Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [94]
He made a show of selecting his place on the cloth. If the battle had been held early in the morning, this might have made some difference, for Horg would have put his back to the sun, forcing Skylan to fight while staring into the glare. But Draya had fussed over her blasted cloth and her stakes and ropes so long that the sun was no longer a factor.
Horg defiantly faced the crowd of onlookers. Let them see he was not afraid, not ashamed.
When Horg indicated he was ready, Draya summoned Skylan. Horg looked back at the dragonship and sniggered to see the young man trying to conceal the fact that he was finding it hard to walk on his injured knee.
Horg had no fear Skylan would accuse him of cheating. The young man was far too proud to admit he’d been such a witling as to fall for that old trick. Horg watched Skylan limp down the gangplank, hoping to see him fall, like his father the cripple. Skylan disappointed him. The pain must have been excruciating, but he kept careful control of his face, gave no sign that he was in pain.
Skylan looked at Horg with ice-blue eyes, and he looked at no one else as he walked to his place with his very slight but very visible limp. His father asked him if he was all right. Skylan paid him no heed. Skylan looked at Horg. His shield-bearer, Garn, asked him what had happened. Skylan did not respond. He looked at Horg. Skylan did not answer the Kai Priestess, who was bleating about something. Skylan looked at Horg.
Horg, irritated, looked away. I’ll have Skylan’s body strung up, he decided, and let the crows pick out those damnable blue eyes!
All was now in readiness. The wind died. The crowd hushed. The waves stilled. The ocean was flat, dead calm. The red eyes of the dragon watched.
“Horg Thekkson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, come forward,” Draya called. “Skylan Ivorson, son of Norgaard Ivorson, Chief of the Torgun, come forward.”
Horg sauntered over to her. Skylan limped.
Draya lifted a jeweled drinking horn from her basket and filled it with wine—a rare delicacy, for wine was costly and drunk only on festive or sacred occasions. She held out the horn to Skylan.
“By drinking this sacred wine, you pledge yourself to obey the rules of the Vutmana as set down by the gods. You pledge yourself to Torval.”
Skylan solemnly took the drinking horn in his right hand and clasped the amulet he wore around his neck with his left. He raised the horn to the sky and said, “Torval, be witness to my faith.”
Skylan drank a sip of wine and handed the horn back to Draya. His blue eyes fixed, once again, on Horg.
Draya wiped the rim of the horn with a white cloth and gave it to Horg. He took hold of the horn, tilted it to his mouth, and quaffed the remainder of the wine, gulping it down. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and, grinning, handed the horn back to Draya.
“Let’s get on with this,” he said.
As Draya took the horn from him, she moved a step nearer, so that she faced him directly. Her back was to the crowd and to the shield-bearers. She spoke to him alone. Her voice was low, and she put a long and deliberate pause between each phrase.
“There are gods, Horg. The gods are not dead. The Gods of the Vindrasi curse you!”
Perhaps it was the way Draya said the words—calmly, coldly, and with absolute certainty. Or perhaps it was the terrible light of truth in her eyes.
Horg wondered suddenly, with a gut-clenching feeling of panic, What if she is right!
CHAPTER
7
Garn reached across the rope barrier to hand Skylan the first of his three shields. Each shield was round in shape, made of planks of wood, and was large enough in diameter so that it protected him from shoulder to knee. The shield was trimmed in leather, which gave it added strength, for when the leather shrank, it bound the wooden planks together. An iron boss in the center protected Skylan’s hand. He grasped the shield’s wooden crosspiece, sliding his hand into the domed underside of the boss.
“What happened to your leg?” Norgaard asked, seeing Skylan favor