“If you are certain…” said Sigurd.
“Vindrash sent us this ship,” said Skylan. “It is a sign.”
“So be it,” said Sigurd. Then he asked the question that had been on everyone’s mind, though no one had mentioned it. “What do we do with Treia?”
“Throw her to the sharks,” Wulfe muttered.
“They would be better off throwing you to the sharks, acursed foe,” Treia hissed. The others had been so intent on their plans, they had not heard Treia emerge from the hold. She now walked slowly across the deck. With her weak eyes, she found it difficult to see where she was going. She was shivering in her wet priestess robes-robes that reminded everyone she was a traitor, a priestess for an enemy god. She had pulled her hair back and tied it behind her head. Her face was a pinched, rigid white mask with dark holes for eyes. Skylan decided that Keeper looked more alive.
Skylan was inclined to agree with Wulfe as to what to do with her, but he couldn’t. Aylaen would never forgive him. He glanced at Aylaen, assuming she would do what she had always done in the past: support her sister. He was surprised when Aylaen did not stir. She remained standing with her hand protectively on Wulfe’s shoulder. The men were looking at Treia and shifting uncomfortably. No one knew what to say.
“You are all fools if you think Vindrash sent you a ship!” Treia gave a contemptuous snort. She pointed her bony finger. “I will tell you who sent this ship. Death sent it and that is where this ship will take you! Raegar will find you. He is out there. He will find you.”
She folded her arms across her chest and stood defiantly, gazing into the thinning mist.
Sigurd walked over to Skylan, jerked a thumb at Treia. “Well, what about her?”
“Treia stays with us,” Skylan said, knowing even as he uttered the words, he would regret it.
“Good.” Sigurd grunted. “I’d sooner set sail with a hold full of vipers.” He hesitated, then said uneasily, “You don’t believe her, do you? What she said about the ship?”
“She speaks for a god who enslaved us,” said Skylan dismissively. He grinned at Sigurd. “Are you afraid of Raegar?”
Sigurd grinned back and replied with a fairly detailed account of what Raegar could do to himself, then began shouting orders.
The Torgun set to work. Some hauled supplies from the Venjekar’s hold to the ogre ship, which Sigurd had named Torval’s Fist, for the god’s hand had swept away the ogres. Others boarded the ogre ship to try, as Sigurd said, to figure out how the damn thing worked. The Vindrasi were accustomed to their sleek, swift dragonship, with its single mast and sail and banks of oars. The ogre ship was far larger, bulky and poorly built, with an odd-looking triangular sail and a rat’s nest of rigging. The ogres had not had time to put the oars into the water before they were attacked, apparently, for the oars had not been fitted into the oarlocks. The Vindrasi stared in dismay at the gigantic oars that would take two humans to wield even one, and prayed to Torval that the wind would hold.
Skylan was about to go onto the ogre ship to help.
Aylaen blocked his way.
“You think you’re going to send me with Sigurd,” she said with a defiant toss of her head. “Well, you’re not.”
“Aylaen-” Skylan began.
“I won’t leave, Skylan,” Aylaen said. “My wyrd is also bound to the Venjekar. I’m Bone Priestess now. You need me to summon the Dragon Kahg.”
Skylan led her off to the dragonhead prow where they could speak in private.
“You must take the spiritbone of the Vektia with you, Aylaen. No, wait, listen to me,” he said, seeing her eyes flash. “You will take the spiritbone and sail with Sigurd. I will draw off Raegar. He will come after me.”
“And he will kill you!” Aylaen said. “You said yourself he has fifty warriors on his ship!”
“He has to catch me first,” said Skylan, grinning. “I travel light. His fifty warriors make for a heavy load.”
“Be serious!” Aylaen said angrily.
“I am serious, Aylaen,” said Skylan. He took hold of her hands, looked into her eyes. “Vindrash sent the ship so that you could take the spiritbone to a place of safety.”
Aylaen let him keep hold of her hands, which astonished him. “The spiritbone is safe where it is. And so am I. I already told you, my wyrd is bound with the Venjekar.”
She walked off, leaving Skylan to stare after her, his wits so much sea foam.
“She routed you, my friend-foot, horse, and chariot,” said Acronis, coming up to stand beside him. “I never saw a man lose a battle faster.”
“I should make her go,” Skylan said, frowning, though he had no idea how, short of knocking her unconscious.
Acronis clapped him on the shoulder. “Give up, Skylan. Make what terms for surrender you can and leave the field to her.”
In the end, five chose to stay with Skylan and the Venjekar.
Wulfe was one, of course. He would never leave Skylan, despite the fact that the oceanaids were adamant that something bad was going to happen. Acronis was another. He would be needed to navigate. Skylan had been hoping the others would try to persuade Aylaen to go with them, but when she told the men she would be staying with the Venjekar, they accepted her decision. She was the Bone Priestess and her place was with the Dragon Kahg. Treia was staying, because no one knew what to do with her. Farinn’s decision to stay with Skylan caused an uproar. He was the youngest. The men urged him to come.
“I order you to go,” said Skylan.
Farinn shook his head. “I can’t obey, sir. I won’t leave in the middle of my song!”
“Your song is liable to be very short and have a very bad ending,” said Skylan grimly.
Farinn flushed and shrugged. He didn’t have the courage to look at Skylan, but he wouldn’t budge either. He just kept shaking his head and at last Skylan gave up.
Within a short time, Torval’s Fist was loaded with supplies and ready to sail. The time came for farewells.
The differences, the arguments, Sigurd’s dislike of Skylan and his attempt to take over as Chief of Chiefs, Bjorn’s loyalty to Skylan in defiance of Sigurd, the fights, the rivalries and animosity that had once loomed so large seemed very small and petty now. The good-byes were brief, especially as the wind was starting to freshen, coming out of the south like a breath from the god. The breeze would carry the ship northward, toward home.
A few awkward embraces, several attempts at jests, messages to carry to loved ones, and then Sigurd and his men boarded Torval’s Fist. They spent a few tense moments trying to figure out how to steer the clumsy ogre vessel, then the triangular sail caught the wind and carried them over the gray and misty sea, into the fog, and they were gone.
Skylan stood watching until he could no longer see them. He was assailed by doubts.
In the shield wall, all the warriors stand together, shoulder to shoulder, their shields overlapping. Here he was surrounded by enemies, and he had shattered his shield wall, split his forces, sent his warriors away.
Because of a dream.
Wulfe wandered over to announce cheerfully that if the ogres killed Skylan, he, Wulfe, would change into a man-beast and rip out their throats.
“I’d rather they didn’t kill you, though,” Wulfe added after some thought.
“Me, too,” said Skylan.
CHAPTER 6
The Venjekar drifted on the water, rolling on the uneasy waves. Torval’s fog was now only scarf-like patches of mist hanging above the sea. The sun rose. It was morning. But what morning? Skylan had lost track of time. Today might be today or it might be yesterday or maybe tomorrow. He didn’t suppose it mattered. He went to take the tiller. The Dragon Kahg had kept them from drifting in the fog. Now that the sun was up, Skylan would have to set a course.
As the wind whisked away the last vestige of mist, Farinn, who had been posted as lookout from the stern, gave a cry and Acronis, standing at the prow, gave a shout. Skylan did not know where to look first. He turned one direction to see an ogre ship with ogres clustered at the rail, gabbling in amazement at the sight of the sleek, dragon-prowed Venjekar. He turned the other way to see Raegar’s war galley raising its anchor.
The ogre ship was closest, so close that Skylan could hear an ogre, presumably a godlord, roaring orders. Skylan could not see the activity on the deck, but he could judge by the sounds of clashing steel and thudding feet that the ogres were arming themselves.
Raegar’s war galley was still some distance away. Lost in the fog, fearful of blundering unwittingly into the ogre fleet, Raegar would have given orders to drop anchor and lower the sails. Now that the fog was gone, he could resume his attempt to capture the Venjekar.
Acronis had his spyglass-what Wulfe called his “magic seeing glass”-to his eye.
“He’s sighted us,” Acronis reported to Skylan. “The war galley is sailing, though I’m not sure how. They don’t have their sail raised and there are no rowers.”
“Look at the dragonhead prow,” said Skylan. “What do you see?”
Acronis shifted his spyglass. He gasped in astonishment. “I see a dragon! The dragon’s head appears to be alive! I see gleaming scales. The mouth is wide open, the eyes flash…”