Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [93]
Norgaard had glowered at him. “You young fool! Draya holds our fate in her hands. Make haste to help her before Horg thinks of it!”
“Torval holds my fate,” Skylan muttered, but he had understood what his father meant. It would do no harm to be of service to the Kai Priestess.
Skylan had vaulted easily over the side of the ship and extended his hand to assist Draya in walking down the slippery and unsteady gangplank.
He had noted that the woman was of slender build, with pale hair, a pale complexion. A worry line creased her forehead. Her lips were thin and compressed, accustomed to keeping secrets. Her eyes were her best feature, being large and luminous, though they were marred by crow’s-feet.
She must be thirty-five if she is a day, Skylan had reflected. If my mother had lived, she would be about the same age.
Remembering that this woman was old, Skylan had caught Draya as gently as he could, so as not to break any bones. He had taken care to lower her easily and respectfully to the ground. She had stood there for some time, staring at him, as if she were in some sort of trance. She had been about to speak, but he had not lingered to hear her thanks. The sooner he was back on board the ship, the sooner she could set to work, and the sooner he would have his chance to fight.
Now Skylan watched impatiently as the Kai Priestess measured out the Holmhring, a square patch of land roughly fifteen feet by fifteen, on which the Vutmana was fought. Inside this square, the priestess laid down the Vutmana cloth, which was nine feet by nine feet. The cloth was sacred, she said, for it had been blessed by Vindrash.
When this was finally done, the Kai Priestess summoned Garn and Rulf, the shield-bearers, who were now permitted to come ashore. Under her direction, the two men drove stakes into the ground at each corner of the cloth, anchoring it. The shield-bearers then hammered wooden posts into the ground at the corners of the Holmhring and tied ropes around the posts, defining the outer edge of the field of combat.
The shield-bearers, each with three shields, took their assigned places outside the rope. The shield-bearers were permitted to hand their champions fresh shields as needed, but they were prohibited from taking part in the combat.
At last, Draya indicated that all was in readiness. The snow-white cloth, made of linen, was staked in place. The shield-bearers had taken their positions. Now it was time for Norgaard to come ashore. Proudly refusing help, Norgaard descended the unsteady gangplank. His crutch slipped, his bad leg collapsed, and he fell. His face twisted in pain and anger, he lay floundering in the water at the foot of the gangplank.
Garn and Rulf hastened to assist him, but Norgaard pushed them both away. He managed to stand on his own. Leaning heavily on his crutch, he limped over to take his place alongside Garn. The watching crowd murmured in admiration. Courage of all types was admired.
On board the dragonship, Horg glanced sidelong at Skylan and chuckled. “You really think Torval will make a cripple Chief of Chiefs?”
Skylan flashed Horg a furious look and seemed about to make a scathing retort, when Draya beckoned to both men that it was time to begin. Skylan started to disembark, but Horg roughly shoved him aside.
“The man who is challenged goes first,” Horg stated contemptuously; then he added with a grin, “Or perhaps I should just say the man goes first.”
Skylan went pale with fury at the insult. His sword was halfway out of its sheath and he was going for Horg when both Norgaard and the Kai Priestess called sharply for him to stop. Fuming, Skylan sheathed his sword.
“I will slit your fat belly and feed your entrails to the fish!” he said.
“Yeah, you do that, boy,” said Horg, and as he passed Skylan, he lashed out with his foot, kicking him in the kneecap.
Skylan gasped in pain at the unexpected blow. Horg had timed it perfectly. No one on the ground had seen him.
“That is cheating!” Skylan grimaced as he tried to put weight on his sore knee.
“So go crying to Mama, boy,” Horg retorted,