Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [156]
“You sound like your father,” said Aylaen irritably. “What did you used to call him? An old granny?”
She is right, Skylan realized. Not so many months ago, I would have raced headlong into the fray. Now I go slowly, eyes and ears open.
He thought of Norgaard and the grief he had brought his father. There were many mistakes he had made, actions he had taken that he had come to regret. But few lay heavier on his heart than that.
“You pay me a compliment,” Skylan said.
Aylaen looked at him startled, then her face softened.
“Yes,” she said, after a moment. “I guess I do.”
She reached out her free hand to him. Her fingers were cold, but her touch warmed him like hot spiced wine. He looked back into the past and saw what he had been—Skylan, Chief of Chiefs, brash, bold, arrogant, demanding her love, becoming angry when she loved another. He had never stopped to consider that love, like respect, must be earned. He was no longer Skylan, Chief of Chiefs. He was only Skylan, trying every day to make up for the past.
Hand in hand, they moved deeper into the catacombs. Then Skylan stopped, staring. Keeper jabbed him hard with his elbow, and Aylaen gasped.
A chill mist hung in the air near where they were standing. The mist flowed from the walls and drifted over the floor of the catacombs. Trapped in the mist, his friends were doing battle.
Not against a foe. They attacked each other.
As Skylan watched, Sigurd took a swing with his sword at Bjorn. Grimuir attacked Aki. Farinn hacked at Erdmun with an axe and Erdmun slashed at Farinn with his sword. The men fought in an eerie silence. None of them spoke. None cried out in pain, though Skylan saw blood running freely from their wounds.
“Have they all gone stark raving crazy?” Skylan said, watching in amazement. He raised his voice. “What do you fools think you are doing? Sigurd! Bjorn!”
His voice jarred the silence. Sigurd turned slowly toward him. Aylaen screamed.
“His eyes! Torval save us, Skylan, look at his eyes!”
Skylan could not take the time to look at anyone’s eyes. Sigurd was running straight at him, his sword raised.
Skylan shifted his body sideways and thrust out his foot. Sigurd tripped, stumbled, and fell to the ground.
“Take him outside!” Skylan cried to Keeper. “Aylaen, go with him. Treat his wounds.”
She hesitated, and he yelled at her, “Take him out. I’ll try to save the others.”
Keeper grabbed hold of Sigurd, lifted him by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him bodily out of the catacombs. He tossed him onto the ground and stood over him, ready to bash him with the war hammer if he tried to attack.
Aylaen bent over Sigurd. He was unconscious and, remembering the hideous eyes, she was loath to touch him.
“Ah, a lemur got him,” said Wulfe, creeping up out of the darkness. “I told you so.”
The boy sniffed at Sigurd and wrinkled his nose and gave him a poke in the arm with his finger.
Sigurd groaned and sat up. Wulfe scrambled away in terror. Aylaen jumped to her feet, her sword poised, ready to strike. Sigurd blinked his eyes and looked up at her. “Treia lied,” said Sigurd. “It was a trap.”
Inside the catacombs, Skylan was moving up on Bjorn, who had turned to attack his own brother. Bjorn’s back was to Skylan, and he hoped to hit his friend on the head, knock him out. He paid no heed to the mist that curled around Bjorn’s boots and began to slide toward him.
“The lemur!” Keeper thundered a warning. “Don’t let it touch you!”
A ghostly figure rose before Skylan, ghostly hands reaching out for him.
Skylan’s stomach clenched. The hair raised on his arms and prickled on the back of his neck. He backed away. The ghost glided toward him.
“How do I fight it?” Skylan called.
“You don’t,” said Keeper. “You run.”
Skylan shook his head. “I won’t leave my men.”
“You can’t help them if you end up like them,” Keeper told him.
Swearing, Skylan turned and ran for the bronze door. He dashed outside with Keeper right behind him.
Once there, Skylan stopped, turned. The lemur did not follow him. The ghost wavered in the entryway like