“If something goes wrong, the boy will provide a diversion. Like I said,” Skylan added, “you can all swim back home.”
The Aquins exchanged glances.
“We will come with you. Our honor is at stake. If there is trouble, we will deal with it in our own way. Once you have your man, you will return immediately to the First City. The dolphins are waiting to carry you.”
“Trust me, I don’t want to stay down here any more than you want me down here,” said Skylan. “The sooner I can breathe real air and feel the sun on my face, the better.”
Manta’s frowning gaze went to Wulfe. “About the fae princeling—”
“He’s coming,” said Skylan flatly. “He’s here in case something goes wrong. And nothing’s going to go wrong.”
“Something always goes wrong,” Wulfe whispered.
“Shut up,” Skylan muttered, and put the breathing tube back in his mouth.
* * *
Skylan found himself in an unusual situation, one he didn’t like. All his life, he had been in command. As a child of eight, he and Garn, Bjorn, and Erdmund and the other boys spent their leisure time forming a shield wall and charging into imaginary foes. Skylan had been their war chief then. He had been their war chief when he and his friends stood together in a real shield wall. Now, for the first time, he wasn’t in command.
Manta had made it clear before they left on this mission that none of her warriors would serve under the leadership of a male and Skylan had been forced to agree to accept Manta as his commander or abandon the mission. Although he had boasted to the Aquins that he could do this alone, he hadn’t truly meant it. He would have tried, of course, because Farinn was his man and he wouldn’t abandon him, but he knew quite well he would have failed.
He climbed the stone stairs that led out of the water and up to the dungeon level, keeping in the rear, staying out of direct light, for he didn’t want the guards to get a good look at him. The breathing mask on his face, the harness around his shoulders, the clamshell attached to his back, and the serpent armor over his chest provided some disguise, but anyone looking at him closely would see that he wasn’t an Aquin.
He glanced over his shoulder, back down the stairs and into the water. Wulfe’s head bobbed on the surface, along with the silvery heads of the oceanaids, trying to see what was going on. The oceanaids had no love for Aelon, according to Wulfe, who said they had heard about his depredations among the fae from their cousins, the dryads. The oceanaids had offered to help if there was trouble. Skylan, more frightened of this than he was of the Warrior-Priests of Aelon, had issued a strict order that the oceanaids were not to get involved. Wulfe had only grinned. Skylan had left the boy and his fae friends with the gloomy feeling he was doomed.
The dungeons of the Fourth City were exactly like those in which Skylan had been imprisoned, only larger. He could see the prisoners hanging in nets suspended from the ceiling.
Aquins were by nature a peace-loving people, fond of simplicity and order in their lives, and the dungeons were not very crowded, for not many Aquins broke the law. There was no thievery because the Aquins kept nothing of value to steal. The idea of murder, of one Aquin taking the life another, was impossible to imagine. Aquins who did break their society’s few laws were brought before the Queen, who passed judgment on them, which meant they spent a few days in a net to think over their wrongdoing.
Skylan counted twenty prisoners hanging in nets, compared to no more than a few in the First City. Skylan guessed that the expansion of the prison of the Fourth City was occasioned by the need to lock up those dissenters who did not find Aelon to their liking. They were probably being held captive so the god could convince them of the error of their ways.
He quickly spotted Farinn, whose blond hair and fair skin stood out in contrast to the bluish-green skin of the Aquin prisoners. The young man was in the second cell and lay curled up in a ball of misery in his net, paying no heed to what was going on around him.
Having located Farinn, Skylan turned his attention to the guards. They were all males and one of them was a Warrior-Priest with the serpent tattoo on his head. Skylan sucked in a breath. The Warrior-Priest was wearing a sword made of brass, so that it would not rust. The sword hung from a belt around his waist. He had no sheath for it. Judging by the unblemished surface and high polish, the brass sword was brand new. The hilt was wrapped in leather, either whale or shark skin. The blade was slender, made to suit the hand of the lightweight Aquins. In a realm where a brass key was a rarity, this sword must be worth a fortune.
A Warrior-Priest with a valuable sword was no lowly prison guard, Skylan realized. This priest was a high-ranking officer. Why was he here? Skylan kept an uneasy eye on him.
Manta walked forward confidently, with a bit of a swagger. The Warrior-Priest advanced to meet her. Skylan had been taught from an early age to look at how a man, any man, handled his weapon. A friend could turn to a foe in an instant and then Skylan had better be ready to fight. He noticed without even being aware that he was noticing how the Warrior-Priest fidgeted with the sword’s hilt. The man was unsure of himself, his grip shifting, trying to find a comfortable hold. When the Warrior-Priest walked forward, he got the blade tangled up in his legs and nearly tripped himself. Skylan grinned behind the mask. The sword was newly-forged and so was the swordsman.
The Warrior-Priest eyed Manta. “What are doing here? Did you bring a prisoner?”
Manta launched into her explanation.
“You have a Vindrasi prisoner,” she said, and continued on with her speech. She stumbled again over the word “priestesses,” which made Skylan wince, but otherwise she did well.
Skylan shifted his gaze from the priest to Farinn. Manta had spoken loudly. The prison cells were quiet and Farinn could hear her quite clearly, especially when she said “Vindrasi prisoner” and mentioned the Spirit Priestesses. He remembered these women and the hateful tattoo. Farinn rose to his feet, his hands on the net.
Skylan shuffled a little nearer to the cell, to let Farinn get a look at him. Farinn clung to the net, straining against it as though he would rip his way through it, sucked in a deep breath, and shouted with all his might.
“Skylan, run! It’s a trap!”
CHAPTER
34
“So that’s why the priest bastard is here,” Skylan muttered to himself.
Manta and her warriors were in front of him, standing between him and the Warrior-Priest. The Aquins were startled, wary, wondering what to do. The Warrior-Priest cast his gaze over the women and gestured to the guards to take care of them. The Warrior-Priest circled around, coming for Skylan, who noted that the priest was having some trouble removing the sword’s hilt from the belt loop.
Skylan took advantage of the man’s delay. Skylan shoved aside Manta and ran to meet the Warrior-Priest. Skylan briefly considered grabbing Manta’s spear as he dashed past her, decided his bone knife would serve him better. The Warrior-Priest saw Skylan draw his knife and smiled.
A novice warrior watches your weapon, Norgaard had taught his son. A skilled warrior watches your eyes. Skylan gave his ear-splitting war call, partly to intimidate his foe, but mostly to let Farinn know that they were going to be fighting their way out. Torval’s name echoed and banged its way around the cavern, sounding so fearful it almost frightened Skylan. He waved his knife threateningly in the air, and jumped up and down, howling, trying to look and sound the part of a bloodthirsty Vindrasi.
The Warrior-Priest did not cow easily. He stood his ground, his sword in his grip, his hand unconsciously clasping and unclasping the hilt. His eyes were fixed on Skylan’s wildly swinging knife. He was not watching Skylan’s feet.
Skylan kicked the Warrior-Priest in the knee. The man’s leg buckled and he went down. He dropped his sword, his hands instinctively reaching out to keep himself from falling. The moment the blade hit the stone, Skylan slammed his foot down on it. The priest stared up at him, his mouth open.
“Eyes, fool!” Skylan said, pointing to his own. “Next time, look at the eyes.”
He kicked the priest in the head. The man toppled sideways and rolled over on his back with a groan, blood streaming. Skylan had probably broken his jaw.
He looked up to find Manta and her warriors and the Aquin guards standing unmoving, staring at him.
“Go free Farinn!” Skylan cried, and he tossed the bone knife to Manta.
She caught it more by reflex than because she knew what she was doing.
“Go!” Skylan shouted, and Manta came to her senses. She gave a brief nod and, calling to two of her warriors, ran into the cell where Farinn hung in his net.
Skylan snatched up his prize sword and turned to face the guards. The sword was lighter in weight than he liked and it was brass, not steel, but the weapon was well made. The sword was superbly balanced, the blade sharp. He made a few experimental passes with it, to get the feel of it and to drive back the Aquin guards, who apparently had been entertaining the idea of rushing him. At the sight of the gleaming blade and the deft way Skylan wielded it, the guards backed off precipitously.
Keeping one eye on the guards, Skylan bent down to swiftly unbuckle the sword belt and drag it off the Warrior-Priest. The belt was too small to go around Skylan’s waist. He slung it over his shoulder. He named the sword Viper Tooth.
“Can I use my magic now?” Wulfe asked. “I thought of a spell my mother taught me. I want to try it out.”
Skylan was startled to hear the boy’s voice. He turned to find Wulfe standing right behind him.
“Guard them,” Skylan said, pointing to the Aquin guards who were bunched up in a far corner.
“Can I use my magic?”
“Only if they move,” said Skylan.
He looked into the cell to see Manta sawing with the bone knife at the net that held Farinn. Screams and shrieks and squeals came from below. Skylan ran to the stone stairs and looked down into the water. Aquin warriors had been waiting in ambush for him. The warriors were under attack by the oceanaids, who slammed the Aquins with waves, knocking them into the rocks, battering and buffeting them until they were eventually forced to retreat.
Silent slinking
sideways sliding
scuttling slithering
Wulfe began happily singing his song. Skylan paid no attention. The oceanaids had secured the sea route. He wondered how long it would be before the soldiers would come for them by way of land. Probably not long; they might already be on their way.
Skylan ran into the cells. Manta was hacking at the rope net with her knife, but not making much progress. She stared at the brass sword in his hand and then nodded in approval.
“We’re not out of this yet,” said Skylan. Issuing orders came so easily to him, he forgot he wasn’t in command. “Warriors were lying in wait to attack us from the sea. The oceanaids stopped them for the moment, but I don’t trust those fish-women. Wulfe’s casting some sort of magic spell on the guards. I don’t trust him either. More soldiers are probably coming from the land-side and could be here any moment. I need for you and your troops to go back in there and clear a way for us to escape.”
Manta gave a nod. She handed the bone knife to him, glad to be rid of it. Summoning her troops, she turned to go back to the guard room.
“Manta,” Skylan called, “I know you and your people won’t take a life. But these Warrior-Priests don’t have the same convictions. Aelon killed the daughter of your Sea Goddess. Remember that.”
Manta’s expression was unreadable. He had no idea what she was thinking or what she would do. Skylan would do what he had come to do. Save his man. He thrust the knife into his belt.
“Stand back!” he ordered Farinn.
Farinn backed up as far in the net as he could. Skylan swung his sword. The blade sliced easily through the rope, opening a good-sized hole. Farinn wriggled out and dropped to the ground. He faced Skylan and swallowed.
“I’m sorry, Skylan,” he said, shame-faced.
“Later.” Skylan clapped his hand on Farinn’s shoulder and gave a rueful smile. “There’s blame enough to go around. Now we’re going to get out of here—”
“Ivorson! Skylan Ivorson! Don’t leave us!”
The deep bellowing roar calling out his name caused Skylan to stare in amazement. The ogre godlord and his shaman were in a nearby cell, shaking the sides of the net and thundering for him to be set free.
“They were the ones who warned me about the trap,” said Farinn, nodding at the ogres. “They overheard the guards talking.”
Skylan had first-hand knowledge of ogre fighting skills. He would be glad to have them on his side.
“I thought you were dead,” he said to the godlord as he ran over to their net.
“We thought the same about you,” the godlord grunted. “Will you free us?”
Both ogres were in a sorry state. They’d lost weight; ogres liked meat and lots of it. A diet of seaweed had nearly killed them. The shaman’s black feather cape was almost completely denuded, with only a few scraggly feathers remaining. With his long, gangly legs now bare to the thighs, the shaman reminded Skylan of a molting heron. The shaman grimaced as though he were being forced to swallow bitter wormwood when he saw that he was going to owe his freedom to Skylan. The shaman muttered something to the godlord.
“Your magic got us into this mess,” the godlord told the shaman. “Stay if you want. I’m leaving.”
“Stand back,” Skylan warned.
The net was barely big enough to hold both ogres and they had nowhere to go. Skylan sliced his sword through the rope at the bottom, taking care to come as close to the shaman’s foot as he could without actually cutting off a toe. As it was, the shaman let out a yelp and snarled at Skylan in fury.
Manta yelled his name. A series of loud splashes and a horrified bellow from the guard room sent Skylan running. He trusted the ogres would free themselves. He dashed into the guard room, slid to a sudden halt and caught hold of Farinn as he would have run past him.
The guard room was ankle deep in snakes.