Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Once there, Skylan stopped, turned. The lemur did not follow him. The ghost wavered in the entryway like a curtain of fog. He was safe, but his friends were still in there, trapped in the catacombs, forced by the spirits to fight each other to the death.

  “A dead end,” said Sigurd. “Literally.”

  Skylan turned to see the older man sitting up, wiping blood from his face. His eyes were back to normal, except that they were dark, shadowed with terror.

  “What happened?” Skylan asked. “How can I stop the ghosts?”

  Sigurd shook his head. “All I remember is a pale hand touching me and the next thing I knew all I wanted to do was kill those who dared disturbed my rest.”

  “If it was a trap, it wasn’t Treia’s doing,” said Aylaen defensively. “She didn’t know!”

  “She knew,” said Wulfe. “She was here, watching. She and Raegar.”

  “Raegar? Where?” Skylan asked grimly.

  “They’re not here now. They both ran off. They left because of the ogres.”

  “Ogres . . .” Skylan said, startled. “What about the ogres?”

  “They’re coming in ships,” said Wulfe. “Tonight.”

  “Keeper, did you hear that!” Skylan said, excited.

  Keeper snorted and shook his head.

  “You can ask the other woman,” Wulfe said. “She’s still in there.”

  “What other woman?”

  “The one who is talking to the dead.”

  “It might be a Spirit Priestess,” said Aylaen. “Like the one who summoned Garn. Raegar said they have power over the dead. Where is she, Wulfe? Can you see her?”

  “She’s hiding in the bushes,” said Wulfe. He sniffed the air. “I can’t see her, but I can smell her.”

  “We’ll find her,” said Skylan. “If she has power over the dead, she can stop this attack. Keeper, come with me. Aylaen—”

  Searing pain tore through Skylan’s arm. He felt as though someone had torn open his skin and reached inside to rip out the muscles and shatter his bones. His hand went into spasms. He dropped his sword and doubled over, moaning, pressing his burning arm into his stomach. Sigurd was screaming and rolling on the ground. Keeper clutched his arm and bellowed in pain and rage. Only Aylaen, free of the tattoo of Aelon, was unaffected. She hovered near them, helpless.

  “What can I do?”

  “Go with . . . Wulfe!” Skylan gasped. He had to fight the god for every word. Sweat rolling down his face, he said harshly, “Find the priestess, Wulfe. You know how.”

  Wulfe stared at him, then he started to tremble and shook his head violently.

  “Find her,” said Skylan, through gritted teeth. “Find her!”

  Still Wulfe hesitated. He looked at Skylan, who was in pain, and the boy’s lips parted in a strange, tight-lipped smile. He dropped down on all fours and began to run as Aylaen had seen him run many times before. Except that now, as he ran, the hair on his arms and legs began to grow long. His awkward and ungainly scrabbling on hands and feet changed into a graceful, ground-eating lope. His teeth sharpened to fangs; his mouth expanded, widened; his tongue lolled; his muscles hardened.

  The wolf loped down the path. He went only a short distance, stopped, and put his nose to the ground. He ran about, sniffing, then raised his head. Ears pricked. He had found the trail. He bounded off into the darkness.

  Aylaen could not move. She could only stand, staring.

  “Follow him!” Skylan urged. He gave a ragged cry and sagged to his knees. “Don’t let him . . . kill . . .”

  The wolf came back, ran straight at Aylaen. The wolf was young, scrawny. He stopped short of her, growled and jerked his head, then turned and trotted off a short distance. Stopping again, he looked back at her and jerked his head again.

  Aylaen understood. He wanted her to follow.

  She forced her numb feet to move. Hampered by the tangle of undergrowth, she could not travel as fast as the wolf, or as silently. The wolf led her to the old shrine.

  The floor was striped, black and silver, with moonlight and shadows. Aylaen tried to keep out of the light and hugged the shadows, but the woman must have seen something that alarmed her. Aylaen heard the woman’s long skirts swishing through dead leaves.

  The wolf lifted his head, growled softly, and dashed off in pursuit. Mindful of Skylan’s warning, Aylaen ran after him. The wolf easily caught up with her. The woman cried out in terror, and Aylaen recognized her voice. Semelon—the woman who held Garn’s soul captive.

  The wolf’s jaws gaped, tongue lolled. Semelon saw the wolf almost on her and screamed and raised her arms in front of her face. The wolf jumped, knocking her to the ground. Aylaen lost sight of both of them.

  “Don’t hurt her! Wulfe, don’t hurt her!”

  Aylaen yelled frantically. Aylaen found Semelon curled into a ball on the ground, her eyes squinched tightly shut. Wulfe, in boy form, crouched on his haunches a short distance from her, panting hard, his sides heaving.

  “I did what you asked,” he said. “I didn’t hurt her.”

  Aylaen kept a nervous eye on him and knelt down beside the priestess.

  “The wolf is gone. You’re safe,” she said.

  Semelon shrieked and struck at Aylaen with her fists.

  Aylaen grabbed her wrists. “You’re safe! Open your eyes!”

  Semelon’s eyes flared open. She stared at Aylaen and then at the boy crouching in the weeds.

  “The boy is fae! A man-beast. You must kill him, quickly, before he changes and kills us both—”

  “He won’t kill us both,” said Aylaen. She took hold of the priestess and dragged her to her feet. “He will kill you. Unless you do what I say.”

  Semelon regarded her with horror. “You are in league with evil!”

  Aylaen glanced sidelong at Wulfe, who was watching both her and Semelon. Swallowing her horror, Aylaen seized the priestess and dragged her through the garden back toward the catacombs. Moonlight glinted off the bronze door.

  Aylaen feared Skylan and the others would still be caught in the grip of the god. She was astonished and pleased to find them on their feet, flexing their hands and looking confused.

  Sigurd gave a grunt. “One moment Aelon is tearing off my arm and the next he is gone. What is going on?”

  “The god has more pressing matters to attend to,” said Skylan. “And so do we.”

  He turned his grim gaze on the priestess and pointed toward the catacombs. “Free my men!”

  “Your friends angered the lemures by disturbing their rest,” said Semelon. “There is nothing I can do—”

  “She is lying,” Aylaen said harshly. “I saw her work her magic. She summoned Garn. She holds his spirit prisoner—”

  “I am not the one who keeps him bound to this world,” said Semelon.

  Aylaen went livid.

  Skylan didn’t have time for this. He pointed to the catacombs. “Use your power! Free my friends. Or I will set the boy on you.”

  Semelon cast a look of loathing at Wulfe, who grinned at her.

  “The boy is fae,” said Semelon. “He cannot be trusted. Mark my warning, he will turn on you someday.”

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” said Skylan. “Do as I tell you.”

  Semelon shrugged and began to chant. The ghostly curtain remained, blocking the entrance. But inside the catacombs, the Torgun stopped fighting.

  “The dead will let them depart,” said Semelon. “But they must leave their weapons behind.”

  “Lay down your arms!” Skylan called to his friends.

  The men hesitated, not happy.

  “This is the only way the dead will let you go,” he urged them.

  Erdmun was the first to fling down his axe and run for the door. Grimuir and Bjorn took hold of Farinn and helped him outside. Aki walked out on his own. They were all bloodied and bruised, but none had suffered serious harm.

  Once they were all out, Skylan walked over to the bronze door. He clasped hold o
f it. The mist brushed his arm with a chill warning.

  “We are sorry we disturbed you,” he cried.

  Keeper came to help him, and between them, they pushed the bronze door shut. Skylan and the ogre walked back to where their friends had gathered.

  “So much for our plans to escape,” Bjorn said glumly.

  “We are leaving Sinaria,” said Skylan. “Tonight.”

  They stared at him. Skylan glanced at Keeper and said, “Ogres are about to invade the city. Their fleet has been sighted.” He pointed to the tattoo on his arm. “That’s why the god let us go. He has more important matters to worry about.”

  “How do you know this?” Sigurd asked suspiciously.

  “Wulfe overheard Treia and Raegar talking. Aelon told them. Ask the priestess. Aelon speaks to her.”

  Semelon regarded them in stony silence.

  “It’s true,” said Bjorn. “Look at her face.”

  “We will carry our ship to the river, hide it among the trees on the riverbank until night falls,” said Skylan. “The ogres will attack Sinaria at dawn.”

  Keeper stirred and seemed about to say something. Skylan glanced at him, but the ogre apparently changed his mind, for he only shook his head.

  “When the ogres are occupied in looting and burning and killing, we will set sail for home.”

  Home! In his mind, Skylan walked once more on the beach of Luda. He embraced his father and asked his forgiveness. He sat beside his friends during the long winter nights relating again the tale of their journey.

  He was about to go on when he looked at Aylaen, who stood apart from the rest, pale and mute and motionless.

  “I won’t leave without Garn,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  12

  * * *

  BOOK THREE

  Garn!” said Sigurd, amazed. “Garn’s dead.”

  The wind rose. The branches of the trees creaked and swayed, leaves rustled. If there had been dryads in those trees, they would have been chattering excitedly about the coming of the ogres, for this wind had been sent by the Gods of Raj to fill the sails of the ogre ships and drive them toward their destination.

  Skylan felt the wind blow on his face. He smelled the salt tang in the air. “I will stay with Aylaen,” he said.

  She told her story, keeping it short, mindful of time.

  “Raegar promised me that Aelon could bring Garn back to life if I would tell him the ritual to summon the Vektan dragon. . . .”

  The men stared at her in dazed shock. Garn’s spirit a prisoner. A Vektan dragonbone. It was too much to comprehend. They looked at each other, troubled. Skylan knew what they were thinking because he was thinking it himself.

  We don’t have time for this. We must run to our ship now, make good our escape. The Torgun stand together. We leave no one behind. But Garn would understand. He would not want us to lose this chance for our freedom because of him. As for the spiritbone of the Vektia, what can we do? It is beyond our reach.

  Skylan could see in his mind’s eye the triangular sails of the ogre ships, white in the moonlight. Soon, the lookouts on the watchtowers along the harbor would see them and they would raise alarm.

  The Vektan Five . . .

  Five dragonbones. Every night, the goddess threw down five dragonbones. Five together. The Torgun stand together.

  Understanding struck Skylan like a thunderbolt, bursting upon him in a shower of sparks and sizzling flame.

  “Garn is right,” he said to himself in amazement. “I do know the secret.”

  And he knew, horror-struck, the appalling danger. He knew what Treia and Raegar planned to do as surely as if they had told him. He knew why they had tried to force Aylaen to find out the secret to the summoning of a Vektan dragon. The secret!

  Treia had told Aylaen she knew the ritual. Perhaps she did. But she didn’t know the secret.

  “Carry the Venjekar to the river and make ready to sail. Aylaen and I will free Garn.”

  “What about the spiritbone?” asked Bjorn.

  “The less said, the better,” Skylan replied, glancing at the priestess. Semelon was watching them, listening to every word they said. She had the power to speak to her god, warn Aelon. Skylan supposed he could kill her, silence her permanently, but in a way he owed her. If it had not been for her summoning Garn, he would have never solved the puzzle.

  “What’s going on?” Erdmun asked. “What’s Skylan doing?”

  “Gods have ears,” Sigurd said, jerking a thumb at the priestess. “Now get moving.”

  Skylan motioned to Sigurd as the men moved off.

  “Aylaen and I will try to join you, but if we haven’t reached the ship by the time you are ready to sail, you must leave without us.”

  To Skylan’s surprise, Sigurd shook his head. “I will wait for you.”

  “The ogres will attack at dawn,” said Skylan. “If we’re not back by then, we won’t be coming back. Take the Venjekar out to sea and put as much distance between this city and yourselves as you can.”

  Sigurd hesitated, then thrust out his hand. “Torval walk with you.”

  Skylan clasped the older man’s hand. “You are my father’s best friend. Tell him I am sorry for the trouble I brought him.”

  Sigurd grinned. “I will tell him that his brat finally grew up.”

  He began shouting at the others, who were moving slowly, berating them for laggards. The men set off at a run.

  “Thank you for coming with me to free Garn,” Aylaen said. “Maybe we could find Treia. . . .”

  We have to find Treia, Skylan thought. He hoped they were going to save Treia. He didn’t like to think what would happen if Treia didn’t want to be saved.

  “The priestess spoke the truth,” said Aylaen with a sigh. “It’s my fault. I forged the chains Garn wears.” She glanced at Semelon and frowned. “What do we do with her? She’ll warn her god—”

  “Warn him of what? That a bunch of slaves are going to escape?” Skylan smiled and shrugged. “Aelon has his hands full. A few thousand ogres and their gods are about to descend on him. We’ll take the priestess with us. She might be useful.”

  He was about to start off when he caught sight of Wulfe lurking about in the shrubbery. He had forgotten about the boy.

  “You should go with Sigurd, back to the ship,” said Skylan. His voice was cold and he knew it. He couldn’t help himself. He found it hard to look at the boy and not see the beast.

  “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Wulfe said, his lip quivering. “I did what you asked. I found the priestess. And I didn’t kill her!”

  “I know,” said Skylan, sighing. “It’s going to take time for me to get used to the idea of you being a . . . a man-beast. Like it took time for you to get used to living with Uglies—”

  He paused. The word stirred a memory. He took hold of Wulfe by the shoulders, said swiftly, “You told me Treia was praying to a god on board our ship. A god of the Uglies. Do you know the god’s name?”

  Wulfe thought back. “No,” he said. “But I smelled smoke and it was really hot.”

  “Hevis,” said Skylan. “Hevis told Treia the ritual.”

  Wulfe slipped from his grasp and ran to Aylaen, hoping, probably, that if he kept clear of Skylan, he wouldn’t be sent back.

  “Where are you going?” Keeper asked. “What is your plan?”

  Skylan had assumed Keeper had gone off on his own. He looked at him in wonder.

  “What are you doing here? If my people were sailing their ships into the harbor, I would be halfway to the dock by now, ready to greet them when they land.”

  “And if I had a ship of my own I would be sailing away,” said Keeper. “How long do you think you will survive in a city overrun by ogres?”

  “I’m planning to be out of here long before they attack,” said Skylan.

  Keeper shook his head and thrust out his lower lip.

  “Humans think ogres are stupid.”

  Having been guilty of that himself, S
kylan didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what Keeper was talking about.

  “We chose this night to invade.” Keeper tilted back his head, looked up into the sky. “Why do you think we did that?”

  Keeper’s eyes glittered in the bright moonlight, and Skylan understood.

  “The ogres won’t wait for dawn to attack!”

  “Of course we won’t,” Keeper muttered, grumbling. “We’re not stupid. They will gut you as they would any other human. Unless I am with you.”

  Skylan shook his head. “Thank you, my friend, but it’s too dangerous—”

  Keeper brushed that away with a wave of his large hand. “I owe you. You saved my life.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Skylan, astonished.

  “I was dead inside,” said the ogre. “You made me see that. Now, again, what is the plan?”

  CHAPTER

  13

  * * *

  BOOK THREE

  The night air sparkled in the moonlight and seemed to crackle with power. Skylan caught of a whiff of brimstone though there was not a cloud in the moonlit sky. He felt himself in the presence of the gods—old gods and new—converging on this city in a fight that would turn the tide of battle.

  They left the old part of the garden, and once they were out of the shadows of the trees, he could see the villa. The house was completely dark except for one room, Chloe’s room. The flames of the oil lamps still burned.

  Skylan pictured her entering Torval’s Hall. She would be startled and overwhelmed by the noise, the raucous singing, the pounding of the ale mugs, the overturning tables and smashing chairs, the roaring laughter. She would stand in the great door, shy and abashed, small and brown, a sparrow among eagles. Torval would come striding up to her and he would be frightening in his glory, but his touch would be gentle. He would take her by the hand and bring her forward to stand before them, and he would say, “Here is a hero worthy of you all—”

  Skylan and his companions cut through the atrium, taking the shortest route to the armory and the stables, which ran through a narrow passage that separated the kitchen and the bakery. Due to the risk of fire, the large ovens with their roaring fires were kept separate from the main house, yet close enough to the kitchen so that the cook had ready access. A stone archway covered the passage. They were beneath this archway, in its shadows, when both Keeper and Skylan came to a sudden halt.