Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [48]
Sigurd now had hold of Acronis. Erdmun was binding the man’s hands behind his back.
“What do we do with our friend the Tribune?” Bjorn asked grimly.
Zahakis had recovered consciousness and was on his feet. Bjorn and Grimuir had bound his arms behind him with rope.
“I say we slit his throat!” Aki said, and the other Torgun shouted in agreement.
Zahakis faced Skylan and smiled as best he could with a broken nose and a split lip and one side of his face bruised and bloodied.
“He lives,” Skylan said shortly, raising his voice so that it could be heard throughout the Venjekar and across the water to the Light of the Sea. “He lives so that he may tell the world that the Torgun are valiant warriors who will never be slaves to any man!”
Sigurd didn’t like it, but the other Torgun were pleased. The Vindrasi often set free foes who had survived a battle, knowing that their tales of the Vindrasi’s ferocity and courage would spread fear throughout a region.
Skylan took charge of Zahakis. Placing his sword in the man’s back, he gave him a shove toward the ship’s rail. Once there, he cut the man’s bindings.
“I owe you for saving the boy,” Skylan said quietly.
Zahakis gave a rueful smile. “I underestimated you barbarians. What will you do with the Legate?”
“Use him as a hostage.”
Zahakis nodded. “I will come after you, you know.”
“I know,” said Skylan. “And we will be ready.”
He yelled for Bjorn to help him. The two picked up Zahakis and heaved him over the rail. He landed with a splash, floundered a bit as a wave swamped him, then began swimming with swift, strong strokes for the ship.
Aylaen gazed sadly across the water to where men were dragging Treia onto the trireme. The rest of the Torgun raised a cheer. They were free and they were on their way home.
CHAPTER
12
* * *
BOOK ONE
The sail hung limp. The sun-baked air was breathless. The seas flat. Unless the dragon returned, the Torgun would have to man the oars, and there were only seven of them. If the dragon had been with them, Kahg could have sailed them to the World Tree and back. Skylan cast a pleading look at the carved head on the prow.
The wooden eyes stared impassively at nothing.
Skylan sighed and shook his head and took grim stock of their situation. Most of his men had suffered some sort of injury in the battle, though none severe. They had taken the Southlanders completely by surprise. Few of the soldiers had been able to draw their swords before the Torgun were on them. Fighting had been hand-to-hand, resulting in split lips and swelling eyes, bruised cheeks and bloody knuckles. He had a wound in his side, but it wasn’t severe. Grimuir had a knife slash across his shoulder that would leave a fine scar to attract the women, so he said with a grin.
The Torgun were excited now. Their freedom had gone to their heads like strong wine. They were disappointed that the gods were not helping, but they did not fault them or complain. The gods of the Vindrasi were stern parents who went their own way, lived their own lives, and expected their mortals to do the same. If life knocked you down, you got back up, wiped off the blood, and charged back into the fray; you didn’t run home sniveling.
The Torgun shoved the sea chests into place and began hauling out the oars. Sigurd roamed the deck, issuing orders, urging the men on. The Torgun knew what they were about, however, and no one needed Sigurd to tell them how to thrust the oars into the oarlocks or ready themselves for rowing.
When they were settled and the oars bit into the water and the ship lurched forward at a dismal crawl, they raised their voices in an ancient sea chant. Skylan couldn’t bear the pain. He went down into the hold, muttering something about going to fetch their weapons.
The chest where their swords and battle-axes were stowed was open. He could see tiny slivers of