Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [202]
Skylan’s lungs seemed ready to burst. He was going to have to breathe, even if it meant breathing in his death—when his head broke free. He gulped air. Keeping Garn’s head above water, Skylan plowed doggedly through the waves. He seemed to be making little progress. If he managed to claw his way forward by an arm’s length, a wave dragged him back six.
And then a wave carried him and Garn so near the ship that Skylan’s outstretched hand touched the hands of men leaning over, in peril of their own lives, to grab hold. The sea swept them apart and water closed over his head. Skylan despaired. His arms ached and his legs and lungs burned. He could not hold on to Garn much longer.
He surfaced again, hauling Garn out of the water with him. Garn had lost consciousness. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. He was dead weight in Skylan’s arms.
Perhaps he was dead in Skylan’s arms.
I should let him go, save myself, Skylan thought. Anger raged inside him. This was a battle with Akaria, and he’d be damned if he was going to let the goddess win. He began, once more, to swim toward the Venjekar, though it seemed farther away now than ever.
Then a wave lifted the two men up and, as if in a fit of pique, hurled them toward the ship. Skylan feared for a horrible moment that he and Garn were going to be smashed against the hull. The wave carried them up and over the rail and cast them like immense fish onto the deck. Skylan slammed painfully into the mast and came to rest in the water that was sloshing over the deck. Garn lay beside him. He was not breathing.
The men seized hold of Garn and carried him below. They laid him on his belly and began the task of pounding his back and pumping his arms to force the water out of his lungs.
Skylan crawled across the deck to the rudder, with some idea of trying to steer the ship inland. But the rudder was gone, broken off. Only a stump of jagged wood left behind jutted out.
Skylan wished in that moment that the gray waves had closed over his head. He reminded himself that he was Chief of Chiefs and he was the one who had ordered the ship to sea. He staggered across the deck awash with water up to his ankles. Grabbing hold of the men, he told them to find rope and tie themselves to the mast, the prow, anything they could find. He sent men who were severely injured—and there were many of those—down to the cabin for Treia to treat.
Finally, Skylan went below himself. Water kept running into his eyes, blinding him. He wiped it away and saw that it was blood.
Lightning flared. The ship rocked wildly. Skylan shut the hatch and made sure it was sealed, then descended the ladder and looked around the cabin. It was hard to see in the darkness.
“Garn?” Skylan called out. His mouth was parched from the salt water; his throat hurt.
“Here,” Garn answered weakly. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
“You’re one of my men,” Skylan said shortly. He could make out Aylaen, crouching near him. “Wulfe?”
“I’m here!” Wulfe’s voice quavered. He was terrified.
“Treia?”
“I am safe and well, lord,” Treia replied, cold and calm as always. Skylan could not help but smile, though his smile was grim. At least some things did not change.
Fifteen men were on the deck, tied to anything that would hold them. He took a count of the men down here and discovered, to his relief, that they had not lost anyone.
Skylan was not feeling grateful to the gods, however. He was bitter and resentful, and he wondered if what Aylaen had said was true. The gods should be united against the foe. Why were they wasting time fighting among themselves? He and his men were nothing more than bones tossed down onto some heavenly game board.
The Five Dragons of Vektia. Five pieces thrown onto a game board. A heavenly game. Five dragons. Moving the pieces about the board.