Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [196]
Skylan turned away. He’d been too soft on the boy up until now. Letting him get away with this nonsense about touching iron. Skoval’s balls! The boy claimed he couldn’t even touch a stewpot! This would end here and now.
Skylan glanced about the ship. The warriors were seated on their sea chests, busy at various tasks, or talking and jesting. The men were in a good mood. Fortunately, by annoying Treia, Wulfe had managed to amuse the men, who were still sharing smothered laughter at the thought of the Bone Priestess finding a boy in her bed.
The men were also taking a more resigned view of Aylaen. Skylan’s speech about Vindrash had impressed them. The Vindrasi would be dependent on the Dragon Goddess’s goodwill in the upcoming battles, and they did not want to offend her. They were none of them comfortable having Aylaen around, however, treating her like a skunk that had wandered into the feast hall: careful not to make any sudden moves or poke at her or do anything to make her angry.
Seeing Wulfe hunched over the sword, Aylaen realized he must be feeling as lonely and friendless as herself, and she went to sit down beside him. He did not seem to notice her. He kept his back to her and to everyone. He gave a gulping sob every so often, and his shoulders shook. Aylaen thought nothing about it except perhaps that he was upset because Skylan had yelled at him.
She longed to talk to Garn, to try to make him understand, but he would not speak to her. To take her mind off their quarrel, she started to clean her new sword, which was sadly rusted. She rubbed the metal with the oiled cloth, working hard, scratching at spots of rust or dirt with her fingernail.
She noticed, as she worked on the sword, what she had not noticed before. The workmanship was extraordinary. Details began to emerge as she scrubbed away the dirt of years of neglect.
Although the sword was meant to ornament the altar of Vindrash, the maker had not insulted the goddess by making her sword lovely to look at but impractical. Aylaen pictured that early craftsman designing the sword for Vindrash herself, intending for her to use the weapon in battle. This was why the sword fit a woman’s hand, why it was lighter in weight and delicate in design. As Aylaen worked, she could see runes on the blade, previously hidden by dirt and rust.
The hilt was made of ivory, and it was now yellow with age. She could see the faint outlines and feel the ridges left by what must have been ornate carvings, now worn smooth so that she could not tell what they had been. The weapon had seen battle. Odd for a weapon that Treia had dismissed as ceremonial.
Perhaps it was the hand of the goddess that wore down the hilt, Aylaen imagined, glad to lose herself in her daydreams. Vindrash had been pleased with the sword. She herself had used it in battle. And when the enemy gods had been defeated and peace had come to the world, Vindrash had put the sword away and forgotten about it. War had again come to heaven, but this time the gods had lost. Vindrash could not take up the sword herself. She had given it into the hands of one who would fight the battle for her. . . .
Aylaen’s fanciful imaginings were cut short by a low moan. She looked over to see Skylan’s lovely sheepskin scabbard smattered with blood.
“Wulfe, did you cut yourself?” she asked.
He turned away from her, hunching his shoulders, hiding his pain like a wounded animal. She rose to her feet and walked around to face him. His face twisted. His lips quivered, and his body shook.
Aylaen gently slid her hands beneath his hands and lifted them to the sunlight.
Wulfe’s fingers were blistered, the flesh blackened and burned as though the sword he had been oiling were white-hot. He snatched his hand away and went back to his work. When he touched the metal, he gave a low moan. The flesh of his fingertips stuck to the blade and Aylaen smelled the stench of burning. She seized hold of his hand, jerking it from the metal.
“Don’t let anyone see!” she said softly,