Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [33]
Skylan sullenly took his place at the tiller. Sigurd made a muttered remark as he limped past him. Skylan clenched his fists and started to rise. Zahakis shoved him back down.
“Why is there bad blood between you two?” Zahakis asked as the Venjekar set out to sea, following in the wake of the war galley.
“He challenges my right to be chief,” said Skylan, casting a dark glance at Sigurd, who continued to glower at him from where he sat chained to the bulkhead.
“You a chief?” Zahakis said, amused. “You are just a boy!”
“I have seen eighteen winters,” Skylan said. He started to say, “Our god made me chief.” But he knew that was open to question. He touched the silver sword he wore around his neck, asking Torval’s forgiveness and his blessing and said instead, “I fought a battle against the old chief and I won.”
“So what right does Graybeard over there have to challenge you?”
Skylan swallowed. He didn’t like admitting the truth, but Zahakis might ask for confirmation from Raegar. Skylan had to make this convincing.
“Sigurd thinks I cheated in the ritual contest. He believes that I murdered Horg, the old chief. Poisoned him.”
Zahakis raised his eyebrows. “Did you?”
“No,” said Skylan.
“So did you kill him in combat or was this Horg poisoned?”
Skylan stared moodily out to sea and did not answer. Even now, he did not like to think about that time. He had been so proud of himself, so cocksure that he had broken his oath to his father, to his god. Only to find out that it was all a lie.
“You people really are savages,” Zahakis said. He leaned against the rail, making himself comfortable. They had a long journey ahead of them and nothing to do. “Tell me about this ritual combat.”
Skylan related the history of the Vutmana, describing the battle in detail, how the priestess measured out the ceremonial cloth on which the warriors stood, how each warrior was given three shields and one sword, how each had to stand still and take the blows from his opponent until first blood was drawn.
“That means our god, Torval, has made his decision and the priestess declares the winner,” Skylan said.
“So you had to stand there and let this Horg try to kill you? You couldn’t fight back or defend yourself?” Zahakis shook his head. “That takes guts. I would like to see this Vutmana.”
“You can,” said Skylan. “Let Sigurd and me fight. This night when we make landfall. Let me prove to my warriors that Torval chose me!”
He spoke with an anger and intensity that was not feigned. Skylan wanted this fight and he knew, from the bruises on his neck, that Sigurd wanted it as well.
“If you keep on getting into trouble, I will kill both of you before the voyage ends,” Zahakis remarked. “You might as well entertain us. I will speak to the Legate. You are his property, after all.”
When Zahakis walked off, Skylan looked across the deck at Sigurd and gave a slight nod. Sigurd rubbed his chin and nodded back.
They made landfall that night. The next day, according to Zahakis, they would head out to sea and not see land again for weeks. The Legate was not happy with the amount of meat they had salted down for the long sea voyage and he again sent out hunting parties to acquire more. Zahakis took advantage of the opportunity to speak to Acronis about Sigurd and Skylan, proposing that the barbarians be permitted to settle their differences.
Acronis listened with interest as Zahakis described the strange way in which the barbarians conducted their ritual combat.
“You are right, my friend,” said Acronis. “One man forced to do nothing except defend himself while the other tries to slaughter him requires extraordinary courage. It does sound entertaining.”
“Too bad it’s just a ruse young Skylan is using to try to escape,” said Zahakis, grinning.
“Do we really appear to be that stupid,