Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [136]
The Venjekar glided into the calm, shallow waters of the cove. Warriors leaped over the side to haul the dragonship up onto the beach. Skylan made ready to join them.
Draya stood on deck, her hands clasping and unclasping, her fingers twisting. She was pale, her gaze roving the empty shore or glancing up at the dragon. Skylan walked over to bid her farewell. Farewell forever. This would be the last time he saw her. He should have been elated. He was surprised to find that he felt tense, uneasy.
“I will send you word of how our negotiations proceed, madam,” Skylan said, trying to make his voice sound natural—and failing. He coughed and continued. “With Torval’s blessing, we will be on our way to the Dragon Isles by nightfall, our hold filled with jewels as an offering to the dragons.”
Draya shook her head, made no reply.
Skylan tried again. “I know you disapprove, madam, but I am Chief of Chiefs, and this is my decision.”
She gave him a bleak look and then lowered her eyes.
Skylan could think of nothing more to say, and he made ready to vault over the ship’s side when he was stopped by the touch of Draya’s hand on his. Her fingers were cold as those of a day-old corpse.
The unexpected chill made him flinch, and he turned to her and asked irritably, “Well, what is it?”
“I wronged you, Skylan,” Draya said. “I see that now. I am sorry for that. Deeply sorry. I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
She released his hand and moved to the prow, to the curved neck of the carven dragon’s head. She took down the spiritbone from the nail on which it hung. Skylan thought at first she meant to summon the Dragon Kahg, and that would not fit into his plans. He was about to tell her angrily to put it back.
Draya lifted the spiritbone to her lips and kissed it, then hung the bone back in its place. She remained standing there, leaning her cheek against the dragon’s neck, her hand resting on the spiritbone.
Her words made him uneasy. He looked at the shore and was assailed by doubts. What if she is right? What if our doom awaits us on that isle? Maybe I should leave. . . .
Stop it! Skylan told himself, realizing what he’d been thinking. Raegar is right. Draya is stealing my manhood! I will soon be a cider-swilling coward like Horg if I don’t get rid of her.
Skylan jumped over the side and landed with a splash in water that came to his knees. He and the other warriors seized hold of the Venjekar’s hull and with triumphant yells, hauled the dragonship up onto the sandy beach.
The Vindrasi were at last doing what they had been born to do. With a bold chief to lead them, the Vindrasi were going to war.
CHAPTER
8
Skylan and eighteen eager young Heudjun warriors came across a dirt trail that led from the shore through waist-high grass to a long wooden bridge. Built across a large stretch of freshwater marshland filled with murky brown water, the bridge was made of planks held together with wooden pegs. Cattails, taller than a man, rustled in the breeze. The marsh was thick with plant life, and Skylan could guess that the bottom was sticky, oozing mud.
Skylan approved the defenses, even as he saw his danger. If the druids sighted a foe approaching from the sea, they would set fire to the bridge, forcing their enemies to wade through this miasma of plants and water. Dressed in chain mail and lugging axes, swords, shields, and spears, an enemy would soon find himself in trouble—quite literally bogged down. Skylan could imagine the druids lighting their torches at this moment.
He ordered his men to run.
As they pounded over the wooden bridge, he kept waiting to see tongues of orange flame and the first tendrils of smoke. He saw only the plants, waving in the wind, and small black birds with red patches on their wings clinging to the reeds, guarding their