Rage of the Dragon

CHAPTER 39

Held captive aboard the Aelon’s Triumph, Aylaen sat huddled on the stool, two soldiers standing guard over her. She paid no heed to them. She told herself Raegar was lying to her, that Skylan was safe and well and would be coming after her. Common sense told her she was the one who was lying-to herself. Of course, Skylan had walked into an ambush. The abduction of Farinn made no sense otherwise. Skylan would fight. He would not allow himself to be captured, taken prisoner. He would fight until they beat him to the ground and then he would fight on until death overcame him.

At the thought, tears burned her eyes. Aylaen refused to let herself cry. She would not allow Raegar or these other men to see her be weak.

She was thinking of Skylan and afraid the tears might come anyway when she saw the guards behind her jump to attention. Raegar walked toward her. She rose to her feet, faced him with defiance. He was almost welcome. She could sink her grief in hatred.

Raegar gave her an oily, insinuating smile.

“Have you thought over Aelon’s offer? The god is being magnanimous. I hope you have sense enough to appreciate it.”

Aylaen snorted and started to turn away. He reached out, seized hold of her shoulder.

Aylaen bit him.

Raegar swore and snatched his hand back, blood welling from tooth marks in his fingers. Raegar’s face flushed an angry red. Furious, he struck Aylaen, knocking her to the deck. She lay there dazed, her ears ringing, pain bursting in her skull.

Gritting her teeth, trying to focus her eyes, Aylaen pushed herself up off the deck. One of the guardsman reached to help her. Aylaen snarled at him and he drew back. She held fast to the rail and spit out the blood, hers and Raegar’s.

“My stepfather hit me harder than that,” she said, sneering.

Raegar’s flush deepened to an ugly purple. He raised his hand again, fingers clenched to a fist. She had made him look the fool in front of his men and this time he might well kill her. Aylaen braced herself for the blow, but it never fell.

A rogue wave rose from a flat, calm sea and smacked the side of Raegar’s dragonship. The vessel lurched, men staggered across the canting deck. Sailors who were still on their feet began to point and yell in terror.

The Venjekar rose out of the sea, leaping up from the waves like a whale, foam flying. The red eyes of the dragon blazed. Seawater ran in cascades from the prow and the hull and foamed beneath the keel. Seaweed hung dripping from the ropes and twined about the stump of the broken mast. The deck was empty. There was no sign of anyone living on board.

“Ghost ship!” one sailor yelled hoarsely.

“Come to claim us!” another shrieked.

The story was ancient and always the same, whether told by Sinarian sailors over wine, Vindrasi sailors over mead, or ogre sailors over fermented goat’s milk. All told the tale of the ghostly ship that sailed the seas, searching for sailors to man her.

Aylaen could see that Raegar was as shaken as the rest of his crew, though not by a ghost ship. He was startled by the unexpected sight of the Venjekar.

The sky darkened, clouds roiled and flickered with lightning. The wind freshened. The sea grew leaden, waves rolling sullenly. The Sea Goddess was angry and grieving and not likely to be kind to Aelon’s Triumph. Waves struck the dragonship from all directions. The ship bucked and twisted and corkscrewed.

Aylaen clung to the railing.

“Skylan!” she screamed, as the wind tore her words from her mouth. “Skylan!”

The hatch on the Venjekar rose. Skylan came running up from below, his brass sword in his hand. He was naked except for the loincloth worn by the Aquins and soaking wet, his long blond hair plastered to his head, his skin glistening. Farinn and Acronis followed him; both of them looking more like mermen than humans. Wulfe dashed up last, dancing and gibbering. They seemed a fitting crew for the ghost ship that had sprung from the waves. One sailor gave a wild yell of terror and leaped into the sea.

Others seemed likely to follow, preferring a swift death by drowning to an eternity sailing with this ghastly crew. Captain Anker swore and bellowed, trying to restore calm, shouting commands to which few sailors paid any heed. The soldiers, either more disciplined or less superstitious, drew their swords and drove the sailors to action.

“Archers!” Raegar yelled, pointing at Skylan and the men on the Venjekar. “They’re not ghosts now, but they soon will be!”

The archers drew their bows and took their places at the stern. They tried aiming, but found it difficult to maintain their footing on the bounding deck.

Raegar turned and went lurching across the deck, racing for the prow. The spiritbone of the Dragon Fala swung from a hook on the dragonhead prow. Raegar was going to summon the dragon.

The Venjekar sailed closer, Akaria speeding the Vindrasi dragonship, even as she impeded Raegar’s.

“Aylaen!” Skylan called to her. “Jump!”

“The oceanaids will save you!” Wulfe screeched.

The two soldiers supposed to be guarding Aylaen were picking themselves up off the heaving deck. Aylaen looked at Skylan and she looked back at Raegar.

His Dragon Fala had suffered a humiliating defeat the last time she had attacked the Dragon Kahg. Fala would be eager for a chance to have her revenge.

Aylaen hoped Skylan understood. She couldn’t waste time explaining. She started to run after Raegar. A hand seized hold of her arm, dragged her back.

Aylaen turned to face her captor. Only one thought was in her mind. She must prevent Raegar from summoning the dragon. This man was trying to stop her and that couldn’t be allowed. Resolve and determination filled her.

In that moment, Aylaen knew Torval’s Madness.

All her life, she had heard about the Madness of Torval, the crazed power that fills warriors in battle. During this madness, a warrior is said to become one with the god. The warrior loses all sense of his own mortality. He tramples on fear and slays doubt. He runs toward danger, not away from it. He knows himself to be invincible.

Time slows for a warrior in Torval’s Madness. The god gives the warrior the strength of his arm and guides his hand. The light of the god’s wrath shines in the warrior’s eyes, making him terrible. His foes cower before him and throw down their weapons and flee in terror.

The madness filled Aylaen. Time slowed. She saw the flash of lightning on the sea, the foam flicking from the waves. She felt the storm wind on her face, tasted salt on her lips. She watched the play of muscles in her forearm, the turning of her wrist, the graceful, gliding motion, the stretch, the reach, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of the guardsman’s sword. She watched her hand grasping, tightening, pulling the sword free of the sheath. She stood tall and swung the sword with the god’s might.

Blood sprayed her face. Someone screamed. The hand let loose of her arm. The bright fire of the god blinded Aylaen. She ran across the deck, as though she were running on a cloud. Faces with mouths wide loomed in front of her and she swung her sword and they disappeared in blood-red spray.

Raegar stood at the prow, reaching for the spiritbone. Aylaen was yet a few feet from him. She shouted to Torval, shouted the cry the war chief raises as he throws his spear over the enemy shield wall, warning his foe to prepare to die.

Raegar heard her. He turned in astonishment. His eyes widened in fear.

She saw herself in those eyes, her face and arms and legs blood-splattered, shining-eyed, wild and utterly consumed by madness. Raegar could do nothing for a petrified moment except stare at her as she came racing down on him, blood flying from her sword.

Terror drove him to action. He grabbed the spiritbone by the glittering golden chain with his left hand and fumbled to draw his sword with his right.

Aylaen jabbed her sword at the hand holding the chain. Raegar jerked his hand back to keep from losing it. Aylaen flung away the sword. She grabbed hold of the spiritbone, gave it a yank that broke the slender gold chain, and ran for the ship’s side with the intention of jumping into the sea.

Raegar, roaring in fury, pounded over the deck behind her.

Aylaen clamped her teeth over the spiritbone and seized hold of the rail, pressing her hands into the wood to lift herself up and over. The rail was wet with salt spray. Her hands slipped. Before she could regain purchase, Raegar grabbed hold of her and dragged her back and flung her to the deck.

She landed on her hands and knees. The spiritbone fell out of her mouth, lying in front of her in a tangle of gold chain. Raegar made a grab for the spiritbone. Aylaen lunged, caught hold of it, and threw the spiritbone into the sea.

Raegar howled orders for men to go in after the spiritbone, floating on the surface of the black, turgid waves. No one obeyed. Furious, Raegar began to unbuckle his armor with the intention of diving in himself.

“No use, Your Worship,” called Captain Anker, peering down into the water. “It’s sunk.”

Aylaen slumped wearily to the deck. The madness of Torval ebbed away, leaving her cold and shivering and sick to her stomach. Her hands and arms were sticky with blood. Her tunic was drenched. She was dimly aware of men shouting out a warning, but she was too weak to find out why everyone was rushing around in a frenzy of fear.

Someone loomed over her. Raegar gripped his sword. He meant to kill her.

Aylaen gave him a ghastly, bloodstained smile.

“Aelon wants me alive,” she reminded him.

“I will send the god your soul!” Raegar snarled.

He lifted the sword.

The Venjekar rammed into the hull of Aelon’s Triumph.