Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [203]
Skylan frowned. He’d had a flash of understanding. If only he could think . . . but the thought slid away from him—or rather, was washed away.
He went back up on deck and lashed himself to the mast. He crouched on the deck and listened to the creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers. He and his people would be safe on board until the planks began to give way under the constant battering. And then not even the dragon could save them.
Skylan had no idea how long the storm lasted. There was no day, only one horrible night that seemed to go on and on. The ship rocked and tossed and swooped up and plunged down and wallowed and foundered, and after a time Skylan came to wish that the ship would simply sink and put an end to the misery.
He was wet and shivering. His head hurt and the old wound in his leg throbbed. Periodically he risked standing up and fought his way down to the cabin. The stench was horrible. Men were seasick, lying in their own vomit. The cabin stank of waste. They were drinking rainwater that poured down between the cracks from the deck above, catching it in drinking horns that were handed around. Skylan checked on those who were injured. Treia reported dourly that they were alive and that was the best they could hope for. He glanced at Aylaen, who sat beside Garn. They were asleep in each other’s arms.
Skylan looked at them for a long time as the ship lurched beneath him. He finally went back up on the deck, tied himself again to the mast. He slept and woke and slept and woke. Once he found Wulfe curled up at his side like a mongrel dog.
And then one day Skylan woke up abruptly. He lay a moment, confused, wondering what had wakened him.
Silence.
No howling wind. No crashing waves. No booming thunder. He looked into the night sky and saw stars.
The storm was over. The Venjekar had survived.
CHAPTER
8
Skylan scrambled to his feet. His limbs were stiff from disuse, his feet numb and cold. Around him, other men were rousing, peering around in the darkness, whispering their heartfelt thanks to Torval. The sun rose, a pale orb, pinkish red, floating in and out of tendrils of mist that writhed about the surface of the sea and made the dragon’s head ghostly.
Skylan was uncomfortably reminded of his voyage back from Apensia, except then the fog had been dark and thick, and these mists were airy, almost ethereal, and tinged with glowing light.
The people emerged from the hold. They stood on the deck and stared out at the mist-covered sea that was smooth and calm.
“The goddess is still angry,” said Aylaen. “She is just worn out.”
Skylan tried to see the other dragonships, but he could not see past the dragon’s head. The mists parted as the ship sailed into them, closed behind. He ordered the men to call out, and they hallooed across the water and banged their weapons on their shields.
No one answered. Skylan posted a lookout. Raegar quickly volunteered. He stood at the rail most of the day, staring into the mists, trying to penetrate them. Once he offered to climb up the dragon’s carved figurehead to try to obtain a better view. Skylan refused, saying that he doubted it would bear Raegar’s weight, especially after the pounding it had taken during the storm. Wulfe offered to make the climb, but Raegar said that he didn’t want to risk the boy’s life.
Skylan thought no more of this until he happened, a short time later, to see Raegar peering out into the mists. Raegar turned around, a worried expression on his face, and caught Skylan watching him. He shrugged, shook his head, and walked off. Skylan found this concern odd. If his ship had survived, there was a good chance the others had. It was not surprising they had been separated. They would meet again at the rendezvous. Perhaps Raegar was concerned about some friend, though as far as Skylan knew, Raegar had not made friends among the other clans. Skylan doubted Raegar could have named a single man. Why, then, was he taking the loss so hard?
Skylan asked Treia to speak to the Dragon Kahg, ask him what had