xydis said. “They reported to the Watchers that the ogre fleet set sail over a fortnight ago. There was great celebration. Their shamans spoke openly of attacking Sinaria, made sacrifices to their gods.”
Xydis held his hand over the spiritbone, as he might have held his hand over a fire to warm himself.
“Would the two Vektan dragons fight each other?” he asked.
Treia shivered at the thought. “The only time a Kai Priestess tried to summon one of these dragons, Worshipful Sir, she could not control it. The dragon went on a rampage, killing any living thing in its path. Hundreds, maybe a thousand Vindrasi died. Entire clans were wiped out.”
“That does not answer my question,” said Xydis, displeased.
Treia trembled, not at his displeasure. She knew what was coming and she was braced for it. “These dragons are forces of nature, Worshipful Sir. Does the hurricane care about the ships it sinks? Does the volcano weep for those who die in its fiery lava flows? These dragons have no care for anything, much less each other. The thought of two of them battling—”
“We must chance it,” said Xydis. He clasped both hands behind his back. “You heard your Kai Priestess talk of these Vektan dragons. Therefore I assume you know the ritual to summon such a powerful being.”
Treia shook her head. “I fear I do not, Worshipful Sir. The ritual is a secret the Kai Priestess guards very closely. Draya never spoke of it.”
“But you know the ritual to summon other, lesser dragons,” Xydis argued. “They must be the same.”
“Even if the ritual is the same, which I doubt, there would be secret parts to it that only the Kai Priestess would know.”
Xydis pondered this, then smiled. He had a solution.
“You are a Bone Priestess. Go to your goddess, pray to her, convince her to tell you.”
Treia said nothing.
“You can do this, my love,” said Raegar, prodding her.
Treia remained silent.
Xydis drew close to her, spoke to her softly, intimately, using her name. “You must discover the secret, Treia. We need the Vektan dragon to fight the ogres. Here is the spiritbone. Imagine yourself summoning the dragon, sending it to do battle with our foes. Imagine yourself, the heroine of Sinaria. All of Oran would be at your feet!”
Treia could imagine. She saw herself lauded, showered with wealth such as what was in this treasure vault. She would have a palace, every comfort. She saw the Priest-Mother and those giggling novices bowing before her. She saw, most importantly, Raegar as her adoring husband. She would achieve this, but she had to do it her way.
“It would be my honor to serve you, Worshipful Sir,” said Treia in regretful tones, her heart beating fast. “But I cannot do what you ask. I cannot pray to Vindrash.”
“Of course, you can!” said Raegar angrily. “Priest-General,
let me talk with Treia. She can be stubborn, but I will convince her—”
Xydis raised his hand. He did not take his eyes from Treia. “Why not?”
“During the time Raegar and I have been together, Worshipful Sir, he has told me of the glories and blessings of Aelon. The god has shed his light upon me. I am a devoted follower of Aelon. The dragon goddess will not heed my prayers. Vindrash has turned her back on me.”
Xydis almost smiled. Poor Raegar was gulping and floundering and flopping about, trying to find some way out of this predicament. He had done his job of converting her well, far too well.
Treia came to her lover’s rescue. Before she was finished with Raegar, he would be deeply in her debt.
“The goddess will speak to my sister, Aylaen,” said Treia.
CHAPTER
6
* * *
BOOK TWO
The same morning Treia had been awakened by the bells to attend morning prayers, Skylan also woke early. The sun reddened the eastern sky, but the sunlight would be short-lived this day. The storms of last night had moved out, but rain clouds again gathered on the horizon. He wondered what had become of Wulfe and was determined to find out. Meanwhile, the Torgun had work to do. Ignoring the burning pain of the wound on his arm, he walked the deck of the Venjekar, yanking off blankets and ordering the warriors to wake up.
“My arm hurts,” Erdmun grumbled, snatching back his blanket. “At least if I’m asleep I can forget the pain.”
“I don’t want you to forget it,” said Skylan grimly. “I don’t want you to forget the pain or who is responsible. This day may bring a chance for us to escape. And if not this day, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, the day after. Whenever that chance comes, we need to take advantage of it. So on your feet, sluggard. We are going to see to it that our ship is in readiness.”
Bjorn grabbed hold of his brother’s blanket and gave it a tug, rolling Erdmun out onto the deck. The others laughed and yawned and grimaced at the pain and stretched. Aylaen rose and went off alone to perform her ablutions.
“Repairing the ship is a good plan,” Sigurd said. “I was going to give the order myself.”
“Of course you were,” said Skylan.
Clouds rolled in, obscuring the sun. Morning dawned cool, gray, and drizzly. The villa that stood on the hilltop was blotted out by the mist rising from the river. Sigurd stood on the deck, gazing northward.
“I think about my two sons,” he said suddenly. “They are of an age to stand in the shield wall. I was training them for war. They are good boys, but they are not ready. And now who will teach them?”
He sighed deeply and shook his head.
Skylan was startled. The dour Sigurd was never one to share his feelings. Sigurd saw Skylan’s sympathetic look and the older man’s expression hardened. He was clearly sorry he had spoken.
“I am the one in charge,” he said harshly. “You will follow my orders, not give orders of your own.”
Skylan shrugged. Sigurd seemed disappointed that Skylan had given way so easily. Perhaps he was hungering for a fight. Perhaps, like Skylan, he felt the need to lash out.
“I am Chief. I drew first blood. Someday, you must accept that,” Sigurd said.
“Someday,” Skylan said, and then he grinned. “But not this day.” He looked at Sigurd and, to his astonishment, Sigurd grinned back.
The first task of the Torgun would be to reattach the dragonhead prow. The Legate’s carpenters had failed, but they did not know this ship. Skylan and Sigurd and Aki, who had worked for some time as a carpenter and shipbuilder, studied the prow and discussed ways to mount it.
The prow had been carved from a single piece of wood. The break was clean, as though the beast’s neck had snapped off at the shoulders. Aki conceived the idea of carving a peg into the bottom of the “neck,” drilling a hole into the “shoulders,” and then fitting the peg into the hole.
This would be a temporary repair. When they returned to their homeland, they would build a new ship to honor the Dragon Kahg. When Erdmun said something about the dragon being dead, Sigurd set him to scrubbing the decks.
The soldiers had hauled away the sea chest containing the weapons, but they had left behind the tools. The Torgun set to work. Aylaen brought food: bread (soggy from the rain), goat cheese, and the olives that were a part of every meal.
At about midday, with the work on the prow going slowly, Sigurd decreed they should stop. They needed to keep in training for the day when they would have to fight.
The Vindrasi warriors did not generally train as a unit, not like the Southlanders, as Skylan had learned from talking to Zahakis. Skylan had listened with considerable skepticism to the Tribune explaining how he drilled his soldiers, taught them to march and fight in formations that could wheel and shift upon the battlefield to match the flow of the action. He talked of siege towers filled with men rolling up to the walls of great cities, machines that could hurl globs of fire.
He had thought Zahakis was making most of this up until he had seen the city of Sinaria and the wall that surrounded it and the walls within the walls that guarded the palace and the Temple. He had watched Zahakis’s soldiers march in lockstep, performing complicated maneuvers, showing off their skills in the parade. At one point they had closed ranks to form a compact square. Those on the outside of the square locked their shields together, while those in the center raised their shields over their heads, forming what Zahakis called the “turtle.”
“Protects from spears and arrows,” Zahakis had explained, and Skylan had watched and marveled.
Skylan took his place alongside Bjorn and waited to hear what Sigurd had planned. Since the Torgun had no weapons and could not practice with sword and shield, Sigurd proposed wrestling matches between the men. Sigurd paired them off and had them practice throws and holds. At first, their participation was half-hearted.
But soon, as the matches started, the blood warmed and spirits rose. The warriors began to enjoy the competition, though it soon became apparent that the long period of forced inactivity aboard ship had taken its toll. Their muscles had grown flabby and weak, their skills diminished. Erdmun, who had never before been able to beat anyone in wrestling, took down Grimuir, much to Erdmun’s elation.
Sigurd bullied and harangued and shamed them. He and Skylan fought a few rounds. Some Skylan won and some Sigurd won. The fight ended in a draw. No one cheered for Skylan, but he had the feeling that was because no one wanted to offend Sigurd. The cheers came at the end, when both men stood up, sweating and breathing hard, and shook hands.
Aylaen held herself apart, watching with an envious expression. Vindrasi women often held wrestling matches among themselves, and Aylaen had always enjoyed the sport. A woman wrestling a man was considered unseemly. She was the one who saw the soldiers approaching, and she called out a warning.
Skylan looked up the hill to see Zahakis, accompanied by four archers and eighteen soldiers, all of them armed. By the grim expression on the Tribune’s face, something was wrong.
Zahakis gestured to his soldiers. “You men, search the ship and those tents.”
The archers stood in front of the Torgun with bows raised, ready to shoot. Skylan wondered what this was about. The soldiers entered the tents and almost immediately came back out. They took more time searching the ship, going down into the hold, opening up the sea chests.
“The boy!” Zahakis said, staring around at the warriors. “Where is he?”
Skylan was startled. “I was going to ask you the same thing. The last I saw, Raegar’s men were hauling Wulfe off to prison.”
“They never made it,” said Zahakis. “If you have the boy, Skylan, hand him over.”
“He’s not here,” said Skylan. “I have not seen him. What do you mean, ‘they never made it’? What happened to Wulfe?”
Zahakis turned to the rest of the Torgun. “If you men are lying or trying to hide him, it will go bad with you. With all of you.”
The men glanced at ea
ch other and said nothing.
Zahakis eyed them, then turned to Aylaen. “Have you seen him?”
Aylaen shook her red curls. “I saw Raegar take him away. I have not seen him since.”
Skylan was growing exasperated. “I tell you that Wulfe is not here. What has happened to him?”
Zahakis was watching his soldiers. The two who had gone into the hold came back up, shaking their heads.
“The two guards were found dead,” said Zahakis grimly. “Weltering in their own blood. Their throats had been slashed, their faces mauled so that it was hard to recognize them. One of the men had his arm torn off at the shoulder.”
“And the boy?” Skylan asked in fear, his heart constricting. He had not realized until now how much he had come to care for the waif he’d found on that ill-fated voyage to the Druid Isles. “What about him? Was he hurt?”
“The boy is missing. Raegar accuses Wulfe of murdering his guards.”
Skylan stared at the man. He looked back at the other Torgun, who were slack-jawed in amazement. Then the warriors gave a great roar of laughter.
“You know our secret. Wulfe is our most valiant warrior,” said Skylan. “When we go into battle, we send the boy out first to do the killing. We men just come along behind him to mop up.”
Zahakis was not amused. “I saw the bodies of those men, what was left. I have seen men hacked to pieces on the field of battle and not blenched. But I will remember this horror to the day I die. It was not some gang or roving band of thieves murdered those men. It was some fiend of hell. Or rather, some beast from hell. We found bloody paw prints all around the bodies.”
“Because his name is ‘Wulfe’ you have let your imagination run away with you,” said Skylan. He was starting to grow angry. “The boy may be lying dead somewhere and you waste time accusing him of murdering two grown men, ripping off their arms!”
“What do you know about this boy?” Zahakis asked.
“He is an orphan I took in,” said Skylan. “I know nothing about him except that he claims to be the son of a faery princess.”
Secret of the Dragon Page 18