Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [145]
“Ivorson!” Grimuir called in a low voice. “You better come. Sigurd is getting impatient.”
Skylan picked up the dragon’s head, lifted it, and mounted it carefully, fitting the peg into the hole. He felt the prow settle into place. He gave it a gentle shove. The prow did not move. He followed with his eyes the graceful curve of the neck, the fierce head that gazed, unafraid, into the future. Looking into the painted eyes, Skylan thought he saw a flicker of red flame.
A trick of the dying light, he said to himself, and he turned away. He climbed over the ship’s hull, landing on the ground. Everyone was silent, staring at the dragon’s head that stood firmly, defiantly, in his accustomed place.
“How did you do that?” Bjorn demanded. “We tried to fix it and it kept falling off.”
Skylan shook his head. He had no idea.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” said Erdmun uneasily. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
“I’ll give you a sign,” Sigurd said grimly. He raised his fist and shook it under Erdmun’s nose. “That’s my sign. Now let’s get out of here. Time’s wasting.”
Skylan started off after the others, then realized that Wulfe wasn’t with him. Swearing softly beneath his breath, Skylan dashed back to the ship. It was hard to see in the failing light. The boy was over by the dragonhead prow.
“Wulfe!” Skylan hissed softly and urgently.
“I’m coming!” Wulfe called.
He stuffed something in the top of his leather breeches and then came racing across the deck. He jumped down beside Skylan, landing on all fours.
“What were you doing?” Skylan asked, helping the boy to his feet.
“Getting my treasures,” said Wulfe, patting the bulge beneath his frayed shirt. “I had a special place where I hid things. The dragon guarded them for me.”
“What things?”
Wulfe glanced back at the dragon. Then he shrugged. “Just things.”
Skylan thought no more about it. The others had ranged far ahead of them and were now approaching the entrance to the compound. He grabbed hold of Wulfe and hustled him along.
Sigurd motioned for silence. According to Keeper, the guards had fallen victim to the drugged wine. Still, they might be shamming. Sigurd padded soft-footed to the iron gate and peered out between the bars.
“I see one man sleeping,” he reported in a harsh whisper.
He motioned for Keeper to come forward. Their plan was for the heavy ogre to open the gate by brute force. Keeper planted his shoulder against the gate and gave a heave. The gate swung open easily, causing the astonished ogre to nearly fall through it.
Keeper drew back, suspicious. The others gripped their weapons. The thought crossed everyone’s mind that this was too easy, going too well.
“They just forgot to lock the gate, that’s all,” said Sigurd. “Torval walks with us.”
“So does Aelon,” said Bjorn grimly.
He pointed down at the tattoo. The warriors felt no pain, not so much as a twinge.
Sigurd thrust the gate open and walked through. No one challenged him. No one stopped him. The others followed. The soldiers lay on the ground. Wine jars lay upended beside them, the Legate’s wine spilling out onto the ground. The men lay very still, unusually still and quiet. Grimuir bent down, put his hand on a soldier’s neck.
“This one is dead,” he reported.
Bjorn squatted beside the other man and, grabbing his shoulder, rolled him over. The man’s arms flopped on the ground, his eyes stared into the twilight. There was froth on his mouth; his face was contorted in pain. His dying had not been easy.
“Treia said there would be a sleep potion in the wine,” Aylaen said, her voice strained. “Raegar told her it was a sleep potion!”
“This one did not drink a sleep draught,” said Bjorn. “The wine was poisoned.”
“Treia didn’t know!” Aylaen said defensively, and then she repeated softly, to herself, “She didn’t know. She couldn’t have.”
Skylan was standing beside her and he felt her shiver. He reached out his hand simply to touch her, to offer reassurance. Her fingers closed over his in a grip that was almost painful.
“Poison,” Keeper was saying, shaking