Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [66]
The pain in Skylan’s arm eased. Aelon had decided he’d been punished enough apparently. Skylan walked on shaking legs toward the Venjekar, which remained on the wheeled conveyance. He felt the eyes of his friends on him. Bjorn said something to him, but Skylan ignored him.
He had spoken defiantly to Zahakis, but now Skylan wondered: What good was defiance? What good was courage? There was no escape. No way home. Even his proud ship was a prisoner, bereft of the Dragon Kahg whose spirit sent it skimming over the waves. Skylan rested his hand lovingly on the hull of his broken ship, and he bowed his head and felt tears trickle hot onto his cheeks.
I am scared, Skylan admitted.
He had not felt fear like this, not even standing in the shield wall facing ogres, outnumbered two-to-one. He had fought giants and their bone-smashing stones and he had not known fear like this—gut-wrenching, bowel-shredding terror.
He was a slave with no control over his fate. If Acronis decided to starve him, Skylan would starve. If Acronis decided to whip him, Skylan would die under the lash. Raegar was probably going to kill Wulfe, and Skylan was helpless to protect the boy he had come to love.
I failed Wulfe, like I failed so many people—my father, Draya, Garn. I failed Aylaen. I failed Torval and my gods.
Skylan looked back at the mistakes he had made—mistakes that had led him and his people to this place—and he wished with all his soul that he could live his life over again. His arm burned and throbbed, but the pain in the limb was nothing to the pain in his heart. If his father, Norgaard, had been there, Skylan would have sunk to his knees and sobbed like a child.
“How is my fish knife?” said a voice.
Skylan raised his head and saw Torval standing over him. The god carried a cracked shield. His battle axe was notched, his helm dented. His clothes were torn, his face bruised and battered. His eyes were bright and glittered like a steel blade beneath a winter sun.
Skylan burned with shame.
“Do not look at me, Lord,” he said. “I cannot bear for you to see me like this. I have failed you.”
“No,” said Torval, after a moment’s brooding silence. “It is we gods who have failed you.”
“No, Lord! Never!” Skylan said, shocked.
Torval gave a weary smile. “Well, well. We won’t argue over it.”
“How goes the battle in heaven, Lord?” Skylan asked, profoundly respectful.
Torval shrugged. “About as well as it goes for you here on the ground. Still, so long as you keep fighting, so will we.”
“Fight,” Skylan said bitterly. “How can I fight when their foul god, Aelon, has cut off my sword arm?”
“Gods may control the spinning of the wheel,” said Torval. “But the thread the wheel spins is your own.”
A slow and steady rain began to fall. The soldiers who had been left behind to guard the prisoners sat some distance away, huddled over a fire that sputtered in the rain.
Skylan pulled himself up and over the hull, onto the deck of his broken ship. The dragonhead prow lay on the deck, empty eyes staring into the rain. Finding a blanket, Skylan spread it out and lay down.
The cold rain drummed on his head, soaking the blanket so that it was worse than useless. Then he heard the sounds of other footfalls on the deck. He heard voices—Erdmun complaining about the rain and whining that his arm hurt, Bjorn telling his brother to shut up. He heard Sigurd gruffly order Aylaen down into the hold where it was dry. He heard Aylaen say defiantly, “I will sleep on the deck with the rest of you.”
The tents the soldiers had erected for the slaves would provide shelter from the storm. The Torgun made their beds on their ship.
Skylan smiled in the rain-soaked darkness.
What good was courage? What good defiance?
Maybe no good at all. Maybe we will die slaves with tattoos burned into our flesh. Maybe we will be captives of Aelon until death frees us.
Until that time, we will sleep on our ship.
CHAPTER
4
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BOOK TWO
The Temple of the New Dawn was located at the entrance to the