Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [51]
Skylan walked over to check on the Legate. Both Acronis and Aylaen had fallen asleep. Aylaen lay on the deck, her hand resting on her sword’s hilt. The Legate slept on his stool, his chin on his chest. His position was uncomfortable, his hands were bloody from the tight ropes. He’d been given water to drink, but Sigurd was rationing the food and he’d had nothing to eat. Acronis had made no complaint, sat stoically upon his stool.
Skylan cast a last, weary glance at the Light of the Sea before the sun sank and the ship, swallowed up by darkness, would vanish from his sight. He saw, to his vast relief, that she was bringing in her oars, as well. He had been afraid that the zealous Zahakis would push his men, force them to row long into the night.
But then, why should he? Skylan asked himself bitterly. Unless the gods relent, Zahakis will easily overtake us, perhaps as early as tomorrow.
Skylan looked at his men, sleeping where they had fallen on the deck, too tired to make beds or even to eat. Their skin was sunburnt, their hands raw meat. The Torgun rarely had to row their ships. They could generally count on either the wind or the dragon to carry them over the seas.
Perhaps, this night, there would come a miracle.
Skylan touched the amulet and prayed to Torval more fervently and earnestly than he had ever prayed in his life.
“I don’t care what you do to me, Torval,” Skylan said. “Let your wrath fall on me with the full force of a hammer blow from your strong arm. Crush me and feed me to Freilis’s daemons. Save my men. Save Aylaen.”
He lay down on the deck, stared up at the stars, and he did not fall asleep so much as drop into an exhausted stupor.
Wulfe waited impatiently until he saw Skylan’s head loll to one side, his eyes close, and his breathing grow regular. Even then, Wulfe waited a little more to make sure Skylan and the others were deeply sunk in sleep. When he was certain that he was the only person awake on the ship, Wulfe stole noiselessly on bare feet across the deck to the dragonhead prow.
Wulfe worked free the wooden “plug” and removed it. The spiritbone was still there, nestled inside, snug and safe. Glancing back at the slumbering men to make certain no one was watching, Wulfe reached his hand into the niche.
He had the feeling someone was watching him. Wulfe froze and looked around. The men were asleep. Aylaen was asleep and so was the Ugly who sat tied up on the stool. Wulfe slowly lifted his gaze. The dragon’s head faced straight out to sea, but Wulfe was certain the dragon’s eyes were glaring at him. The sight startled Wulfe so that his hand jerked back.
“I don’t want the spiritbone.” Wulfe sought to reassure the dragon. “I’m going to give it to Aylaen.”
He reached again into the niche. He wanted nothing more now than to be rid of the spiritbone. Once it was gone, the dragon would leave him alone.
As if Svanses had been holding her breath until it hurt and now she was forced to let it go with a whoosh, the wind for which Skylan had been praying blasted across the sea and struck the Venjekar. Wulfe heard a splintering sound above his head. Looking up, he saw the fierce head of the Dragon Kahg swooping down.
Wulfe shrieked in terror and crouched, screaming, as the carved wooden head of the dragon toppled to the deck and landed with a crash on top of the oars, barely missing braining the boy. The freakish wind died away as if it had never been, leaving not a whisper behind.
Wulfe stared in terror at the wreckage. He saw again the head coming straight at him and, in his mind, he knew the dragon had tried to kill him because