Doom of the Dragon

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  To my daughter, Lizz “Blizzkrieg” Baldwin, who never fails to astonish and delight me!

  —M.W.

  To Jon Seyster and Miracle Pelayo. You are my heroes.

  —T.H.

  PROLOGUE

  Farinn settled himself in the chair his son had placed near the roaring blaze that filled the Great Hall of the Torgun with light and warmth. Outside the hall, snow was thick on the ground. The winter wind growled and muttered and sometimes struck the hall with a gusty fist that caused the beams to creak. Gray, foam-whitened waves crashed on the shore, spraying froth that froze instantly on anything it touched, covering the fir trees and rocks with a crust of white.

  A storm is coming, Farinn thought. The sun will not rise tomorrow.

  He no longer had to worry about such things. He had seen eighty-five winters come and go, and tomorrow he would lie snug in his bed beneath fur blankets, drifting and dozing.

  This winter would be his last. He could feel it in his bones. He would not live to see another. He was content. He was the only Vindrasi to have ever lived so long and he was weary and ready to go his rest.

  First, though, he would tell the tale one last time, so that it would never be forgotten.

  “I am Farinn the Talgogroth, the Voice of Gogroth, God of the World Tree. Attend me! For now I will tell the tale of Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, the greatest of the chiefs of the mighty dragonships.” Farinn paused, then said gently, “The greatest and the last.”

  Women quickly filled the mugs with ale, then picked up small children and held them in their laps, prepared to quiet any fretting that might interrupt the old man’s story. Older children who had been running between the long tables, playing a noisy game of tag, hurried to settle themselves on the floor in front of Farinn.

  Three young people, two young men and a young woman, took up a defensive posture near the door that was shut and barred against the storm and the night. They knew that no enemy was likely to burst through that door, requiring them to perform acts of bravery in defense of their people, but they could always dream.

  A collective sigh rustling among the men, women, and children let Farinn know that all gathered in the hall this winter night were ready to hear his tale.

  Farinn drew in a breath and began. His voice was strong this night, unusually strong. He was the only person left alive who had made the epic journey with the great Skylan Ivorson and his warriors, and this would be the last time he told the tale. He wanted his people to remember.

  “To remind you where we left off last night,” Farinn began, “Skylan and his friends, sailing in the great dragonship, the Venejekar, with the mighty dragon Kahg, had escaped slavery in Sinaria and were setting out to sail back to their homeland. Skylan had divided his crew, sending some back in a captured ogre ship to warn the Torgun to prepare for war, while he and the woman he loved, Aylaen, now a Bone Priestess; the Legate Acronis; and the fae child Wulfe remained aboard the Venejekar.

  “They had obtained one of the spiritbones the Goddess Vindrash had told them they would need if they were to save their people. Skylan’s plan was to find and recover the other four, but the threads of their wyrds had taken them in a different direction.

  The Venejekar was beset by enemies: Skylan’s cousin, Raegar Gustafson, now Priest-General of Aelon, god of the New Dawn, had attacked them, as had the ogres, led by their powerful chief, Bear Walker.

  “The most powerful enemy of all, however, lurked in the deep. A gigantic kraken rose from the sea, crushing the ogre ship in its tentacles and dragging the Venejekar beneath the waves.”

  Some of the children squatting on the floor clapped their hands and one rowdy youngster cried out, “Tell the part about the kraken again!”

  Farinn glowered at the offending child, for he did not like to be interrupted. The child’s father, looking grim, left his seat, retrieved the youngster, and handed him over to his mother. After this momentary interruption, Farinn was free to resume.

  “As you recall, Skylan and his friends were saved by Aquins, humans who dwell in cities beneath the sea. They had many adventures, which I related last night and which I will not relate again.” Farinn fixed a stern eye upon the children, who nudged one another and grinned.

  “Skylan and Aylaen had been wed in the city of the Aquins. The Sea Queen had given them the Vektan Torque, containing one of the spiritbones, as a wedding gift, and Akaria, the Sea Goddess, had given them the third and told them where they could find the fourth—in the land of the Stormlords.

  “Raegar had captured Aylaen and brought her on board his ship, demanding that she tell him and his god, Aelon, where to find the spiritbones. Skylan had sailed after them in the Venejekar, determined to rescue Aylaen. She fought Raegar and managed to escape. She and Skylan were reunited on the Venejekar.

  “It was then that Raegar picked up a spear and threw it—”

  Farinn was interrupted by a wail from a little girl sitting in front of him with her hands over her ears.

  “Hush, Greta! What’s the matter?” her big brother asked irritably.

  “I don’t want to hear this part!” the little girl whispered. “I don’t like this part. Skylan dies!”

  “But he doesn’t; not really,” said her brother.

  “He does so, too,” said the little girl, removing her hands and glaring at him. “Raegar strikes him in the back with a spear and Skylan dies in Aylaen’s arms.”

  “And then Skylan goes to Torval’s Hall, but Torval won’t let him in,” whispered her brother. “Wait for the rest of the story. You’ll hear.”

  “Who’s Torval?” asked the little girl.

  “Some old god,” her brother replied with a shrug.

  “Listen, both of you, and you will find out,” Farinn rasped and the children meekly quieted.

  He did not really mind this interruption, for it gave him a chance to sip the honey posset that soothed his throat after many nights of storytelling. He paused and drank and remembered.

  One day, someday soon, he would look out across the ocean and there would be the great dragonship, the Venejekar. His friends would all be on board.

  Well, perhaps not all.

  He would wade into the waves, and his friends would reach out their hands to him and, laughing and jesting, haul him into the dragonship. He would sail away on the voyage that had no end.

  But until that day, he had a tale to tell.

  Farinn moistened his lips, which tasted of honey, and began. “Skylan Ivorson strode up to Torval’s Hall of Heroes, his sword in his hand…”

  BOOK
/>   1

  CHAPTER

  1

  Skylan Ivorson trudged through the deep snow up the mountain, keeping his head bowed against a biting wind, trying to find Torval’s longhouse—the Hall of Heroes, the hall where those warriors who had died a hero’s death came to spend the afterlife with the god and fight the battles of heaven. Skylan carried his sword in his hand to show the god he had died in battle, slain by his cousin, Raegar.

  Aylaen had survived. Skylan had breathed his last in her arms and although leaving her had been harder than dying, he took comfort in knowing she would live and keep his memory alive.

  Lost and wandering in the storm, Skylan was growing more and more angry. Freilis, the dark Goddess of the Tally, who searched the battlefield for heroes to bring to Torval, should have escorted him to the hall. He had been forced to find it on his own, and he was cold and tired and alone.

  He came to a grove of tall pine trees, standing straight and tall as sentinels, and pushed his way through the snow-covered boughs. The scent of pine was sharp and crisp. The trees blocked the wind. Snowflakes fell lazily from the gray clouds. And there was the Hall, an immense longhouse with a vaulted roof, built by giants who had labored on it for many centuries. According to the songs, the giants had ripped up mountains to build the foundation and dragged enormous trees from the ground for the logs that formed the walls and the cedar shakes of the roof. A thousand shields of brave warriors decorated the outer walls.

  Skylan recognized many of the shields and the warriors who had borne them from the old stories. These valiant warriors had died with their swords in their hands, fighting for the honor of their clans, fighting to defend their homes; all manner of heroic deaths. Skylan pictured his own shield hanging among them and he was both proud and humbled.

  The door to the Hall was made of oak and banded by iron. It stood wide open, welcoming. He could see within the orange glow of a roaring fire and he longed for its warmth, to ease the chill of death. Riotous sounds of singing and music, jests and laughter filled the eternal night. Warriors were carousing, dancing with their womenfolk or fighting mock battles. He was no longer alone.

  He looked for familiar faces and was pleased beyond measure to see Chloe, the daughter of Legate Acronis, watching the dancers, clapping her hands with joy. Skylan had promised the dying girl that he would dance with her in Torval’s Hall and he looked forward to taking her by the hands, leading her in the dance.

  Moving nearer the door, wading through snowdrifts, he searched until he finally found Garn talking with a man who initially had his back to Skylan. When the man turned slightly, Skylan recognized Norgaard, his father. The two were deep in conversation, laughing, moving nearer to the door.

  Skylan was shocked. He had no idea his father had died. Skylan had so much to tell his father. He had so much to make right.

  “Father! It is me, Skylan!” he called.

  Norgaard and Garn must not have heard him, for they walked past the open door and vanished amid the crowd in the hall.

  As Skylan continued toward the Hall, he wondered irritably why Torval wasn’t here to greet him. Certainly the God of Battle must be expecting him. Skylan started to walk over the threshold.

  The door slammed shut so suddenly that Skylan walked right into it, bumping his nose and banging his head.

  Shocked, he drew back to look at the Hall. The light and warmth had vanished, leaving him in darkness that was cold and deep. He could still hear the noise and laughter inside and he was chilled and resentful.

  Skylan reached up to the amulet he wore around his neck, the silver hammer, symbol of Torval, to touch it, thinking perhaps he had somehow offended the god.

  The hammer was gone.

  “If this is some sort of jest, it is not funny!” he cried angrily. “I am Skylan Ivorson and I have a right to enter!”

  He could hear only the wind sighing among the pines.

  Skylan pounded with his fist on the door and continued to shout, trying to make himself heard above the raucous noise inside. His voice sounded very small and his cries seemed to float off into eternity.

  Skylan was now truly outraged. The god Torval should have been ready with a hero’s welcome, not treating him like a beggar pleading for a crust of bread.

  Skylan beat on the door until his fist was bloody. Finally, someone must have heard him, for the door swung open. Torval stood within.

  The god was wearing his armor made of the finest steel, his breastplate embossed with a dragon’s head—the symbol of the Great Dragon Ilyrion, whom he had slain to gain rulership over the world. His helm was trimmed with silver and gold, his boots were fur lined, and a fur cloak hung from his broad shoulders and brushed the floor.

  His armor was splendid, yet Skylan observed that the helm was dented, the hem of his fur cloak was soaked in blood, and his breastplate was splattered with blood. Judging by his fresh wounds, some of the blood must have been his own.

  “Fish Knife! What are you doing here?” Torval demanded.

  Skylan felt his anger grow. The god had called him by the disparaging name of Fish Knife, an insult to a warrior who deserved to be thought of as Torval’s Sword, not a puny knife used for gutting trout.

  “Let me inside!” Skylan demanded. “I belong in the Hall with my comrades!”

  “When you are dead, come back. We will discuss it,” said Torval.

  The god slammed the door in Skylan’s face.

  Skylan stood staring at the closed door in shock at the god’s words.

  When you are dead, come back …

  “But I am dead, great Torval,” Skylan protested. “You can see the wound in my back, pierced by Raegar’s spear!”

  He found himself talking only to the closed door.

  Skylan was completely at a loss to know what to do. He was dead. He knew he was dead, yet Torval didn’t appear to think so. Wearily, Skylan eased himself down onto the snow-covered ground and sat with his back propped against the timber walls of the Hall of Heroes, his elbows on his bent knees, and tried to make sense of what was happening to him.

  He didn’t want to be dead. He didn’t want to leave the world of the living. He longed with all his heart to go back to his beloved wife, Aylaen, and once more sail the seas in his swift dragonship, the Venejekar to continue his quest to find the five spiritbones of the Vektia.

  Yet, all men must die sooner or later and Skylan had died a hero, which is the way men are meant to die. If he had to be dead, he at least deserved to be honored by Torval.

  But Torval had said he wasn’t dead and wouldn’t let him inside.

  Skylan gazed out dejectedly at the enormous fir trees that surrounded Torval’s Hall, shielding it from the view of his foes. The sky was gray and the wind was freshening, presaging more snow. He noticed now that the snow on the ground outside the hall was trampled and stained with blood.

  Skylan decided he would make one more attempt to talk to Torval, to try to find out what was going on, when he heard the sound of footfalls crunching through the snow.

  He jumped to his feet and gripped the hilt of his sword. He was in heaven, but heaven had become a dangerous place these days with the Vindrasi gods fending off attacks by their rival god, Aelon, and his demonic forces.

  These footfalls didn’t sound like those of a warrior, however, for they were accompanied by a slurred voice singing a bawdy song. Then came a thud, followed by muttered swearing, as if whoever was approaching had fallen in the snow. The footfalls resumed, as did the singing, and the source of both lurched out into the open.

  Though Skylan had never met the songster, he recognized him, for Aylaen had walked among the gods and she had described the God of the Revel.

  “Joabis,” Skylan muttered.

  The God of the Revel carried a wineskin slung over his shoulder and he would pause every so often to tilt it to his mouth and shoot a stream of purple liquid down his throat.

  Aylaen had described the god as fat and jolly, his face ruddy and flushe
d with merriment. That must have been in the glory days when the gods of the Vindrasi ruled heaven and the world below. Joabis appeared vastly different now that the gods were fighting for their lives and one of them was dead and another gone mad.

  His plump body had run to flab, his skin sallow and sagging. He wore festive clothes, but his soft lambskin tunic was torn and shabby and stained with wine. His fur cloak was soaking wet from where he had taken a tumble in the snow. He generally wore no armor, for he took care to be far away from the fighting, but he must have borrowed a helm. It was too big for him, however, and had slipped over one eye. He kept casting frightened glances over his shoulder, as though fearing some enemy would jump out of the shadows and stab him in the back. When Skylan called his name, Joabis leaped into the air in fright, slipped on the way down and landed in a sodden heap in the snow.

  “Don’t kill me!” Joabis cried, raising his hand over his head. “I am no one important! Only a servant!”

  Skylan eyed him in disgust.

  “You are Joabis, God of the Revel, and you stand before the Hall of Heroes bleating like a stuck pig,” said Skylan angrily. “Be gone! You have no right to breathe the same air as those who have died valiantly in battle!”

  “I have business with Torval,” said Joabis.

  The god picked himself up, straightened his clothes with an air of inebriated dignity and, having managed to hang on to the wineskin, took a restorative gulp of wine. He staggered back a step, staring at Skylan with narrowed eyes, perhaps trying to bring him into focus.

  “Fish Knife! Is that you?”

  Skylan scowled. Maybe Torval had the right to call him that name, but not this drunken sot.

  “What are you doing here among the hero dead, you cowardly cur?” Skylan demanded.

  Joabis gave a sly grin. “One might ask you the same thing, Skylan Ivorson.”

  “I am no coward!” Skylan returned heatedly.

  “Nor are you dead,” Joabis said.