Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [146]
The Torgun knew what the ogre meant. A warrior should die with his axe in his hand.
“We can stand here staring at corpses all night or we can escape,” said Sigurd angrily. “What’s done is done. Pick up those torches. We’re going to need them in the tunnels.”
Aki and Grimuir grabbed up torches. Sigurd took the lead, heading in the direction of the villa that was silhouetted on top of the hill against a pale purple sky. The villa was dark. No lights shone.
Aylaen let go of Skylan’s hand. She walked past the dead men without looking at them. Skylan pondered the deaths of the guards and his sense of foreboding grew. His unease wasn’t helped by Keeper, who fell back to walk with him.
“The Priest-General saw to it that the soldiers who guarded the house were sent on furlough,” said Keeper softly. “But it would have been mad folly for the Priest-General to have given the same order for those who guarded the slaves. There is a reason these men had to die. Sleep potions wear off, leaving men groggy, but not too groggy to handle a sword. Whatever is going to happen at the villa this night, Raegar is making certain that none of the soldiers will be around to interfere.”
“Raegar and his god are working hard to help us escape,” said Skylan, frowning.
He had the sickening feeling that every step he was taking away from his ship was taking him in the wrong direction. His wyrd was bound to the Venjekar like the rope tied to the anchor.
Sigurd started the warriors moving at a run. The Torgun swept up the hill toward the dark villa. Wulfe dropped down on all fours to run faster. Skylan watched the boy dashing through the grass like a dog—or a wolf. The hair prickled on the back of his neck.
“Stand straight,” he told Wulfe irritably. “Run like a human being.”
Startled at the harsh tone in Skylan’s voice, Wulfe stood upright.
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“I’m not mad at you,” said Skylan. “I’m mad at Sigurd. I’m mad at myself. I should have refused to go. There’s something all wrong about what we’re doing.”
He looked back over his shoulder. He could no longer see the ship in the darkness. But he could feel the dragon watching them.
“I said we would all escape or none of us. And now we’re leaving one behind.”
The Torgun climbed the steep hill that led to the villa. A broad, paved road—wide enough to accommodate two wagons traveling side-by-side—wound back and forth across the hillside. The road was made of crushed stone that glimmered white in the light of the stars and a round, fat, full moon that was a strange orange in color; the sort of moon one sees in autumn, not in the middle of summer.
The road was deserted, but the warriors kept to the shadows of the pine trees that grew alongside. Whenever they came to a curve in the road, they could see the villa, black against the stars.
Skylan noted that the tattoo on his arm had still not so much as tingled. He supposed this was good, though he did not find the notion that Aelon approved of what he was doing particularly comforting.
They reached the grounds in front of the villa and their pace slowed. No slaves bustled about attending to their duties. No soldiers kept guard. The villa was dark. The night was so quiet that a sudden, eerie wail made them all jump.
“Run!” Wulfe gasped, his eyes wide with fear. “It’s a lemur!”
“A what?” Sigurd asked, raising his sword and looking about.
“Lemures are spirits of the family’s dead ancestors,” Keeper explained. “Some say they are good spirits who guard the house, protect the living from harm.”
“We should leave,” Wulfe insisted, trembling. “The lemures don’t want us here.”
The wailing grew louder and now they could hear broken words and blubbering.
“That’s no ghost,” said Sigurd, relieved and angry that he was relieved. He mopped his face with the back of his hand. “It’s a woman weeping.”
“The Legate’s daughter is well loved,” said Keeper, and there was a catch in his voice. “The house-slaves grieve for her.”
The men glanced at each other, grim and uneasy. The sound of a woman