CHAPTER
11
BOOK THREE
Skylan ran into the catacombs with Keeper at his side holding a torch in one hand and a war hammer in the other. They could hear in the distance the sounds of battle—the clank of metal hitting metal. But those were the only sounds. The cries and shouts of men under attack had ceased.
“Strange,” said Skylan, and his steps slowed. He came to a halt only a short distance from the bronze door. “I can’t see anything. Can you?”
“Nothing,” said Keeper. “And you are right. It is very strange.”
Skylan was not surprised when Aylaen arrived at his side, her sword in her hand. He had told her to stay behind with Wulfe, and, of course, she had disobeyed.
“Why are you just standing here?” she cried, gesturing into the darkness. “Our friends are fighting in there, maybe dying!”
“If so, it’s a strange sort of battle,” said Skylan.
“What are you talking about?” Aylaen asked.
“Do you hear Sigurd shouting commands? Grimuir yelling at Aki to watch his back?” Skylan stared into the darkness, frowning, then he glanced around. “Where’s Wulfe?”
“He’s outside. He kept yammering about lemures being angry at us.” Aylaen shivered. “Maybe he’s right.”
“I never heard of ghosts wielding swords,” said Keeper.
“We can’t just stand here!” said Aylaen. “I’m going—”
Skylan caught hold of her. “We will all go. But we will go slowly. Whatever is down there, I want to see it before it sees me.”
“You sound like your father,” said Aylaen irritably. “What did you used to call him? An old granny?”
She is right, Skylan realized. Not so many months ago, I would have raced headlong into the fray. Now I go slowly, eyes and ears open.
He thought of Norgaard and the grief he had brought his father. There were many mistakes he had made, actions he had taken that he had come to regret. But few lay heavier on his heart than that.
“You pay me a compliment,” Skylan said.
Aylaen looked at him startled, then her face softened.
“Yes,” she said, after a moment. “I guess I do.”
She reached out her free hand to him. Her fingers were cold, but her touch warmed him like hot spiced wine. He looked back into the past and saw what he had been—Skylan, Chief of Chiefs, brash, bold, arrogant, demanding her love, becoming angry when she loved another. He had never stopped to consider that love, like respect, must be earned. He was no longer Skylan, Chief of Chiefs. He was only Skylan, trying every day to make up for the past.
Hand in hand, they moved deeper into the catacombs. Then Skylan stopped, staring. Keeper jabbed him hard with his elbow, and Aylaen gasped.
A chill mist hung in the air near where they were standing. The mist flowed from the walls and drifted over the floor of the catacombs. Trapped in the mist, his friends were doing battle.
Not against a foe. They attacked each other.
As Skylan watched, Sigurd took a swing with his sword at Bjorn. Grimuir attacked Aki. Farinn hacked at Erdmun with an axe and Erdmun slashed at Farinn with his sword. The men fought in an eerie silence. None of them spoke. None cried out in pain, though Skylan saw blood running freely from their wounds.
“Have they all gone stark raving crazy?” Skylan said, watching in amazement. He raised his voice. “What do you fools think you are doing? Sigurd! Bjorn!”
His voice jarred the silence. Sigurd turned slowly toward him. Aylaen screamed.
“His eyes! Torval save us, Skylan, look at his eyes!”
Skylan could not take the time to look at anyone’s eyes. Sigurd was running straight at him, his sword raised.
Skylan shifted his body sideways and thrust out his foot. Sigurd tripped, stumbled, and fell to the ground.
“Take him outside!” Skylan cried to Keeper. “Aylaen, go with him. Treat his wounds.”
She hesitated, and he yelled at her, “Take him out. I’ll try to save the others.”
Keeper grabbed hold of Sigurd, lifted him by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him bodily out of the catacombs. He tossed him onto the ground and stood over him, ready to bash him with the war hammer if he tried to attack.
Aylaen bent over Sigurd. He was unconscious and, remembering the hideous eyes, she was loath to touch him.
“Ah, a lemur got him,” said Wulfe, creeping up out of the darkness. “I told you so.”
The boy sniffed at Sigurd and wrinkled his nose and gave him a poke in the arm with his finger.
Sigurd groaned and sat up. Wulfe scrambled away in terror. Aylaen jumped to her feet, her sword poised, ready to strike. Sigurd blinked his eyes and looked up at her. “Treia lied,” said Sigurd. “It was a trap.”
Inside the catacombs, Skylan was moving up on Bjorn, who had turned to attack his own brother. Bjorn’s back was to Skylan, and he hoped to hit his friend on the head, knock him out. He paid no heed to the mist that curled around Bjorn’s boots and began to slide toward him.
“The lemur!” Keeper thundered a warning. “Don’t let it touch you!”
A ghostly figure rose before Skylan, ghostly hands reaching out for him.
Skylan’s stomach clenched. The hair raised on his arms and prickled on the back of his neck. He backed away. The ghost glided toward him.
“How do I fight it?” Skylan called.
“You don’t,” said Keeper. “You run.”
Skylan shook his head. “I won’t leave my men.”
“You can’t help them if you end up like them,” Keeper told him.
Swearing, Skylan turned and ran for the bronze door. He dashed outside with Keeper right behind him.
Once there, Skylan stopped, turned. The lemur did not follow him. The ghost wavered in the entryway like a curtain of fog. He was safe, but his friends were still in there, trapped in the catacombs, forced by the spirits to fight each other to the death.
“A dead end,” said Sigurd. “Literally.”
Skylan turned to see the older man sitting up, wiping blood from his face. His eyes were back to normal, except that they were dark, shadowed with terror.
“What happened?” Skylan asked. “How can I stop the ghosts?”
Sigurd shook his head. “All I remember is a pale hand touching me and the next thing I knew all I wanted to do was kill those who dared disturbed my rest.”
“If it was a trap, it wasn’t Treia’s doing,” said Aylaen defensively. “She didn’t know!”
“She knew,” said Wulfe. “She was here, watching. She and Raegar.”
“Raegar? Where?” Skylan asked grimly.
“They’re not here now. They both ran off. They left because of the ogres.”
“Ogres . . .” Skylan said, startled. “What about the ogres?”
“They’re coming in ships,” said Wulfe. “Tonight.”
“Keeper, did you hear that!” Skylan said, excited.
Keeper snorted and shook his head.
“You can ask the other woman,” Wulfe said. “She’s still in there.”
“What other woman?”
“The one who is talking to the dead.”
“It might be a Spirit Priestess,” said Aylaen. “Like the one who summoned Garn. Raegar said they have power over the dead. Where is she, Wulfe? Can you see her?”
“She’s hiding in the bushes,” said Wulfe. He sniffed the air. “I can’t see her, but I can smell her.”
“We’ll find her,” said Skylan. “If she has power over the dead, she can stop this attack. Keeper, come with me. Aylaen—”
Searing pain tore through Skylan’s arm. He felt as though someone had torn open his skin and reached inside to rip out the muscles and shatter his bones. His hand went into spasms. He dropped his sword and doubled over, moaning, pressing his burning arm into his stomach. Sigurd was screaming and rolling on the ground. Keeper clutched his arm and bellowed in pain and rage. Only Aylaen, free of the tattoo of Aelon, was unaffected. She hovered near them, helpless.
“Go with . . . Wulfe!” Skylan gasped. He had to fight the god for every word. Sweat rolling down his face, he said harshly, “Find the priestess, Wulfe. You know how.”
Wulfe stared at him, then he started to tremble and shook his head violently.
“Find her,” said Skylan, through gritted teeth. “Find her!”
Still Wulfe hesitated. He looked at Skylan, who was in pain, and the boy’s lips parted in a strange, tight-lipped smile. He dropped down on all fours and began to run as Aylaen had seen him run many times before. Except that now, as he ran, the hair on his arms and legs began to grow long. His awkward and ungainly scrabbling on hands and feet changed into a graceful, ground-eating lope. His teeth sharpened to fangs; his mouth expanded, widened; his tongue lolled; his muscles hardened.
The wolf loped down the path. He went only a short distance, stopped, and put his nose to the ground. He ran about, sniffing, then raised his head. Ears pricked. He had found the trail. He bounded off into the darkness.
Aylaen could not move. She could only stand, staring.
“Follow him!” Skylan urged. He gave a ragged cry and sagged to his knees. “Don’t let him . . . kill . . .”
The wolf came back, ran straight at Aylaen. The wolf was young, scrawny. He stopped short of her, growled and jerked his head, then turned and trotted off a short distance. Stopping again, he looked back at her and jerked his head again.
Aylaen understood. He wanted her to follow.
She forced her numb feet to move. Hampered by the tangle of undergrowth, she could not travel as fast as the wolf, or as silently. The wolf led her to the old shrine.
The floor was striped, black and silver, with moonlight and shadows. Aylaen tried to keep out of the light and hugged the shadows, but the woman must have seen something that alarmed her. Aylaen heard the woman’s long skirts swishing through dead leaves.
The wolf lifted his head, growled softly, and dashed off in pursuit. Mindful of Skylan’s warning, Aylaen ran after him. The wolf easily caught up with her. The woman cried out in terror, and Aylaen recognized her voice. Semelon—the woman who held Garn’s soul captive.
The wolf’s jaws gaped, tongue lolled. Semelon saw the wolf almost on her and screamed and raised her arms in front of her face. The wolf jumped, knocking her to the ground. Aylaen lost sight of both of them.
“Don’t hurt her! Wulfe, don’t hurt her!”
Aylaen yelled frantically. Aylaen found Semelon curled into a ball on the ground, her eyes squinched tightly shut. Wulfe, in boy form, crouched on his haunches a short distance from her, panting hard, his sides heaving.
“I did what you asked,” he said. “I didn’t hurt her.”
Aylaen kept a nervous eye on him and knelt down beside the priestess.
“The wolf is gone. You’re safe,” she said.
Semelon shrieked and struck at Aylaen with her fists.
Aylaen grabbed her wrists. “You’re safe! Open your eyes!”
Semelon’s eyes flared open. She stared at Aylaen and then at the boy crouching in the weeds.
“The boy is fae! A man-beast. You must kill him, quickly, before he changes and kills us both—”
“He won’t kill us both,” said Aylaen. She took hold of the priestess and dragged her to her feet. “He will kill you. Unless you do what I say.”
Semelon regarded her with horror. “You are in league with evil!”
Aylaen glanced sidelong at Wulfe, who was watching both her and Semelon. Swallowing her horror, Aylaen seized the priestess and dragged her through the garden back toward the catacombs. Moonlight glinted off the bronze door.
Aylaen feared Skylan and the others would still be caught in the grip of the god. She was astonished and pleased to find them on their feet, flexing their hands and looking confused.
Sigurd gave a grunt. “One moment Aelon is tearing off my arm and the next he is gone. What is going on?”
“The god has more pressing matters to attend to,” said Skylan. “And so do we.”
He turned his grim gaze on the priestess and pointed toward the catacombs. “Free my men!”
“Your friends angered the lemures by disturbing their rest,” said Semelon. “There is nothing I can do—”
“She is lying,” Aylaen said harshly. “I saw her work her magic. She summoned Garn. She holds his spirit prisoner—”
“I am not the one who keeps him bound to this world,” said Semelon.
Aylaen went livid.
Skylan didn’t have time for this. He pointed to the catacombs. “Use your power! Free my friends. Or I will set the boy on you.”
Semelon cast a look of loathing at Wulfe, who grinned at her.
“The boy is fae,” said Semelon. “He cannot be trusted. Mark my warning, he will turn on you someday.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” said Skylan. “Do as I tell you.”
Semelon shrugged and began to chant. The ghostly curtain remained, blocking the entrance. But inside the catacombs, the Torgun stopped fighting.
“The dead will let them depart,” said Semelon. “But they must leave their weapons behind.”
“Lay down your arms!” Skylan called to his friends.
The men hesitated, not happy.
“This is the only way the dead will let you go,” he urged them.
Erdmun was the first to fling down his axe and run for the door. Grimuir and Bjorn took hold of Farinn and helped him outside. Aki walked out on his own. They were all bloodied and bruised, but none had suffered serious harm.
Once they were all out, Skylan walked over to the bronze door. He clasped hold of it. The mist brushed his arm with a chill warning.
“We are sorry we disturbed you,” he cried.
Keeper came to help him, and between them, they pushed the bronze door shut. Skylan and the ogre walked back to where their friends had gathered.
“So much for our plans to escape,” Bjorn said glumly.
“We are leaving Sinaria,” said Skylan. “Tonight.”
They stared at him. Skylan glanced at Keeper and said, “Ogres are about to invade the city. Their fleet has been sighted.” He pointed to the tattoo on his arm. “That’s why the god let us go. He has more important matters to worry about.”
“How do you know this?” Sigurd asked suspiciously.
“Wulfe overheard Treia and Raegar talking. Aelon told them. Ask the priestess. Aelon speaks to her.”
Semelon regarded them in stony silence.
“It’s true,” said Bjorn. “Look at her face.”
“We will carry our ship to the river, hide it among the trees on the riverbank until night falls,” said Skylan. “The ogres will attack Sinaria at dawn.”
Keeper stirred and seemed about to say something. Skylan glanced at him, but the ogre apparently changed his mind, for he only shook his head.
“When the ogres are occupied in looting and burning and killing, we will set sail for home.”
Home! In his mind, Skylan walked once more on the beach of Luda. He embraced his father and asked his forgiveness. He sat beside his friends during the long winter nights relating again the tale of their journey.
He was about to go on when he looked at Aylaen, who stood apart from the rest, pale and mute and motionless.
“I won’t leave without Garn,” she said.