Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [30]
When the matches ended, the losers paid up or promised they were good for it, and everyone made ready for sleep. The fires were allowed to burn out. The soldiers wrapped themselves in blankets. The sentries paced the beach in the fitful rain. The prisoners lay down in the wet sand and tried to sleep. Zahakis had ordered the Vindrasi to be chained together, side by side. Skylan had managed to see to it that he was chained to Sigurd.
Skylan kept an eye on the sentry, waited until he was some distance away, then said softly, “Sigurd, I need to talk to you.”
“Go talk to yourself, piss-shit coward,” Sigurd muttered, rolling over, turning his backside to him.
Skylan managed to control his anger, though the bile burned holes in his stomach.
“I have a plan for us to escape,” said Skylan.
Sigurd was silent a moment, then he started to turn.
“Don’t move!” Skylan cautioned. “Just listen.”
“Well?” Sigurd said churlishly.
“These Southlanders enjoy a good fight. Let’s give them one.”
Sigurd shifted position slightly, managing to peer at Skylan over his shoulder. “I’m listening.”
“We will wait until we have been out to sea for several days, when the soldiers are good and bored, then you and I will get into a fight. The soldiers will break it up. I’ll tell Zahakis—”
“Hush!” Sigurd warned.
Boots crunched in the sand. The sentry was making his rounds. Skylan closed his eyes, feigning sleep.
When the sentry had passed, Skylan said softly, “I will tell Zahakis that you have challenged me for the right to be chief of the warriors and that we must fight to see which of us it will be.”
Sigurd grunted. “A Vutmana?”
“Of sorts,” said Skylan.
“Go on,” said Sigurd. “I’m starting to like this.”
“I will say that tradition demands that you and I fight with sword and shield. We will start our battle, and when the soldiers relax their guard, we will stop fighting each other and turn on them.”
Sigurd snorted in disgust. “Even a blind cat can still smell the rat. The Southlanders are stupid, but not that stupid.”
“Like I said, I have a plan.”
“We all know your plans have worked out so well so far,” said Sigurd, sneering.
“Are you with me or not?” Skylan asked.
“On one condition.”
“What is that?” Skylan asked warily.
“We fight the Vutmana for real. Whoever draws first blood is chief.”
Skylan hesitated. Once he would have agreed immediately, certain that Torval would not let him lose. But Skylan was not so sure of Torval’s favor these days. He had broken an oath to the god. He had lied, invoking Torval’s name. True, he had fought a heavenly battle against serpents at Torval’s side, though he had to admit that might have been a dream.
Skylan put his hand to the fresh weal on his chest obtained when the tail of the serpent had lashed him, knocked him out of the heavens, and sent him tumbling back to earth. If it was a dream, it had left its mark. He had faith in Torval, whether Torval had faith in him or not.
“I agree,” he said. “In Torval’s name.”
“So what is this plan?” Sigurd asked.
“We start by convincing the Southlanders we want to kill each other,” said Skylan.
Sigurd grunted and grinned. “I think I can do that.”
Wulfe had not gone ashore with the rest, but had remained on board the Venjekar. The soldiers frightened him. They stank of iron. He waited until all of them were quiet except for their snoring, and then he softly and silently crept off the ship.
He was bored. He tended to sleep a lot during the daylight hours, dozing in the sun. He liked being up at night, when he could do what he wanted with no Ugly to yell at him. He thought he might go talk to Aylaen, who had returned to the ship, try to cheer her up. He had come to like Aylaen. But Treia was down there with her and Wulfe hated Treia.
She and Raegar had caught him practicing his magic, bringing flocks of seagulls to save Skylan and the others from the giants. Treia had termed him “fae,” hissing the word. Raegar had done worse, calling him “daemon spawn.” Wulfe was not even sure what