Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [165]
“Fetch Norgaard,” Treia told her.
Aylaen hesitated a moment; then, hiking up her skirts, she ran across the dunes, shouting wildly for the Chief.
Treia remained standing in the wet sand, gazing at the ship. “A ghost ship,” she repeated. “So it is. The ghost of the might of the Vindrasi.”
A crowd gathered on the beach and watched in silence as Garn and Bjorn and several other warriors waded out into the gray water to board the Venjekar. The warriors were armed, and they approached the ship warily. The Dragon Kahg would never permit an enemy to board his ship, but dragons were mortal. Kahg might be dead. This could be a trick—for all knew the story of the Olfet Clan.
Long ago, their dragonship had been attacked at sea by Cyclopes. The Cyclopes boarded the ship, killed the dragon and the crew, then sailed the ship to Vindrasi shores. People of the Olfet Clan spotted the ship floating on the waves. Seeing it empty and apparently adrift, they boarded it and were immediately set upon by the Cyclopes, who had been lying flat on the deck. The Cyclopes killed everyone, wiping out the Olfet Clan, leaving only a cautionary tale behind.
Garn grabbed hold of the hull and pulled himself up over the side slowly. He scanned the deck. The ship appeared to be deserted, no enemy lying in wait. The spiritbone hung in place. The eyes of the Dragon Kahg gazed fiercely into the fog. Motioning the other warriors to accompany him, Garn walked across the deck. He tried to be quiet, but the wooden boards creaked beneath his weight. The ship rocked as the warriors clambered aboard.
Finding a pile of blankets on the deck, Garn reached down to pick one up. He heard a noise and froze in place. The noise had come from below—a sound of feet scrabbling and a thud, as if someone, bumbling about in the murky darkness, had knocked over something.
Garn motioned for Bjorn and Erdmun. “Someone’s down there!” he mouthed, pointing.
The three padded soft-footed to the sealed hatch. They stood over it, listening. The sound was not repeated. At Garn’s gesture, Bjorn and Erdmun lifted their battle axes and took up positions on either side of the hatch. Garn grasped the trapdoor and gave a sudden jerk. Throwing it open, he sprang back, ready to fight.
“What? Who’s there?” a voice called.
“Skylan!” Garn yelled, staring into the darkness. “Are you all right?”
Skylan, sword in hand, appeared at the foot of the ladder. His hair was tousled, his face creased from sleep. He gazed at his friend in groggy bewilderment. “Garn?” he said dazedly, lowering his sword. “Is that you? Or am I dreaming?”
Garn climbed down the ladder. “You are home, my friend!”
Skylan stared at him; then he dropped his sword and wiped his hand across his eyes.
“Thank Torval!” Skylan said fervently. “I did not think I would ever see you again!”
Garn regarded his friend in astonishment and concern. Skylan’s arms and torso were covered with welts and jagged cuts. His face was bruised and battered; patches of hair and bits of scalp were sloughing off from an ugly wound on the back of his head.
“Skylan, where is everyone?” Garn asked. “What happened? Where is the Kai Priestess?”
Skylan shook his head. “Is my father here?”
“He’s waiting onshore,” said Garn.
“I must speak to him,” Skylan said. He bent to pick up his sword, and that seemed to remind him of something, for he glanced around the hold.
“Wulfe?” he called out. “Where are you?”
There was no response, and Skylan turned to Garn. “Did you see a boy up on deck?”
“No,” Garn said, mystified. “What boy?”
“He must be hiding,” Skylan said, and he smiled. “Of course. It’s your sword. You frighten him.” He raised his voice. “These are my friends, Wulfe. They won’t hurt you.”
“Who is this Wulfe?” Garn asked.
“He’s a strange kid. I think he’s crazy, but he seems harmless. He was a good friend to me. He treated my wounds and nursed me through a fever.