Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [124]
Raegar led Skylan to the group of men gathered around the damaged boat.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce my cousin Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” Raegar said. He explained the relationship and then glanced at Skylan. “Did you understand what I said?”
“It was all so fast,” said Skylan.
“The language is similar to ours, except that the words flow more rapidly, like a babbling brook. It is hard at first to tell where one word ends and another begins. You will get the hang of it eventually.”
The men greeted Skylan with respect, which pleased him.
“Who are the women?” Skylan asked. “Are they your wives?”
Raegar laughed. “They are slaves. They do the cooking and washing and keep us warm at night. I see one has caught your fancy.”
Skylan was watching the pretty girl, who had gone off to do his laundry. She had scrubbed his shirt in seawater and was now spreading it out on a boulder to dry. It had been two years since he’d lain with a woman. He had pledged himself to Aylaen, but then had come Draya. He could still feel her horrid hands groping him. He thought of that, and he watched the pretty girl.
The men sat down to a meal of fish stew, bread, and cheese, washed down by a truly remarkable wine. At a word from Raegar, who was clearly their leader, the Southlanders left him and his cousin to themselves. The two sat together on the beach before a fire of driftwood, watching the flames change color and drinking wine from cups made of polished wood.
“This wood comes from the olive tree,” Raegar said. “Here, try some of the fruit.” He held out a bowl filled with green and black olives.
“You’re supposed to spit out the seed,” he advised Skylan, who had swallowed the pit and nearly choked.
Skylan found the olives delicious. The wine warmed his blood, made his cares and worries seem small and insignificant, meant to be spit out, like the pits of the olives. Raegar told stories of his life in Oran. As Skylan listened, fascinated, his boyish admiration and affection for his cousin came back to him. He enjoyed Raegar’s outlandish tales, though he privately suspected his cousin had made most of them up.
He told about huge ships with three banks of oars that could each carry two hundred warriors and a single city whose population was larger than that of the entire Vindrasi nation. He spoke of a thousand or more warriors who did not fight in shield-walls, but marched about the field of battle, wheeling and turning in complex formations.
“Come, Cousin, what do you take me for—a yokel?” Skylan said, laughing. “Warriors who do not fight in a shield-wall? A child would believe such a thing!”
“It is the truth, I swear by Torval,” Raegar stated. “Ah, but that reminds me! Your gift!”
He summoned the pretty girl and sent her running to one of the boats. She rummaged around in it for a short time, then returned bearing a large bundle wrapped in coarse cloth. She handed the bundle to Raegar, who dismissed her, sent her scurrying away.
“I wish you joy of your bride, Cousin,” said Raegar, and he presented his gift.
Skylan unwrapped the layers of cloth to find a sword in a leather sheath. He grasped the hilt, drew out the blade, and gave an audible gasp.
The sword was pattern-welded, which meant that the blade was made of different types of iron twisted together while the metal was hot, forming intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer and change color in the firelight. The blade’s edge gleamed; it was made of hard steel. The center groove, made of softer steel, was decorated with whorls and swirls, all twining together in an intricate dance.
“And that is what I will name it,” said Skylan softly, turning the blade to catch the light. “Blood Dancer.”
“Hard yet flexible,” said Raegar. “Do you like it?”
Skylan could only nod. The clans in the north forged pattern-welded swords, but nothing of this quality. And their swords were dear.
He regarded Raegar in wonder. “This must