Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [231]
Smoke covered the beach. He could not see his men, and they would not be able to see the threat bearing down on them from the sea. No man would be armed, out of respect for the dead. Their weapons and their shields were stacked in the sand, along with their helms and armor.
Skylan yelled a warning. The thick air swallowed his shouts. With the crackling of the flames and the popping of sizzling flesh, no one could hear him. He swore again, frustrated, and frantically tried to undo the knots at his ankles. He worked at them until his fingers bled, to no avail. They were tied tight. He shuffled over to the bottom of the ladder and stared at the hatch. He had heard them roll the heavy barrel atop it, but perhaps, if he could get his shoulders under it, he might be able to lift it.
He managed to climb the ladder by hooking his elbows, his arms still bound at the wrists, over the rungs and pulling his feet up a rung at a time. Sweat poured from his face. He gasped for breath from the exertion. He maneuvered himself into position, his head bowed, and pressed his shoulder against the hatch and heaved.
The hatch did not budge. Skylan tried again, straining against the hatch, shoving with his legs. His feet slipped. With his hands bound, he could not hang on, and he fell to the floor.
He started to pray to Torval to help him, and then he remembered the god battling the winged serpents, fighting for his life. Torval had his own problems. Skylan was on his own.
His people were on their own.
The first the Torgun knew they were under attack was when they saw the ranks of the enemy coming at them out of the smoke. The Torgun ran to grab their weapons, but they were intercepted by soldiers. The Vindrasi fought with their bare hands, but the soldiers struck them with the flat of their blades or bashed them with their shields until they fell unconscious.
Skylan, watching in agony, heard the officers shout repeatedly, “Take them alive! We want prisoners, not corpses!”
Skylan tried to see Aylaen. She would fight. He knew she would. He pressed his face against the gap, cursing the smoke that obliterated his view.
Suddenly, he realized he had his own problems. The sound of heavy boots thudded on the deck above him. The enemy had boarded the dragonship. He heard men running across the deck, taking up positions.
“You men, move that barrel,” a commanding voice ordered, a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “The hold is below. We’ll stow the brat down there.”
Skylan stood at the bottom of the ladder. He would not be taken alive. He heard the barrel scrape as the men hauled it off the hatch.
The trapdoor opened. Sunlight tinged with smoke streamed down on Skylan. He looked up to see an unusually tall man with broad shoulders and powerful arms clad in the shining segmented armor. The man wore a helm, as did the other warriors Skylan had seen. His helm was decorated with red feathers, perhaps denoting him as an officer.
Skylan stood with fists clenched, ready to fight. The officer gazed down at him.
“Well, well, well,” the man said with a chuckle. “If it isn’t little Skylan.”
Skylan’s fists uncurled; his hands went limp. He stared, squinting into the sunlight, trying to see clearly. “Raegar?”
“The same.” Raegar chuckled. “Once more, Cousin, I have returned from the dead.”
Raegar removed the feather-crested helm. He had shaved off his beard and his long blond hair. His bald scalp was white, a contrast to the sun-tanned skin of his face. The tattoo of a winged serpent ran across the crown of his head from front to back. The serpent’s red tongue flicked down almost to the center of the forehead. Raegar regarded Skylan with amusement.
“I hear Treia told your men about you,” he remarked. “They were planning to take you back to Vindraholm, force you to fight the Vutmana.” Raegar squatted down on his haunches. “I’ve done you a favor, Cousin. Where you are going, you won’t have to fight.”
“Treacherous coward!” Skylan swore at him. “You betrayed your own people!”
Raegar shook