Margaret Weis: Rage of the Dragon

“Nothing is going to happen,” said Skylan.

Aylaen shook her head. She felt a heaviness settle over her soul, as though the fog had crept inside her. She was so tired. The battle was so hopeless. She looked bleakly at Skylan, expecting to see him grim, preparing for death. She was surprised to see he was smiling, his blue eyes bright in the mist. He was soaked to the skin, like all of them. He had removed the segmented plate armor of a Sinarian soldier and put on the familiar leather armor of a Torgun warrior. He must have been as exhausted as she was. Yet he was smiling.

Aylaen was annoyed. “We’re going to die. You know that. What do you have to smile about?”

Skylan shrugged. “I don’t know we’re going to die. Our wyrd is in the hands of the gods and I am smiling because I am not a slave anymore. I smile because the bravest warriors in the history of the Vindrasi are on this ship. They will fight at my side.”

He held out to her the sword of Vindrash, the sword she had found in the temple.

“I am not a warrior,” Aylaen said. “True, I cut my hair and dressed in men’s clothes and pretended to be a man-woman, dedicating myself to Vindrash, but that was all a lie.”

“Vindrash does not think so,” said Skylan. “The goddess saw what was in your heart. She saw the truth. She gave you her blessed sword. I look at you and I see a warrior who is as brave and bold as any man on this ship. And who smells much better.”

She laughed. He was pleased to see her laugh. She looked into Skylan’s blue eyes and her breath caught in her throat, her heartbeat quickened. His breath was coming a little faster. The fog closed around them. They were the only two people in the world. They drew near, their lips touched …

Wulfe appeared out of nowhere, wriggling his way between them. He looked at them with wide, solemn eyes.

“The oceanaids say we should leave. We’re not safe here.”

At the dumbfounded look on Skylan’s face, Aylaen laughed again, laughed until she cried.

Hauling the ogre’s heavy body up out of the hold proved to be a daunting task. Sigurd and Grimuir gripped Keeper by his massive shoulders, dragging the corpse up the ladder, while Bjorn and Erdmun and Farinn pushed from below. Sigurd called on Skylan to come help. Skylan didn’t hear. He stood in a daze, his hand tingling from Aylaen’s touch. She had kissed him. Well, she had almost kissed him, before Wulfe with his stupid oceanaids had interrupted. Skylan had tried to detain her, but she had hurried away and he lost her in the mist.

What exactly did an almost-kiss mean? Was she falling in love with him?

“Skylan! This was your idea!” Sigurd grumbled. “Stop daydreaming and come over and help us before we drop the bastard and he slides back down and we have to do this all over again!”

Skylan went to help and, grunting and sweating and swearing, they hauled Keeper’s body up out of the hold and dumped it thankfully down onto the deck. Skylan wiped sweat and mist from his face and gazed down at the dead ogre with true grief and sorrow. Keeper had been Skylan’s trainer in the Para Dix game and although their friendship had started with a blow to the jaw that had knocked Skylan flat, the two had ended up friends. Skylan asked the ogre’s spirit to forgive him for the rough treatment.

“When we meet in Torval’s Hall, I will explain and we will laugh over this together,” Skylan promised.

He had no doubt that Torval would admit Keeper into the Hall of Heroes. Enemies of the Vindrasi who fought valiantly and died bravely were honored by both men and gods. Keeper had not died in battle with his sword in his hand. He had been basely murdered.

Skylan, as a true friend, should promise to avenge the ogre’s murder, bring his killer to account. Treia had, of course, denied that she had harmed Keeper and Skylan had no way to prove she had. He had seen the truth on her stone-hard, cold face, the faint curl of her lips as she had watched the men carry the ogre’s body out of the hold. All Skylan could do was to leave her to the gods.

The Venjekar was still wrapped in fog, though it seemed to Skylan that the mist was growing thinner. He could hear ogre voices and the flapping of their odd-looking triangular sails, but all sound was distorted by the fog and he could not tell if the ogres were near or a mile distant. He posted young Farinn, who had the keenest eyesight, and Wulfe to keep watch for ogre ships.

“We’re going to carry Keeper to the prow,” Skylan said, keeping his voice low and warning the others to be as quiet as possible. “Arrange the body as Acronis told you.”

Bjorn carried Keeper’s heavy sword.

“Damn thing weighs more than young Farinn,” Bjorn complained.

“You’ve just grown weak,” said Skylan. “The lazy life you’ve been leading.”

Bjorn grinned at him and Skylan grinned back. The shadow of Skylan’s misdeeds had once been dark between them. That was gone, their friendship restored. The same was true of the other men, even Sigurd, who would never like him, but at least had come to regard him with grudging respect. Skylan had worked hard to regain their trust and their confidence. They had forgiven him for the terrible things he had done. He could dare to hope now that Aylaen had forgiven him. Skylan would never forgive himself, but that was between him and the gods.

Acronis directed the men to place Keeper’s hands on his chest and rest his sword in his hands. The rain had washed off most of his white and black face paint.

“We have to put his paint back on,” said Acronis.

The men stared at him.

“Those designs marked Keeper as a godlord,” Acronis explained. “His people won’t believe us if we claim he is a godlord without them.”

Skylan scratched his stubbly growth of beard. “A good idea, sir, except we don’t have any paint.”

“We have flour we could use for the white paint,” said Aylaen. “I could make a paste and we could smear it on. I don’t know about the black paint…”

“I have ink,” said a voice from the fog.

For a moment no one could tell who had spoken. Then Grimuir grabbed hold of Farinn, who had been standing by the rail, watching for ogres, and shoved him forward.

“Ink!” Skylan repeated, staring at the young man in amazement. “What are you doing with ink?”

“I have been teaching myself to read and write,” said Farinn, ducking his head, as though confessing a shameful sin.

“You are a warrior,” said Skylan. “A warrior needs to know how to wield a sword, not how to wield a pen.”

Farinn flushed red and spoke in a nearly inaudible murmur. “I am making a song of our journey.”

The men regarded Farinn in frowning disapproval. None of the Vindrasi could read or write. There was no need. Their laws and history were kept by the Talgogroth, who committed the laws and every major event and many minor ones to memory and, once a year, recited them to the people. Heroic battles should be told aloud in words that stirred the heart, not reduced to squiggly lines scrawled on animal skin.

Skylan was as shocked as the rest of the Torgun, though he had to secretly admit that being able to read the squiggly lines on what Raegar termed a “map” might be of some benefit. Still, that was why he had brought along Acronis. The Sinarian was a scholar, as well as an able commander and an experienced seaman.

“Fetch your ink,” Skylan said gruffly to Farinn. “We’ll put it to good use.”

Farinn disappeared thankfully into the fog and could be heard tripping over the oars as he searched for his sea chest. Aylaen went down into the hold after the flour.

A song of their journey. Skylan had never before considered such a thing. He tried to imagine years hence the Torgun people sitting around a Talgogroth to hear the Song of … what? What would be the title of this tale? The Song of Skylan Ivorson ? Skylan smiled ruefully. Not long ago, he would have been arrogant enough to consider that title appropriate. A better title would be the Song of the Venjekar, he thought. He would have to remember to tell young Farinn.