Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [135]
The fury snarled something and spit at Skylan. The saliva struck his shield, burning a hole through it. The fury spread her wings and leaped into the air. She flew over the heads of the spectators, laughing shrilly. Her flight was swift. She soared into the blue sky, winging her way northward.
No one dared moved, fearing she might return. When she was a distant speck, chaos erupted.
Soldiers swarmed onto the field.
“I believe they are going to arrest me,” the druid said with a smile.
“Lose yourself in the crowd,” Skylan told him urgently. “We’ll cover you.”
The druid folded his hands over the front of his gray robes, calmly assessed the situation, and gave a nod. “A good idea. But before I go there is something I must tell you, Skylan Ivorson. You have made a very bad enemy. The fury was sent to kill you.”
Skylan stared in shock. The druid bowed and walked without haste toward the stands. Five soldiers were hot on his heels within arm’s length and were about to nab him, when both the soldiers and the druid were swept to the side by a throng of spectators rushing the playing field.
Skylan feared the mob was going to attack, and he grabbed Aylaen and pulled her behind him, raising his shield to protect them both. Hands reached out and he braced himself, only to find that the people were pounding him on the back or trying to shake his hand or simply wanted to touch him.
A woman tore Aylaen from his grasp, but it was only to embrace her. People began cheering them, hailing the Barbarians as heroes.
A group of men seized hold of Skylan and lifted him onto their shoulders. Several tried to pick up Keeper, but that proved impossible; the ogre was far too heavy. Men commandeered the handcart in which the weapons had been stored and hoisted Keeper up over the side.
Fearing Aylaen would be trampled, the ogre pulled her up with him. She stood beside Keeper looking dazed, holding on tightly as the young men began to drag the handcart around the field. People followed after them forming an impromptu parade. Another group of men grabbed the chariot in which the fury had ridden and lifted Legate Acronis into it and drove it in triumph.
Watching from the royal box, Chloe had been almost suffocated with terror and now she was crying from relief. She shouted herself hoarse and clapped her hands. When the men carried Skylan past the royal box, she waved at him and called out his name. She waved at her father and he smiled back at her.
Chloe followed her father’s gaze and looked around to see the Empress rising angrily to her feet and stalking out. Her slaves tumbled over each other to gather up fans and wine jugs, pillows and food baskets, and the lap dog. Her courtiers, caught by surprise, scrambled to follow her, and the box soon emptied out until the only other person remaining was the Priest-General. He sat at his ease, watching the tumult on the field without expression.
Now even the players on the opposing teams were crowding around the Torgun warriors, vying with each other for a chance to shake their hands.
“You better go rescue my slaves!” Acronis shouted, leaning over the side of the chariot to speak to Zahakis. “I fear they’re going to be killed by kindness.”
He tossed Zahakis the winner’s purse, having been given the victory by default. “You may find this useful.”
Zahakis summoned his men and led them onto the field. He and his soldiers went among the people, handing out the coins from the purse and suggesting that they celebrate the team’s victory in the taverns. The crowd cheerfully dispersed. Zahakis found that Skylan had managed to keep the Torgun together. The only three missing were Sigurd and Farinn and Bjorn and they were safe in the handcart, under the care of Keeper, being treated for their injuries and snake bite.
“So what god did you piss off?” Zahakis asked Skylan as they were walking out of the arena.
After the people had