Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [147]
The druid gestured. A man with white hair, clothed all in white, emerged from the crowd. He held in one hand a large wooden hammer and in the other a branch cut to a sharp point.
Raegar flung the hostage into his fellow, knocking both men to the ground, then dashed toward Skylan. “Run for it, fool!” he shouted. “Run!”
Skylan was tempted. He longed to run and never look back. He heard Draya’s terrified cries. He saw rabbits watching from the shadows. He heard a raven jeering at him.
Draya was his wife. He had vowed to Torval to protect her.
“I have broken so many vows,” Skylan muttered. “At least I will not break this one.”
He looked up at the sword. “Torval, grant me the strength to reach it!” He crouched and then hurled himself into the air, his arm extended as far as it would reach. He struck the hilt with his hand, knocking the sword loose. The blade twisted in the air as it fell, flashing orange and silver, and landed on the grass at Skylan’s feet. He picked it up.
“Are you coming?” Raegar cried from the shadows.
“After I have rescued Draya,” said Skylan.
“Then I’ll see you in the Hall of Heroes,” Raegar cried. He vanished among the trees.
The man in white was handing the wooden spike to the druid, who placed it against Draya’s midriff. The man in white lifted the hammer.
Skylan roared a challenge, brandishing his sword, and broke into a run. Again he shouted for them to stop, and he told them what he would do to them if they harmed her, how he would cut off their heads and slice open their guts and feast on their livers. He raved and yelled as he ran.
No one even looked at him. They were all watching the sacrifice.
The man in white swung the mallet back and forth, testing his aim, preparing to hit the spike a blow that would drive it through Draya’s body. Skylan, howling like one of Freilis’s daemons, leaped at the man, who was rearing back, prepared to make the killing strike.
One of the trunks from the strangler fig suddenly shifted, moved to block Skylan’s way. He dodged around it, only to find himself blocked by another. The strangler fig tree vented its rage on him. The trunks danced around him, snaking down from the limbs of the tree, plunging into the ground, surrounding him. Skylan swore in fury and slashed at a slender trunk with his sword. The trunk recoiled like a whip and lashed him across the face.
He staggered, half-stunned, tasting blood. The hammer, illuminated in the moonlight, was swinging slowly, slowly through the air. Just two steps and he could stop it.
The tree flung down another trunk, right in front of him. Skylan struck the tree with his sword, and the trunk struck him back, slamming into his head. Pain burst in Skylan’s skull. He stumbled, almost fell. Force of will and Draya’s pleas for him to save her kept him on his feet. He tried to go around the trunk, and it bashed him across the throat.
Skylan went down. Landing heavily on his back, he struck his head on a rock. He was slipping into a pain-filled darkness when a scream, a terrible scream, a scream he knew he would hear until merciful death stopped his ears, roused him. He raised his throbbing head to see the hammer drive the stake deep into Draya’s body. Blood blossomed, a horrible flower, drenching her robes. Draya moaned and writhed in agony.
Skylan tried to stand. Pain cleaved his skull. Lights burst behind his eyes. The tree bashed him and he fell forward, landing on his stomach. He had to reach her, his wife. Cursing in pain and in rage, he crawled on his knees. His hands slipped on the blood-soaked ground beneath the stake. He looked up at her. Her face was white with the death that was coming, and it contorted in agony.
“Forgive me, Draya!” he begged. “I never meant for this to happen!”
She gave a shuddering gasp, and he hoped she was going to speak words of forgiveness that would free him from the guilt of her death.
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Black blood, warm from her body, spewed from her mouth and splashed into Skylan’s upturned face.
Horror overcame him, and