The Dragonstone (23 page)

Finally Egil said, “I would hear once again the words of your vision.”

Arin intoned:

She looked at Egil. “Canst thou help us winnow the answers?”

Slowly Egil shook his head, lost in thought, his lone eye staring at a point unseen. At last he said, “You deem the Jaded Soul to be the green stone, aye?”

Arin nodded but did not speak.

“And to find it you need all the others named in the rede to go at your side…one of whom you believe is now with you: Aiko: the cat who fell from grace.”

Again Arin nodded silently.

“And the one-eye in dark water you deem is either Alos or me, right?”

Alos groaned. “This talk of finding green stones and of Wizards and T-trolls—I’m not going!” Quickly he poured a mug of ale, slopping some onto the table in his haste. “The one-eye, it’s Egil. Egil, y’hear. Not me. Egil’s the one-eye you want.”

“It could be this,” said Aiko, stepping to Alos and thumping a tightly wrapped leather bag onto the table before him. “The rotting pierced eye of a Troll.”

Alos shrieked and recoiled from the bag, and leapt up and bolted for the door, banging it open and stumbling out before any could stop him; and the measure of his desperation to be quit of this mad Elf and her yellow cohort was plain for all to see, for he had left his mug of ale behind and a nearly full pitcher as well.

*   *   *

“Aiko, that was unwarranted,” said Arin. “Alos may be the one we need to obtain the green stone.”

Unchastened, Aiko shook her head and gestured after the vanished old man. “Dara, for once I agree with that
fuketsuna yodakari:
Egil is the one we came here to find.”

“We cannot be certain, Aiko. We cannot even be certain whether or no it is Alos or Egil or the Troll’s eye we need.”

Aiko sighed. “If it is your will, Dara, I shall fetch him.”

Arin looked at the doorway, the door itself slowly swinging shut on its uneven hinges. She waved a negating hand. “Let be for now, Aiko. ’Tis plain to see he is frightened. Let him ponder it some days, then we shall see.”

Aiko returned to her tatami mat, but she left behind on the table the bag holding the Troll’s pierced eye.

*   *   *

“What is a, um, peacock?” asked Egil, looking up from his supper.

“A bird,” replied Arin, “from far lands to the south and east. I have never seen one.”

“I have,” said Aiko. “They live in Ryodo and Chinga and Jung…and in the islands to the south. They have long, iridescent green tail feathers which they can fan upright in brilliant display. Each feather is marked with an eye.”

“An eye?”

“The likeness of.”

“Oh,” said Egil, stirring his spoon in his bowl of stew.

Arin waited, but Egil did not speak. At last she asked, “Hast thou a thought?”

Egil shook his head. “I just wondered what they were, for like you, I have not seen such a bird.”

He fished up a spoonful of beef and sat in thought a moment, then tipped the meat back into the bowl. He got up from his bed and went to the window and looked out over the courtyard and downslope at the fjord beyond, two longships at dock. “The Queen of Jute,” he said.

“What?” responded Arin.

Egil turned. “They say she is mad, my
engel
, just as was her ancestor.”

“Mad? How?”

“I know not.”

“What of her ancestor? Mayhap there lies a clue in the past.”

Egil shrugged. “The tales say she once…um.” Egil stopped, as if reluctant to speak further; his eyes were downcast in embarrassment.

“Say on,” Arin urged. “Whatever thou knowest, I would hear.”

Egil looked up at her, then took a deep breath and blurted, “They say she once took a horse to her bed.”

Aiko raised one eyebrow skeptically as Egil turned back to the window, unwilling to meet Arin’s gaze.

“Um,” mumbled Egil to the windowsill. “There’s even a chanty about it.”

Aiko sighed. “Has it come to this, that we are to believe the ribald songs of sailors?”

“Many songs are rooted in truth,” said Arin, then asked, “How old is this song?”

“Ancient,” replied Egil. “That Queen of Jute is long dead. But they say that madness runs in families, especially in that royal line,” responded Egil.

“Has there always been bad blood between Fjordlanders and Jutlanders?”

“Aye, but—”

“What is to say this is not but more bad blood?”

“Nothing, my
engel.
Nothing at all…. But true or no, rumor or no, she is the only mad monarch I have an inkling of.” Egil turned and faced her again.

“Is there more?” asked Arin.

Egil shrugged. “Only this: they say animals roam in the royal gardens at the court of Jute, yet whether or no any of these are rutting peacocks, I cannot say.”

*   *   *

Evening fell, and Egil slipped into slumber. And even though his fever was gone, once again in the middle of the night he suffered ill dreams.

*   *   *

Days passed and days more, and each day Egil’s wounds were better than the day before. Every day, Thar came and watched as Arin laid poultices and medicks on
Egil’s face and marveled at how fast he mended, swift by the healer’s standards, slow by Egil’s own.

Every day as well, members of the ship’s crew came and visited awhile, including Captain Orri, who always brought laughter to the room.

But every night, Egil woke up weeping, calling out men’s names.

There came a day, however, when he sat in a chair facing Arin and said, “My
engel
, I would tell you what I can of the vile Wizard Ordrune.”

I
cannot…there is…” Struggling to speak, Egil shook his head, confusion in his eye. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out and stared down at his hands.

Arin drew her chair close, until she sat knee to knee with Egil.

He looked up at her and gritted, “I remember all he did to us in his tower, in his dungeons, in his…pits, but as to…concerning”—a look of fierce concentration drew over Egil’s features—“the other…before…after.” Egil slammed a fist onto open palm. “He stole thoughts. Took memories. Left confusion. Cursed me.”

Remaining silent, Arin reached out and took his hand and gently unclenched his fist, and held it softly while smoothing out his fingers.

Egil watched, as if somehow detached from his own hand, yet slowly he relaxed. After a moment he took her fingers in his and lightly kissed each one. She lowered her eyes, and he released her, yet she did not draw away, but instead she reached out and took his hand again. They sat in still comfort, neither speaking. Through the open window they could hear the cook calling for the yard boy to bring more wood, while within the room there sounded only the whisper of whetstone against steel as Aiko sharpened her blades. At last Egil took a deep breath and slowly let it out, and then quietly, calmly, he began again. “This I do remember.”

“Ragnar! Ragnar!” Egil scrambled down the slope toward his armsmate. The young man stopped and waited as Egil came scurrying. Egil dropped to the footpath, calling out, “We have it!”

Ragnar’s eyes widened. “Your father’s ship?”

Egil laughed hugely and shouted, “Yes!”

Ragnar whooped and clapped Egil on the shoulders. “By Garlon, at last! A ship of our own.” Suddenly, Ragnar grew sober. “Your father, is he…?”

“It’s the ague. He can’t seem to cast it off. But he said he didn’t want to miss the raiding season altogether, so he gave me command of the ship. ‘You are only twenty summers old, my son, yet I was no older when I built her. Besides, ’tis time to see if you can fly on your own.’ That’s what he said, Ragnar—fly on my own—and me with four unblemished raids under my belt. Ha! I’ll show him just how well I can fly. I’ll swoop like an eagle, my friend, for is it not my name?”

“
Hai
, Egil, like hawks and falcons and other such we’ll all swoop down upon our prey, and no matter how they twist and turn we’ll run them to ground.” Ragnar paused, then said, “Your very own ship at last.”

Egil grinned. “At least for one raid. Come, Ragnar, let us go look her over.”

Egil and Ragnar set off down the path toward the docks below, where tethered was the
Sjøløper
, a modest ship by Fjordlander standards—being just seventy feet long and carrying but fifteen pairs of oars—yet to Egil and Ragnar she seemed the greatest of all the Dragonships sweeping across the seas.

They strode along her length, stepping over thwarts, examining the overlapping oaken strakes that yielded the hull its serpentine flexibility, causing the craft to cleave sharply through the waters, giving the ship a nimbleness beyond that which its narrow keelboard could bestow alone. They scrutinized the mast and unpacked the square sail from its protective tarpaulin, unfurling and inspecting the dyed cloth, along with the beitass poles. They checked the steerboard and each of the spruce oars racked amidships in oaken trestles, the oars trimmed to differing lengths so that when plied in short choppy strokes they would all strike the water simultaneously.

Having gone over the ship from stem to stern, Egil said, “She needs a minor bit of work, but the crew will make short shrift of that.”

Ragnar leaned against a wale and looked out over the water as if to see lands afar. “When do we sail?”

“As soon as we can,” replied Egil.

Ragnar now turned and leaned back, his elbows on the wale. “Where are we bound? What shores? Leut? Thol? Jute? Where?”

Egil shook his head. “Father says those places are already picked over. He suggests West Gelen.”

“Ungh,” groaned Ragnar, his face twisting sourly. “Fisher villages. We’ll find naught but old men to fight and cod to win.”

“My thoughts exactly, Ragnar. But you see, I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Aye. To go where Fjordsmen have not been.”

Ragnar cocked an eye at Egil. “Where?”

Egil glanced ’round. No one stood nearby, though a few lads fished from the end of the dock. He slipped his jerkin loose and reached under to take a flat oiled-leather pouch from his belt. From the packet he extracted a tattered fold of parchment, doubled over several times, and said, “I bought this from a seaman in Havnstad in Thol.” Slowly he opened the parchment, fanning it out on a thwart. It was a map, rather large.

Ragnar’s eyes widened as he scanned the unfamiliar shores. “Where are we going? What will we do?”

“What else, Ragnar, but raid, that’s what: towns, towers, ships, villages—we are Fjordlanders! Wolves of the sea! As to where…? Here!” Egil stabbed a finger down on the map.

*   *   *

Egil and Ragnar rounded up a crew, mostly younger men, men of their age, men eager for adventure, for Egil would not reveal where he was bound, and many of the older warriors would not go without knowing the destination. Yet the young men had no qualms about setting out on a venture with nought more than the promise it would be exciting. Besides, Egil had named them Hawks of the Sea, though Young Wolves of the Sea would have been more accurate. Hence, with nought but promises of adventure and of deeds of derring-do and of fortune
awaiting, Egil and his Hawks set sail on a midsummer’s day, leaving behind a puzzle as to where he was headed, and only Egil’s father knew whence ship and son were bound, a destination he kept to himself.

*   *   *

In the dark, moonless night, clouds covering the stars, the
Sjøløper
slipped through the blackness to come alongside the unwary craft, and Egil and his Hawks quietly clambered over the wales and up.

*   *   *

Filthy and athirst, with whips flailing against their backs, all the men stumbling in chains, Egil and his crew were driven along the twisting passageway through thick, stone bulwarks and into the courtyard beyond. Behind them, hinges shrieking, the massive main gate slowly swung to and slammed shut, and a huge bar ponderously rumbled across to thud home in a deep recess embedded in the high, buttressed ramparts. And with gears clattering and ratchets clacking and iron squealing, a mighty portcullis screeched downward in its track, its iron teeth grinding down to bottom out in deep socket holes drilled in the stone pave below.

Straight before the captives stood a large, dark building—the main hall—a hundred or more feet wide and three storeys high. To the left and against the stone bulwark were stables and a smithy and outbuildings. To the right, in the northwest corner and abutted against the wide ramparts stood a tall tower. Little of this did Egil get to see as he was shoved forward by his Drôkken guard, yet he saw enough to know that he and his Hawks were caged.

They were driven shuffling across the courtyard and into the large building and down, their chains rattling and manacles clacking, as down the narrow stairwell they floundered to come at last to the foul mews below.

*   *   *

“So, you are the captain of the raiders.”

Egil remained silent.

The Mage turned from the window and stared at Egil. “And you would have the wealth of my ship?”

Again Egil said nothing.

“Fool,” hissed the Mage.

Egil had been wrenched from the cell and shoved roughly up and across the courtyard and into the tower. Up a spiral stairwell round the walls he had been driven, two Drôkha and a swart man taking turns ramming a prod into his back, sniggering as they did so. They had driven him up the twisting stairs and into the room at the top, the room where awaited the Mage. Tall he was and gaunt and pale, with no hair whatsoever on his head— neither locks nor eyebrows nor lashes nor moustache nor beard. His nose was long and straight, and his eyes dark, obsidian, his lips thin and bloodless, and his fingers long and grasping and black nailed. He wore a bloodred robe.