Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [5]
“Maybe you should do something wrong and then it will turn out right,” Wulfe suggested.
Skylan smiled bleakly. “Maybe I should. Garn knew. Garn always knew what was right. He tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen. And now Garn is dead and I am a slave and my people are slaves.”
“All because of Treia.” Wulfe growled, sounding so much like a dog that the soldier whistled and looked around in search of an animal.
“I can’t blame her,” said Skylan. “She trusted Raegar. We all did.”
Wulfe snorted. “She likes rutting with him.”
“How do you know Raegar was lying? Maybe it was a miracle. Maybe Vindrash did save him.”
Wulfe snorted. “Vindrash wears boots then. The floor was dusty and I saw the footprints. I saw Raegar’s footprints. His feet were bare and wet. I saw two pairs of prints of men who had been wearing boots and they were dry. They stood and talked to Raegar. The dry boots left and Raegar stayed.”
Skylan frowned. “If that’s true, Raegar knew Treia would go to the temple. She is our Bone Priestess. She would go there first to pray. Raegar was waiting for her!”
“I tried to warn you about her,” said Wulfe. He gave Skylan’s arm a sympathetic pat, though he was still careful to keep his distance from the iron manacles. “I hate her. And I hate Raegar. He hit me!”
“Why? What did you do?”
Wulfe muttered something.
“What?” Skylan nudged him. “Speak up.”
“He caught me spying on them,” said Wulfe sullenly. “And he hit me. Someday I’ll kill him.”
“Get in line,” said Skylan.
He was silent, then he asked the question he’d been afraid to ask. “How is Aylean? I heard she had the sickness, but that she survived. I also heard that she tried to fight the soldiers. They didn’t hurt her, did they?”
“I don’t know. She’s in the Big Ship out there.”
Wulfe pointed to the trireme, which floated at anchor some distance away, near the sandbar on which the Venjekar had disastrously run aground. Compared to the sleek, graceful, dragon-prowed Venjekar, the trireme with its large hull and oars and beaked snout looked like some sort of gigantic seagoing turtle.
“Don’t worry,” said Wulfe. “They won’t hurt Aylean or Treia. Raegar told the soldiers both women were Bone Priestesses and his god wanted them safe.”
“I wonder why his god wants Bone Priestesses,” Skylan muttered. He shifted in the sand, trying to find a more comfortable position, causing the chains to clank. The guard cast him a sharp glance.
“You two—shut up! No talking!” the soldier shouted.
Skylan glared at him and started to say something else. The soldier walked toward them. Wulfe jumped to his feet and scrambled off.
The soldier paid no attention to the boy. He kicked Skylan in the ribs. “What were you two talking about?”
“Go diddle yourself,” said Skylan.
The soldier started to kick Skylan again. Skylan had been spoiling for a fight and this seemed as good a time as any. He jumped to his feet and swung the chain that hung from the shackles at the soldier’s head. The heavy leg irons hampered Skylan’s movement; his swing was slow and clumsy. The soldier ducked, then drew his sword and struck Skylan on the side of his head with the flat of his blade.
Skylan fell sprawling in the sand. He could taste blood in his mouth. His ears rang.
“Better hope you didn’t kill him,” said another soldier. “The Legate will be furious if you did. He expects this one to fight in the Para Dix.”
“Bah! I didn’t hurt him. These savages are like mules. You have to hit them to get their attention.”
The soldier started to kick Skylan again. Skylan twisted around, grabbed hold of the man’s foot, and yanked him off balance. The soldier landed on his butt in the sand.
His comrades chortled and jeered. The soldier, his face red with fury and embarassment, scrambled to his feet. He would have probably killed Skylan if the Tribune had not come up at that moment.
“Harm him, Manetas, and the Legate will have his price out of your pay,” said the Tribune. “You men, chain him more securely.”
The Tribune’s name was Zahakis. Skylan had taken particular notice of him. The man was tall for a Southlander;