CHAPTER

2

BOOK TWO

Acronis entered the city in triumph. But it was the Torgun warriors who were the true victors—unusual for slaves.

The procession was led by Raegar, who had demanded the honor of carrying the dragonhead prow. He pictured himself proudly walking the streets with the decapitated dragon, symbolizing the victory of Aelon over the gods of the barbarians. Raegar would be impressive, imposing.

But when he lifted up the dragonhead prow and started walking along the parade route, he was greeted by laughter. The sight of Raegar carrying the dragon’s head made it appear as if the dragon were out taking a stroll. To make matters worse, the head seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It lurched and bobbed and occasionally made unexpected lunges at the crowds, terrorizing small children and eliciting gleeful hoots from the adults.

The jokesters who think it their duty to provide entertainment no matter what the occasion shouted out ribald remarks that increased the audience’s mirth. As Raegar walked down the street, he could actually see merriment expanding out in ripples ahead of him, as the crowds, hearing the commotion, leaned forward to see the fun.

Before he’d traversed more than a few city blocks, Raegar was sweating, annoyed, and angry. If he had not been assured by Aelon that the gods of the Vindrasi were crushed and shattered, on the verge of utter annihilation, Raegar would have said the goddess Vindrash and her dragon were making him look foolish.

Zahakis, who witnessed Raegar’s ordeal, was thankful he was wearing his helm; its hinged cheek pieces concealed his broad grin.

The sailors and oarsmen of the Light of the Sea walked in the parade, waving proudly to friends and family. Sure, living conditions on board ship were harsh, their jobs were back breaking and often dangerous, but these men were not slaves. They were free men, citizens of Oran, and Acronis treated them as such. This was a proud moment in their difficult lives and they walked and waved, sometimes picking up their children along the way and carrying them on their shoulders.

The soldiers marched next, resplendent in their shining armor; faces stern, eyes forward, their standard bearers leading the way.

After them, the Vindrasi captives.

Men had mounted the Venjekar on wheels and attached long ropes to the ship so that the Torgun warriors could haul it through the streets. The ship was no great burden to the warriors, who were accustomed to hauling it out of the water and dragging it onto the shore.

The burden that nearly crushed them was in their hearts. The knowledge that they were slaves, conquered, vanquished. The humiliation of being forced to exhibit their defeat to gaping crowds of foreigners. The misery of being strangers in a strange land, far from their homes and loved ones. Their grief over the loss of comrades. The bitter realization that they were in this battle alone, that their gods were either unable or unwilling to help them. The unspoken fear that they could not escape their fate. The death of hope.

Aylaen had chosen to walk with the warriors. Acronis had first decreed that the women should stand on the deck of the Venjekar. Aylaen had told him defiantly that he might as well kill her now, for she would sooner die.

“You should have seen the fire in her eyes,” Acronis would later tell Zahakis. “The set of her jaw, how she held herself. It was at that moment I conceived the idea of fighting her in the Para Dix. I will call her the Ogressa. The Barbarians and the Ogressa. Has a nice sound to it, doesn’t it?”

Keeping this in mind, he told Aylaen she could walk with Skylan and the other Torgun males. Now she wondered if she had made a mistake. She stared in dismay at the narrow, twisting streets, the enormous buildings that seemed to enclose her like the walls of a tomb. She was appalled at the size of the city and at the sheer numbers of its people. But what she noticed most and what she would never forget was the smell.

Thousands of unwashed bodies pressed together in the blazing heat of a summer’s day. Garbage rotting in the alleyways. Gutters overflowing with brown, stinking water. Smoke from forge fires and cook fires hung on the breathless air. The stench made her sick to her stomach. She felt bile rise in her throat and she feared she would vomit.

“How do they stand it?” Erdmun asked, gagging. The Torgun stood beside their ship, waiting for the orders to haul on the traces. “This is worse than a shit hole!”

Aylaen tried to block out the smell by pressing her nose and mouth into the sleeve of her tunic, but when the time came that they had to start hauling on the ropes, she had to breathe it in.

The people stared—particularly at her, as she stood among the ranks of the men—and jeered and hooted. Aylaen’s face burned, her body shook, her legs trembled. She thought she would die of shame. She wished she could die. She saw that she was not alone. Skylan’s face was pale and strained, his lips compressed and his jaw clenched.

But then he lifted his head and licked his lips and raised his voice in an old, old song.

“We sing our praise to Torval.
We ring his name with our bright steel.
The name of Torval sounds in the clash
Of sword on shield
Hammer on the stone walls of our enemies.
Strong and mighty though they be
We are stronger.
Torval puts flame in our hearts
And spear tips catch the god’s fire.”

Skylan’s voice grew louder and more confident as he sang. He gave a heave and the rope line tightened and the other Torgun joined him, tugging on the rope and lifting their voices in the song that was often sung by those standing in the shield wall to give them courage.

Aylaen had never sung this song, for it was a warrior’s song, a man’s song. Skylan was at the head of the line, standing alongside Sigurd. He looked back at the Torgun and his look embraced them, as his song embraced them, and they were one, all of them standing together, as in the shield wall, their foe despair.

The Torgun raised their voices in a defiant shout. Skylan led them in another verse. The Venjekar lurched forward. The Torgun broke into a run, startling the soldiers marching ahead of them. Sigurd started to grin, that crazed grin he wore only in battle. Bjorn ran beside Aylaen. He was yelling himself hoarse. She began singing—somewhat tentatively—and Bjorn smiled his approval. Grimuir, in front of her, looked back and nodded.

The Torgun refused to let hope die. They chose to bear their burden with jaws outthrust and heads high. They chose to sing to their god, Torval, though he might be bloodied and battle-scarred and besieged. They shouted his name as they ran defiantly through the streets, pulling their ship, keeping uncomfortably close on the heels of the soldiers, forcing them to set a swift pace or be run down.

The Torgun would pay for this moment. This sense of exultation could not last, for they were slaves and the gods alone knew what suffering and humiliation lay ahead of them. Aylaen did not think about the future. She concentrated on the present and the words of the war chant and she could no longer smell the horrible smells. She did not see the staring eyes or the gaping mouths or hear the taunts and jeers.

She had a sudden vision of Torval, striding through the heavens, pulling on rope lines that were tied to the world, dragging the world behind him. He was old and weary and his wounds were many. His armor was dented, his shield splintered. Yet he ran on, defiant.

“Your gods are dead,” Raegar kept telling them.

Beaten down. Desperate. Dying, maybe. But not dead.

Aylaen lifted her woman’s voice and joined in the song. Rich and mellow, her voice soared on the crests of the deeper voices of the men. She pulled on the ropes until her hands were blistered and bloody and sang herself hoarse in praise of Torval.

The crowds had turned out to jeer or gawk at the barbarian slaves. But their mocking laughter was drowned out by the singing. Many Sinarians who had come to sneer and pity ended up admiring and applauding. The streets that day were full of slaves. They looked up from their onerous chores: cleaning the muck from the gutters, carrying slop jars, shuffling in long chained rows to work in the mines or the clay pits, hauling their masters about in curtained chairs, cooling their mistresses with fans. They saw the Torgun, this new crop of slaves proud and defiant, and for the first time some dared to find hope in their hearts.

The Torgun fought their own battle that day. They had no care for the battles of others. They would never know it, but they lit sparks in the hearts of many. They started tiny fires in the wet and filthy straw, and because no one was paying attention, no one noticed the thin, wispy, ominous puff of smoke.

The all-seeing Aelon saw, however. He saw much as he gazed into the future.

Last came Acronis riding in his chariot. He had created a public sensation; this parade of his would be the topic of discussion among the populace for days, perhaps months. His friends would be pleased for him, his enemies consumed with jealousy. But he thought little of all that. He rode through the streets, paying scant attention to the cheering throngs, impatient to reach the end. He wanted to see the smile on one face, to see the light in one pair of eyes.

The Torgun hauled their ship toward a vast arena. They had no idea what it was. It looked like a bowl sunk into the ground surrounded by benches. In the center was what appeared to be a large fire pit. The remnants of circles and lines that had been painted on the grass could still be seen; the rain had not yet washed them away from the last Para Dix game. Large boulders, some as tall as a man, were placed at various intervals around the field. A track for wagons and chariots and other vehicles circled the center playing field.

Acronis entered the Para Dix arena to the cheers of the audience. The Torgun pulled their ship into the arena and, at Zahakis’s direction, came to a halt. Skylan tried to keep his face stern and impassive, hoping he did not show his feelings of bafflement and confusion. He had seen sights this day that he could not have imagined. A glance at his friends told him they felt much the same.

Acronis in his chariot rolled up to the royal stand. He bowed to his new Empress—a vapid woman wearing an elaborately coiffed red wig. Her eyes were painted with kohl, her lips with carnelian. She rewarded weeks of danger and monotony, death and hardship, with a tepid smile and a vague nod and held up her pug dog so that he could get a better view.

In truth, though he bowed to the Empress, Acronis saw only one person—a slight girl of about fifteen years, small in stature, thin for her age, seated on cushions several rows removed from the Empress and her party. The girl’s eyes were large and brown and shining with pride. Her smile was Acronis’s sunrise. She was clapping so hard her hands must sting.

She pointed to the barbarian ship, the Venjekar, and mouthed the words, “For me?”

Gods in heaven, Acronis thought, his heart aching, how he loved her!

All around him, women tossed roses. Men cheered.

“Die now!” they cried, an ancient blessing, which meant that Acronis should die now, at the height of his glory, rather than go on living with the knowledge that he would never be as happy as he was on this day.

Acronis, being in extremely good health, went on living.