Rage of the Dragon Read Online Free PDF

of her lips as she had watched the men carry the ogre’s body out of the hold. All Skylan could do was to leave her to the gods.
    The Venjekar was still wrapped in fog, though it seemed to Skylan that the mist was growing thinner. He could hear ogre voices and the flapping of their odd-looking triangular sails, but all sound was distorted by the fog and he could not tell if the ogres were near or a mile distant. He posted young Farinn, who had the keenest eyesight, and Wulfe to keep watch for ogre ships.
    “We’re going to carry Keeper to the prow,” Skylan said, keeping his voice low and warning the others to be as quiet as possible. “Arrange the body as Acronis told you.”
    Bjorn carried Keeper’s heavy sword.
    “Damn thing weighs more than young Farinn,” Bjorn complained.
    “You’ve just grown weak,” said Skylan. “The lazy life you’ve been leading.”
    Bjorn grinned at him and Skylan grinned back. The shadow of Skylan’s misdeeds had once been dark between them. That was gone, their friendship restored. The same was true of the other men, even Sigurd, who would never like him, but at least had come to regard him with grudging respect. Skylan had worked hard to regain their trust and their confidence. They had forgiven him for the terrible things he had done. He could dare to hope now that Aylaen had forgiven him. Skylan would never forgive himself, but that was between him and the gods.
    Acronis directed the men to place Keeper’s hands on his chest and rest his sword in his hands. The rain had washed off most of his white and black face paint.
    “We have to put his paint back on,” said Acronis.
    The men stared at him.
    “Those designs marked Keeper as a godlord,” Acronis explained. “His people won’t believe us if we claim he is a godlord without them.”
    Skylan scratched his stubbly growth of beard. “A good idea, sir, except we don’t have any paint.”
    “We have flour we could use for the white paint,” said Aylaen. “I could make a paste and we could smear it on. I don’t know about the black paint…”
    “I have ink,” said a voice from the fog.
    For a moment no one could tell who had spoken. Then Grimuir grabbed hold of Farinn, who had been standing by the rail, watching for ogres, and shoved him forward.
    “Ink!” Skylan repeated, staring at the young man in amazement. “What are you doing with ink?”
    “I have been teaching myself to read and write,” said Farinn, ducking his head, as though confessing a shameful sin.
    “You are a warrior,” said Skylan. “A warrior needs to know how to wield a sword, not how to wield a pen.”
    Farinn flushed red and spoke in a nearly inaudible murmur. “I am making a song of our journey.”
    The men regarded Farinn in frowning disapproval. None of the Vindrasi could read or write. There was no need. Their laws and history were kept by the Talgogroth, who committed the laws and every major event and many minor ones to memory and, once a year, recited them to the people. Heroic battles should be told aloud in words that stirred the heart, not reduced to squiggly lines scrawled on animal skin.
    Skylan was as shocked as the rest of the Torgun, though he had to secretly admit that being able to read the squiggly lines on what Raegar termed a “map” might be of some benefit. Still, that was why he had brought along Acronis. The Sinarian was a scholar, as well as an able commander and an experienced seaman.
    “Fetch your ink,” Skylan said gruffly to Farinn. “We’ll put it to good use.”
    Farinn disappeared thankfully into the fog and could be heard tripping over the oars as he searched for his sea chest. Aylaen went down into the hold after the flour.
    A song of their journey. Skylan had never before considered such a thing. He tried to imagine years hence the Torgun people sitting around a Talgogroth to hear the Song of  … what? What would be the title of this tale? The Song of Skylan Ivorson ? Skylan smiled ruefully. Not