Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [204]
Treia tried to talk to the dragon with no success. Kahg would not respond. Skylan asked if the Dragon Kahg was angry with him, and Treia replied in wry tones that she considered it quite likely.
The Venjekar had survived, but just barely, and Skylan was not sure how much longer the ship could remain afloat. They were taking on water; they had lost the rudder. The men could drink their fill of rainwater, but the food had either washed overboard or was soaked in brine and inedible. Their bellies were empty and cramping. They managed to assuage the worst of their hunger by catching a few fish. The fish were bony, and they had to eat them raw. Warriors could not survive long on such a diet.
Treia begged the Dragon Kahg to take them inland. Again the dragon refused. He did not alter course, but continued sailing in an easterly direction. Kahg was taking them somewhere, and wherever that was, he was making haste. Seawater churned beneath the bow and flowed around the keel in a long creamy wake.
Skylan was frustrated, but there was nothing he could do. He paced the deck or stood by the prow, staring into the mists. His men, who had been overjoyed to survive the storm, were now grumbling and muttering. Some remembered that it was Skylan who had ordered the dragon out to sea.
“We are in strange waters. The dragon will head for land by nightfall,” Skylan told them. “He will be forced to.”
Dragons could see in darkness, but not even a dragon’s piercing eyes could detect the sharp rocks lying beneath the water that could rip open a ship’s belly or sandbars on which a ship could founder. Only in waters the dragon knew well would he risk sailing after dark or in thick fog, as he had when he’d brought Skylan home.
The sun sank; the mist glowed orange with the dying flame. Darkness fell, and the moon was ghostly in the mists that lay clammy fingers on the skin and writhed about the deck. The dragon continued to sail east.
Of course, Erdmun would remember the Durtmundor, the famous ghost ship whose crew had killed a whale, a sea creature sacred to Akaria, and been cursed by the goddess to forever sail the seas, lamenting their fate.
“Maybe we’re a ghost ship,” Erdmun said to his listeners, crouching on their sea chests. “Maybe we’re all dead and we just don’t know it.”
Skylan walked over to Erdmun, yanked him to his feet, and punched him in the face. Erdmun stumbled backwards, fell over the chest, and landed on his rump.
“Did you feel that?” Skylan demanded, standing over him with clenched fists.
Edmund mumbled something and spit blood.
“Good,” said Skylan. “Then you’re not dead.”
He walked off. He saw, in passing, Garn smile and give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Skylan’s steps slowed. All his life, he had turned to Garn for counsel and advice. Skylan never needed that counsel more than he needed it now. He saw Garn watching him, silently asking for Skylan’s forgiveness.
But Skylan couldn’t forgive. How could Aylaen love Garn? She was supposed to love Skylan. She was meant to love Skylan. He was Chief of Chiefs. He was a courageous warrior. He possessed land and cattle and a fine horse and a sword worth a chief’s ransom. Garn was nobody, a pauper, living on Norgaard’s charity. Women—other women—loved Skylan. No woman had ever loved Garn.
No woman except Aylaen.
Let Garn choke on his counsel! Skylan thought. I have no need of it. I am, after all, Chief of Chiefs. He walked to the stern, putting the length of the ship between himself and Garn. Skylan set the watch and then flung himself moodily down on the deck, hoping to get some sleep.
Wulfe came pattering over. “I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?”
Skylan scowled at him. The boy had barely a stitch on. “Where are your clothes?”
“They were wet,” said Wulfe. “And they itched.”
“Go put some clothes on,” Skylan said. “You’ll freeze.