Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [144]
“I don’t like this,” Skylan said. “It’s happened too fast. No one has time to think. I still believe it’s a trap. You shouldn’t go, my friend. You should wait here until your people come.”
“You lit the fire in my belly,” said Keeper. “As for my people, I’ve heard nothing. They’re not coming.”
Skylan needed to talk to Aylaen about the spiritbone. But she saw him coming and offered to help pack the supplies they would need. She disappeared down into the ship’s hold with Grimuir and Aki.
Skylan caught sight of the dragon’s head leaning up against the railing. The dragon seemed to be regarding him with anger.
Wulfe came wandering over. “Treia was on the ship yesterday,” he said. “While you were fighting the fury. I had a dream about that. Did I tell you?”
“Treia was on the ship?” Skylan eyed the boy. “What was she doing here?”
“She was talking to a god,” said Wulfe. “She went down into the hold and put on her robes and talked to a god.”
“Treia was here, praying . . .” Skylan said softly. “Maybe I have misjudged her. Maybe she really does want to help us.”
“I don’t think so,” said Wulfe. “The god was a very bad god. But then,” he added on reflection, “the god is a god of the Uglies and, according to my mother, all your gods are bad.”
Skylan shook his head and walked off.
CHAPTER
8
* * *
BOOK THREE
The Torgun waited impatiently for the sun to set. The Sun Goddess, Aylis, was in no hurry, however. She shone bright and hot and long. The day dragged. The warriors surreptitiously polished the weapons and polished them again. Aylaen packed some of the precious healing salves in a bag. Skylan worried about Chloe. Keeper thought about his mate, his children, and the invasion that might lead to his family being re united. Farinn sat off to himself, murmuring words to a song he was making about their journey, a song that might or might not have a happy ending.
Everyone was tense, nervous, fearing that at any moment the plot would be discovered and the Legate’s soldiers would come swooping down on them.
But the afternoon passed without incident. The guards at the gates dozed in the sun or walked moodily about the compound or groused about the fact that they had to work when their comrades had been given leave.
At last, Aylis dipped behind the hills, trailing red and purple scarves of fire as she left the world. When the shadows slid down the hillsides and washed over the compound, the Torgun entered the hold of the Venjekar and handed out the weapons. Keeper was watching the guards. The men ate their meal and drank from the wineskins. When they slumped over, heads on their chests, the ogre gave the signal. The Torgun left their ship, all except Skylan.
He remained on board the Venjekar, running his hand fondly along the wooden rail, remembering everything the two of them—he and this ship—had been through together. He had fought ogres on this ship. He had sailed in triumph to the Vutmana. The Venjekar had carried away the body of the disgraced Chief Horg, never to be seen again. The Venjekar had taken him and Draya on that ill-fated voyage to the Druid Isles and had brought Skylan back, alone, with the draugr of his dead wife forcing him to play dragon bones. The Venjekar had survived a storm hurled at them by a furious goddess, only to fall victim to a powerful new god.
It hurt him to have to leave his ship behind. He wondered what would happen to the Venjekar after they were gone. He had no idea, but he made a vow to Torval that he would come back for her.
Leaving the rail, he walked over to stand in front of the dragon’s head. He placed his hand on the dragon’s carved snout to bid farewell. The wood seemed warm and quivered beneath his fingers.
“He doesn’t want us to go,” said Wulfe.
“He left us,” said Skylan. “He doesn’t get a say.”
Still he stood there, eyeing the broken prow, the peg that had been carved into the bottom, the slot into which it fit.
“I may have to leave the Venjekar