Battledragon (23 page)

Endysia fidgeted. There had to be something she could try. A vague thought stirred her. She rose, went to her book chest, and rummaged for a certain scroll of Cunfshoni spellsay.

Relkin, Swane, and Jak were left to their own bitter thoughts in the dark closeness of the brig aboard the
Barley
. They had fallen afoul of a situation that didn't seem to allow for justice to be done.

Swane gave a harsh chuckle.

"So we gonna get whipped for doin' something we never did." They shared a grim smile.

"No, really, I mean I've done a lot of things that I ought to have got a whipping for, we all.know that." Swane's idiot grin lit up the dark. "But they never caught me so I didn't, you know what I mean, Quoshite?"

There was a new vulnerability there. »

"I can imagine."

Oh, yes, the younger Swane must have been a jolly roger among dragonboys, hands in everything, a light-fingered rascal, no doubt. But now he was going to get marked for something he'd not done and get marked for life.

"It ain't fair. It ain't right," said Jak in a peculiarly desperate tone. Jak was the most afraid of the three of them. Jak had seen field punishment and had fainted while having to watch a man suffer fifty lashes for desertion. Jak didn't know if he could take twenty lashes himself without screaming and shaming himself forever.

The code concerning this among the men of the legion was strict. You were not supposed to make a sound, especially not with the whole fleet watching. The pride of the legion rested on you. But Jak was sure he would blub and scream.

"You know, Jak," said Relkin in a calm, reasonable voice. "You're right, but it's still going to happen, and we just have to deal with that ourselves. Unless, well, unless Birjit will tell the truth."

"I hear she's still unconscious," said Swane dismally. "The surgeon doesn't think she'll come around."

"What if she don't tell the truth?" said Jak, voicing another fear.

Relkin looked to Swane.

"How likely is that, Swane?"

"How would I know? I just been fighting off the daft woman ever since we got on this ship. It's her that should be getting twenty lashes, not us."

Relkin was almost ready to agree with Swane about that. Twenty strokes! That was not going to be a day to remember.

"What's it goin' be like?" said Jak with undisguised anxiety.

"Gonna strip the meat right off your bones, Jak lad" was Swane's uncomforting reply.

"Not so bad, Swane," said Relkin in angry reproof. "The blood will run, but the scars will heal; Jak's young enough."

Swane snorted and hung his head in the darkness. Both of them knew this was unlikely. The scars left by the cat of nine tails, each a stiff, waxed cord with three knots in the end, would be with them all for the rest of their days.

Swane had caught the tone in Relkin's voice, though, and fell silent, aware that little Jak was taking this all pretty badly and that he ought to make it as easy as he could. The problem for Swane was keeping up his own spirits. It was a short leap for him from ebullience to despondency, and he was starting to run out of bravado.

Meanwhile Relkin's thoughts had drifted away again. He wondered how far Wiliger would let his malevolence take him. This was all Wiliger's fault. He had made the charges, no one else; after all, Birjit was unconscious. Then he'd refused to retract the charges, and as their commanding officer, he could not be made to retract them. Commander Voolward couldn't do it without permission from above, and with the delicate situation with the sailors, General Steenhur would not step in. Wiliger was why they would get those scars in the forenoon.

The important point to Relkin now was whether this would satisfy Wiliger's wounded pride or whether he would go on hating them. Relkin understood now that the dragon leader had suffered a terrible blow to his sense of self-esteem by his ignominious performance during the battle with the sorcerer's armored warrior. Being knocked cold at the onset of the real fight had left him feeling foolish, and for Wiliger this was the worst thing in the world.

Would he be satisfied with scars on their backs? Or would he have to have everyone in the squadron destroyed as well?

And destroyed it would be, because those scars would be there for life. Every time he took off his shirt, every time his beloved put her arms around him, those scars would be there.

How was he going to explain this to Eilsa! How would he tell his children of their father's shame? He saw the image starkly in his mind; the cat cutting his skin and the blood running down his back.

Was there really no way out? What if Birjit awoke? Would she tell the truth? He found himself grasping at straws again.

The only thing that could save them from this would be for Birjit to awaken and confess her own shameful secret, which was that she had attacked Swane. But even if they were saved now, something else would come along sooner or later and Wiliger would try and destroy them again.

Relkin was left wondering what it might take to appease the dragon leader. They couldn't get rid of him it seemed, not even Commander Voolward would do that unless Wiliger showed cowardice on the field of battle. They also knew that Wiliger had influence back in Marneri because of his powerful family. That was enough to make commanders and generals cautious when dealing with him. So they were stuck with him and his unpredictable ways.

Swane had suggested that they just kill him. A sword in the back during the next fight they got in. Relkin had dismissed the idea, but still it lingered uneasily in his thoughts.

Relkin shivered. He had done many things, and like Swane he'd escaped just and proper punishment for a lot of them, but he'd never murdered anyone, not even Trader Dook. Yes, he had slain Dook, he had thrown the knife that ended Dook's life, but he had been forced to do it to protect the life of a young dragon. The court had acquitted him, and in his own mind Relkin felt himself innocent of the charge. But if they killed Wiliger, it would be murder and Relkin didn't know if he had it in him to murder anyone, even someone as useless and dangerous as Wiliger.

While Relkin wrestled with his own torments and Jak tried not to imagine the nine knotted cords slashing his back and Swane whistled tunelessly while he thought angry thoughts about sailors and dragon leaders, the witch Endysia studied Birjit very carefully by candlelight in a small room connected to the surgeon's rooms.

Her doubts about the case had grown to an obsession, and she had decided at length to try a very great spell designed to wake anyone who was still this side of death. It would stretch Endysia to the very limits of her strength. She was a Witch of Standing, but not a Great Witch like Lessis or Ribela. Thousands of lines of the Birrak, along with Cunfshon spellsay, had to be spoken correctly. Her own spirit had to grow out of her and seize hold of the very fabric of time and space.

Nonetheless, she knew she could never face the Grey Lady if she did not make the attempt.

Thus Endysia drove herself through the night, sweating and straining through the recitations and the voluminates, and in the hour before dawn, she burned a bundle of yew leaves and sprinkled them with the dried blood of a Cunfshon steerbat. Inhaling the smoke, she used it to express the final volume. Her spell was complete. Now to see if it had been made correctly.

The air in the sick bay had thickened until it was difficult to breathe. Over the prone form of Birjit there hovered an aura, at the edge of visibility.

Endysia breathed a sigh. This had been the most difficult spellsay work she had ever undertaken. Already she felt that it could not have worked. Her clothes felt clammy, clinging to her body. She was simply not good enough for this level. A shudder went through her, and she felt suddenly very cold. There was a long, awful moment of suspense.

There came a little snort from the cot. Birjit stirred and half turned her head.

Success! Endysia let out a little whoop, her heart plucked from the depths and sent soaring into the heavens.

Birjit shortly opened her eyes and stared wanly around the sick bay.

Endysias waited for a few minutes in silence, to allow the wounded sailor time to realize where she was, that she was safe and that she was going to be all right.

The minutes lengthened. Still Birjit made no sound.

"Birjit," said Endysia.

Birjit's eyes flicked up to meet hers.

"You will live, Birjit; I the witch tell thee this truth. You will live. There are things you must tell me. It is urgent."

Birjit stared at the witch with dulled eyes.

"I will not."

She said it clearly and carefully, and then lapsed into a sullen silence.

Endysia was horrified. Had the poor dear been raped indeed? Or traumatized so badly by those boys that she could not face life again?

With tact and great care Endysia sought to question Birjit, but received no response. Endysia withdrew, puzzled and somewhat disheartened.

The surgeons examined the sailor and expressed amazement that she had reemerged from a coma that had seemed likely to last until death. Endysia was happy to receive their awed praise for her efforts. Indeed, she herself felt a little awe at what she had achieved. She was, however, exhausted, and in desperate need of an hour or so of rest.

"Let her be taken up on deck. Perhaps some fresh air, along with some food, might help her to recover. She has suffered most grievously."

Birjit was carried up to the quarterdeck and installed near the rail on the leeward side. Captain Olinas took great pains to congratulate Birjit, and to promise that the perpetrators of the dreadful deed would be punished. They would have the skin off their backs that very day.

Meanwhile the news spread like wildfire through the ship; legionaries stirring at the first light of day were met with the word. Birjit was awake but she refused to talk.

Because Relkin was in the brig, Bazil didn't hear this story at first, nor did Vlok or Alsebra. The Purple Green, however, was informed by Manuel, and the wild dragon lurched across the hold to tell Bazil and Vlok.

"The woman they are accused of attacking is awake."

"Good. What did she say?"

"She refuses to speak."

"She afraid to speak, I think," said the Purple Green.

"Our boys are going to be beaten unless she speaks. We know the truth of this. She has been down here, seeking fertilization of her eggs for months! Boys have nothing to do with her."

"True, Swane boy say he rather fertilize a horse. I know Swane boy is difficult to understand at first, but…" Vlok's analysis of his dragonboy trailed off.

The broketail dragon was gone, hunching over Manuel at the entrance to the Purple Green's stall.

A few moments later Manuel dashed out and darted up the ramps and stairs to the quarterdeck.

He bore a message from the dragon, Bazil of Quosh, requesting that the said dragon be allowed to question Birjit, the wounded sailor.

When he returned a few minutes later, one look at him told Bazil the answer. The captain had refused.

Bazil was in motion a second later treading purposefully to the massive ramps that led up to the foredeck. No one tried to get in his way.

He emerged into the light of day, took a deep breath of the clean ocean air, and looked across the ship to the quarterdeck where Birjit lay. They were separated by the waist, the gangways, and the ship's boats, lashed in place to either side of the mainmast.

It would be a very serious step. He would be risking much. Dragon mutiny was a terrifying thought to the men of the legions. But he could not allow them to lash the boy for no good reason!

Bazil stepped forward, lurched down the steps, squeezed through a passage designed for men, not dragons, and headed down the gangway.

Sailors leapt aloft with cries of alarm. On the quarterdeck more alarms were raised. He passed the mainmast, squeezed by the longboats, ducked under rigging and a new spar that was being prepared to replace one that was starting to crack, and moved on, directly toward the quarterdeck, the sacred, inviolable place of the captain of the ship.

An irresistible force was coming up against an unbreakable shell of tradition. Irresistible force won. Bazil mounted to the quarterdeck, although the steps groaned beneath his weight and he had to squeeze through the narrow access.

Dragon Leader Wiliger ran in front of him. Other men were there, men with bows drawn, arrows ready. Others had spears.

"Dragon Bazil, you must stop now!" bellowed Wiliger.

"The woman must talk to me! That is all I ask, all any good dragon would ask. Let me question her. Then do what you want."

Wiliger danced back as two and a half tons of leatherback dragon surged forward.

"Don't shoot!" he screamed. Admiral Cranx was standing there, his mouth open in an appalled "O." Commander Voolward came bounding up the steps. Captain Olinas, face filled with fury, had her hand on her sword.

"Hold your fire!" Voolward shouted. The men obeyed. Arrows came up.

Cranx looked at him with ire in his eyes. "You are above yourself, sir, giving orders on the quarterdeck."

Captain Olinas threw herself between the dragon and the cot by the rail.

"You have no right on this deck!" she said, and raised her sword.

The dragon looked at her. Instinctive, primal terror seized her mind, and she fell into dragon-freeze. Bazil eased past her and loomed over the cot. Birjit could not look away from him.

"I know you not have fear of dragon. I see you many, many times in our quarters."

Birjit stared at him and blinked. She didn't go into dragon-freeze.

"My dragonboy is wicked, but not that wicked. He stupid, too, but not that stupid. I know my dragonboy never want to fertilize your eggs."

Birjit felt those eyes bore into her.

"My boy will be lashed because he tried to help you. I know what happened. You know what happened, too. You must tell them."

Birjit quailed. The dragon seemed to look into her very soul. Her dishonesty was laid bare before the bright sun of another's knowledge of her shame. Her hands came up to her face, and she broke down into urgent sobbing.