“The Empress was told by the Priest-General that an ogre fleet is sailing toward Sinaria. A hundred ships or more, all crammed with soldiers.”
“And how does the Priest-General know this?” asked Zahakis.
“His spies—priests who permitted themselves to be captured and enslaved by ogres so they could spy on them.”
Zahakis shook his head.
“I know. I thought the same. These spies transmit their messages through the Watchers, those wretches who sit in the Shrine of Aelon day and night staring into bowls of water.”
Skylan glanced sidelong at his guards to see if they were watching him. He was having trouble keeping his facial muscles from betraying his astonishment. He had heard about the ogre fleet from Wulfe, who claimed to have heard it from his oceanaids. Skylan had not believed such a ridiculous tale. But now it seemed the Southlanders did.
His guards were paying scant attention to him. Skylan remembered something Raegar had told him when his treacherous cousin had been pretending to be his friend. Raegar had been a slave in the Southland. He had lived many years as a slave.
“Slaves are held beneath contempt in Oran. They might as well be just another stick of furniture. Their masters think they are deaf, dumb, blind, and witless. Women entertain their lovers while their slaves stand at the side of the bed. Men plot to murder a rival as their slaves pour their wine. I could have ruined half the people in Sinaria with what I overheard when I was a house-slave.”
Having never expected to find himself in such a situation, Skylan had laughed at the stupidity of the Southlanders. He was not laughing now. Being a slave in the household of Acronis could have advantages. Skylan touched the amulet he wore around his neck as an apology to Torval for doubting him.
“Ogres are poor sailors,” said Zahakis. “They will never reach here. Their ships will all be sunk before they are halfway across the ocean.”
“Do not underestimate them. Remember that year after year, these ‘poor sailors’ have managed to cross the sea to raid our northern colonies,” said Acronis dryly.
Skylan could have provided confirmation of that. The ogres had sailed after him, following the Venjekar back to his homeland.
Acronis added something about the Priest-General having assured the Empress that Aelon would raise the seas to swallow up their foes.
Zahakis interrupted him. “Best change the subject, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, quite right, Commander,” said Acronis. “Thank you.”
Skylan at first feared they had caught him eavesdropping, but then he saw them both looking at something on the other side of the garden. Sighting the newcomer, Skylan understood why the two had abruptly ended their discussion.
An ogre was walking toward them. The ogre had a tattoo on his arm like Skylan’s.
Like all his kind, the ogre was immensely tall, standing head and shoulders over Skylan, which meant that he towered over the Southlanders. The ogre was in excellent physical condition; unusual for ogres, who disliked strenuous exertion of any kind and tended to run to flab. This ogre wore the customary ogre garb: leather breeches, held in place by a wide leather belt, stuffed into leather boots laced over massive calves. His well-muscled and hairy chest was bare, crisscrossed by a leather harness that, under normal circumstances, would have held the ogre’s weapons. In this instance, the harness was empty.
And, as with all ogres, the hulking body was topped by a bald head and a face that was soft and round and guileless as that of a human babe. His cheeks were plump, his mouth small, his eyes bright. Aware that their faces tended to inspire laughter, not fear, ogres made themselves look more ferocious by painting their heads, a practice that also denoted the ogre’s rank and place in society.
This ogre’s head was painted white with a black stripe running from the neck to the chin and another black stripe crossing the nose and cheeks. Skylan thought back to the time not long ago (though it seemed a hundred lifetimes) when the ogres had entered his village to tell them the gods of the Vindrasi were dead. Skylan had seen only two ogres with faces painted like this and they were the ogre commanders, known as godlords.
Skylan was consumed with curiosity, wondering what an ogre godlord was doing in Oran and how he had come to be a slave. That the godlord was a slave was obvious, not just from the tattoo on his arm, but by the way Acronis and Zahakis treated him. They waited for the ogre to come to them, instead of going to meet him, and even when he was standing next to them, they finished their conversation (which had turned to something inconsequential) before acknowledging the ogre’s presence.
The ogre stood patiently, looking about. Skylan had once considered ogres to be stupid brutes, lazy and dull-witted. He had learned to his sorrow that ogres were crafty, cunning, and intelligent. Heavy of girth and large-boned with broad shoulders and big bellies, ogres were of a naturally sedentary nature, which other races often mistook for laziness. They were not particularly skilled with weapons, having no need to be. They counted on their weight to overpower smaller foes.
Skylan recalled with painful clarity the hard-hitting ogre warriors smashing into the front lines of his shield wall. The wall had disintegrated, men crushed to bloody bits.
As he was thinking this, the ogre suddenly saw Skylan. He stared fixedly at him, plainly taking Skylan’s measure, eyeing him up and down. The ogres and the Vindrasi were ancient foes. Skylan scowled and stood straighter, making himself taller, and thrust out his chest and crossed his arms. He met the ogre’s gaze and looked him up and down.
The ogre chuckled, amused. Skylan burned with resentment. Zahakis and Acronis looked back at him, then the three began to discuss Skylan as though he was deaf. They spoke of him as a “hothead” and “youth.” Then Zahakis said, “He has some skill with a sword.”
“Some skill!” Skylan cried, blazing. “Give me a sword and we’ll see how much skill I have!”
Acronis gave a commanding gesture, and Skylan’s guard gripped him by the arm and led him around the hedge, down a path that ran beneath a trellis covered with grapevine. Skylan walked proudly, keeping his gaze fixed defiantly on the ogre.
“This is the leader of the Para Dix team. His name is Keeper of the Fire,” said Zahakis, performing introductions. “He will be your trainer for the game. Keeper, this is Skylan Ivorson.”
The ogre grunted and shook his head. “I trust he is smarter than he looks.”
Skylan tweaked his nose between his thumb and finger. “And I hope you are smarter than you smell.”
Keeper swung his arm. He could move quickly for an ogre. Skylan had no time to duck the huge fist that smashed into his jaw. He crashed backward into the flowering bush, snapping twigs and limbs. The thick foliage broke his fall and he sagged forward onto his hands and knees, spitting blood. He remained on the ground a moment, shaking his head groggily.
Keeper shook his head and opened his mouth to make another disparaging comment. Skylan leaped to his feet and drove his elbow deep into the ogre’s gut.
Keeper doubled over with a groan.
Dimly, through the buzzing in his ears, Skylan heard lilting, girlish laughter.
“Hah! Keeper, he got you good! He’s my champion!” Chloe called out. “My Skylan is going to be the best player in the city!”
The crippled girl had been moved from her bed to a couch in the atrium.
Skylan felt his skin burn in embarrassment. He glared at the ogre, expecting to see Keeper sneer in derision.
To his surprise, Keeper was eyeing Skylan with more respect. The ogre turned to the girl and made a clumsy bow.
“I will train this one and the others to be worthy of you, Mistress Chloe.”
“I know you will, Keeper,” said Chloe, smiling. “And though he is my new champion, you will still be my friend.”
The face paint made it difficult to tell, but Skylan could have sworn the ogre’s plump cheeks flushed in pleasure.
“And now, my dear,” said Acronis, going over to her, bending over her fondly, “you have had q
uite enough excitement for one day. Back to your bed.”
“Oh, but Papa, I want to watch!” Chloe protested.
“Perhaps tomorrow.” Acronis motioned to a fat, pasty-faced fellow with numerous chins. “Kakos, take Mistress Chloe to her bed.”
“Kakos, I am sure I heard a leg of lamb calling your name. You’d best go to the kitchen to see if you can find it,” said Chloe. She gestured at Skylan. “My new champion will carry me.”
“Absolutely not,” said Acronis, frowning. “Kakos, do as you are told.”
“Kakos, if you touch me with those clammy hands of yours I will give Cook orders that you are to be fed nothing but bread and water for a week,” Chloe countered.
Kakos, caught between his master and his diminutive mistress, did not know which to obey. Wringing his hands, he appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“He is covered in blood,” said Acronis in a low voice, remonstrating with his daughter.
“He can wash off in the fountain,” Chloe ordered, and she lay back on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. She obviously considered the matter settled.
Skylan thought nothing more could add to his shame. He could not look at the ogre. He was certain Acronis would never accede to his daughter’s demand and that was his only comfort.
“Get him cleaned up,” said Acronis.
Zahakis, his jaw tight with disapproval, hauled Skylan over to a pool. A statue of a boar spewed water from its mouth.
“Wash,” said Zahakis grimly, and when Skylan didn’t move fast enough, the Tribune roughly thrust his head under water and held him there just a bit too long.
When Zahakis finally released, Skylan, half-drowned, gasped and snorted and rose dizzily to his feet. He stood there dripping. The slave, Rosa, came running to him with a towel and mopped him dry, dabbing carefully at his bruised jaw and split lip.
“Remember the apple,” said Zahakis, and he shoved Skylan over to where Chloe reclined demurely on her couch, her useless legs covered with a silken cloth.
Skylan stood next to the girl, who was thin and frail, fragile as a baby bird, and did not know what to do with her. He was terrified that he would hurt her just by touching her. He stared down at her in helpless confusion, not knowing what to do.
Chloe looked up at him, unafraid, and laughed at his discomfiture. “I won’t break. I’m stronger than I look.” She reached up her arms to him, trusting as a child.
He awkwardly slid one arm around her back and his other arm beneath the lifeless legs and gathered her up, silken cloth and all. She clasped her hands around his neck and smiled at him. She was skin and bones and weighed next to nothing. He lifted her with ease.
“Keeper is a good trainer,” she told him as he carried her through the door, into the room to where her bed stood against the far wall. “He has been with my father for three years now and he is an expert Para Dix player. You will be the best, though. I know it. All the women in the city will envy me.”
He eased her down among the pillows.
“I am a little tired after all,” Chloe said. “I will rest now. Tell Rosa to shut the doors.”
As Skylan drew back, she caught hold of his hand. “You will come to me tomorrow morning. I want to hear how your training goes.”
Skylan mumbled something. Turning with relief to leave, he almost knocked over Zahakis, who had been standing right behind him. Rosa was shutting the doors that led outside, darkening the room. She ushered them out. Skylan glanced back to see Chloe nestling down among her pillows. She smiled at him, her gaze following him.
Skylan escaped into the atrium and drew in a deep breath, realizing only then that he’d been too afraid to breathe.
“You were gentle with her,” said Zahakis. He sounded surprised.
“What did you expect?” Skylan asked, rounding on him angrily. “Did you think I would strangle her? She is a child and she is sick. This may be hard for you to believe, but we barbarians have children and we love them as you love your children. I myself have buried three of my little brothers.”
He thought back to those little brothers. The babies had been born too soon and were too small to survive. He had held each of the tiny waxen bodies in his hands, commending their souls to Freilis, then laying them to rest. The last had been buried with Sonja, his stepmother, who had died in childbirth.
“I was going to help raise the little boys,” Skylan said, thinking back. “I was going to teach them to wield their swords. One day, they would stand beside me in the shield wall. My brothers. Their valor would make me proud.”
He sighed softly and shook his head. Seeing Zahakis staring at him, Skylan realized suddenly he’d spoken his thoughts aloud and he clamped his mouth shut.
His head throbbed, his jaw ached. He had not slept in many nights. He was worn out and he had an afternoon’s grueling training for this Para Dix. He had the feeling the training was going to be brutal. The ogre, Keeper, was rubbing his hands and grinning.
CHAPTER
9
* * *
BOOK TWO
At first, listening to Keeper’s explanation, Skylan thought the Para Dix was similar to a child’s game he and his friends had played as children known as Torval’s Mountain. One of them was the god Torval. He selected warriors from the Hall of Heroes and arranged them in a shield wall at the top of the hill. The other children played the Dragon Ilyrion, who formed her own shield wall to try to push Torval off his hill.
The game had been a favorite with Skylan and had usually ended in a general free-for-all with small boys and girls rolling down the hill, ending up dirty and tired and happy, with scraped knees.
The Para Dix involved ten warriors on one side and ten on another. The goal of each team was to seize the sacred fire, which blazed in a pit in the center, then protect it from the other team.
The game was immensely popular in Sinaria. The Para Dix was played in the large new arena—a gift from Aelon to the people. Wealthy men, such as Acronis, sponsored their own teams. The common people crowded onto the concrete benches that circled the arena. The nobility, shaded by umbrellas and cooled by feather fans, watched from boxes furnished with cushioned chairs.
The Para Dix had been played for centuries and, like Torval’s Mountain, symbolized the eternal battle waged by the gods for the world. Philosophers had once made the symbology of the game the subject of lectures, but that was prior to the coming of Aelon’s priests, who saw no need for philosophers or their lectures or the game. Aelon reigned supreme, unchallenged. There could be no doubt about that. No game must dare depict Aelon as weak.
Many years ago, the priests of Aelon had tried to shut down the Para Dix. The people of Oran did not much care about the loss of the old gods, but they cared passionately about the loss of their sport. Faced with rioting in the streets, the priests had resumed the game, bringing the Para Dix under the auspices of the Church. Aelon was now the hero god, valiantly defending the fire of creation from evil interlopers.
Aelon might have saved himself the trouble. Few Sinarians knew or cared about the religious symbology. All they cared about was whether their team won or lost. The Church had abolished the practice of gambling on the games; it was unseemly to be gambling on a god. The only change this brought about was that the gambling was taken over by the street gangs.
The Legate had built a replica of the playing field on his estate, and this was where Keeper took Skylan to begin his training. He explained that eventually all the Torgun would be players, but that Skylan, who had a crucial role to play in the game, would require extra training. Keeper explained the rules as they walked, an explanation to which Skylan paid little attention.
He heard the ogre say the game involved fighting and that was all Skylan needed to know. He paid no heed to the rest, something about moving from one square to another and how certain pieces could only move to certain squares and how the Legate would dictate his movements. All Skylan knew was that he was going to be given a sword.
&nbs
p; “You say the training involves fighting,” he said, interrupting the ogre in mid sentence.
“Yes,” said Keeper, eyeing him as though he knew what he was thinking.
“Then my people do not need training, especially from the likes of you,” said Skylan. “We know how to fight. I myself have been wielding a sword in the shield wall since I was fourteen. I once killed an ogre godlord.”
He cast a significant glance at this ogre godlord and added, “Single-handed.”
Keeper shrugged, not impressed. “You and your people are such great warriors, yet now you are marked with the tattoo of a slave.”
“Because of a damn traitor!” Skylan said angrily. “We were ambushed. My men were not even armed! If we could have fought these bastards, there would not have been one left standing!”
He glanced at the soldiers walking behind him and raised his voice so they would hear. “The Southlander whoresons are cowards, afraid to meet true warriors in battle!”
The soldiers were talking together and they continued their conversation, paying no heed to him.
“You are wasting your breath. They don’t even hear you,” said Keeper. “To them, you are a dog barking in the night.”
“A dog, am I?” said Skylan grimly. “Some day this dog will rip out their goddam throats!”
“I felt that same anger once,” said Keeper. “You’ll soon get over it. You are a Para Dix player. You will be well-treated. They will kill you with kindness, as the saying goes.”
Skylan recalled Zahakis’s words: You might even get to like it here.
“I don’t want to get over it! I don’t want to be like you, fat and content,” said Skylan. “You like being a slave. The Legate takes care of you, feeds you, clothes you—”
“I hate it!” Keeper ground out the words. His passion startled Skylan. The ogre looked far off in the distance and pointed. “In that direction lies my homeland. I have been a slave for many years. My mate must think me dead. She has likely found someone else to warm her bed. Another man may be raising my children.”
Secret of the Dragon Page 20