Bones of the Dragon Read online

  CHAPTER

  8

  The wind rose in the night, causing the ogre ships to rock as they lay at anchor in the bay and sending whitecapped waves rolling in between the high cliffs of the fjord. The wind tore at the beacon fire, catching up sparks and flinging them into the air. The logs that fed the bonfire collapsed, fell in on one another, sending up a shower of ashes. No one bothered to add more fuel. The warriors who had tended the fire stared grimly at the dying flames and saw in them their own future. Word had come from Norgaard, carried by swift messenger.

  “Help is not coming.”

  Across the fjord, the young warriors of the Heudjun watched in silence as the beacon fire dwindled. They did not speak, or look at each other. They were ashamed.

  The beacon fire finally went out. The Heudjun warriors returned to their homes. Some of them had decided amongst themselves to prepare for battle. Despite Horg’s assurances that the ogres would not attack, the Heudjun did not trust either him or them. Many hoped the ogres would attack Vindraholm.

  Battle would ease the Heudjun’s shame.

  Horg had worked himself into a rage by the time he reached the Great Hall. He was Chief of Chiefs, after all. His fists clenched. He muttered imprecations and swore beneath his breath. He had a right to do as he had done. The plague take anyone who thought otherwise, and that included the gods.

  Draya had never seen him in such an ugly, belligerent mood, and she began to think fearfully that she should have confronted him in the open when there had been people about. Not even Horg was drunk enough to publicly raise his hand against a Kai Priestess.

  But she had to find out the truth about the Vektan Torque, and the only way to do that was to bring Horg before the gods, even if it meant placing her life at risk. Horg might lie to the people. He might lie to her. He could not lie to Vindrash.

  Draya opened the door to the Hall and went inside, carrying a torch with her. The light shone on the statue of the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, and caused her to leap out of the darkness. The dragon’s eyes glowed in righteous anger, her fangs gleamed, her claws were extended, ready to rend his flesh. Horg staggered back a step or two in drunken terror. He stood on the threshold, refusing to enter, staring at the statue with blenched face and quivering gut.

  Draya’s fears vanished—at least her fear for herself. She was in no danger from this sweating, sodden coward.

  “Come inside,” she ordered.

  Horg hesitated; then he lurched across the threshold.

  “Well, woman, I’m here. What do you want?”

  Draya could not reply. She felt smothered, unable to fully catch her breath. Fear clogged her throat.

  Not fear of Horg. Fear of what Horg had done.

  Vindrash, give me courage, Draya prayed, and her voice came back to her.

  “Where is the Vektan Torque?”

  Horg gave a blustering laugh. “Is that what all this fuss is about? I thought you suspected me of murder at the very least!”

  “The torque,” said Draya. “Where is it?”

  Horg shrugged. “I put it away for safekeeping. I never wear the torque in battle.” He yawned massively and scratched himself. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You said there would be no battle.” Draya spoke to his sweat-stained back. “You said the ogres would not attack us. Where is the Vektan Torque?”

  Horg took another step; then he halted. He paused a moment, turned too fast, and almost stumbled over his own feet. He pulled himself upright and said with massive calm, “I gave it to the ogres.”

  Draya pressed her hand over her thudding heart. “Vindrash save us!” she gasped. “What have you done?”

  “What have I done?” Horg repeated, and his face flushed in anger. “I have saved us from death—that’s what I’ve done. The ogres came with their ships. Their sails filled the skies—”

  “So many that no one else saw them,” said Draya caustically.

  “I was riding alone! They would have sent their warriors ashore, but I met with their godlords, made a deal—”

  “You gave them the sacred torque,” said Draya. “But that wasn’t enough. They wanted blood, and you gave them our kinsmen.”

  “We were outnumbered!” Horg bawled, raising his fists and shaking them in the air. “They would have destroyed us!”

  “The Vektan Torque belongs to the gods. You have given what was not yours to give. Torval’s curse will fall on you!” Draya’s voice trembled. “His curse will fall on us all!”

  “Torval’s curse!” Horg laughed and struck himself on the chest. “Look at me, bitch. I’m going to tell you something about Torval.”

  “Get out!” Draya cried. The smell of cider and his sweaty, filthy body sickened her. She averted her face, gripped the altar with her hands. “Get out of my sight, you drunken coward!”

  “I’ll go,” said Horg. “I have a new woman to warm my bed and a cask of cider to drink. But first, bitch, you’re going to listen to what I have to say for a change. Torval won’t curse me. The old fart couldn’t curse a cat! The ogres told me. There was a war in heaven, and our gods lost.”

  Draya laughed. “How ludicrous!”

  “You don’t believe me?” Horg sneered. “Ask your precious Vindrash. If you can find her.”

  Draya started to angrily refute him, but the words died on her lips. She didn’t believe him—or rather, she didn’t want to believe him.

  “You are shamed, dishonored, no longer fit to be Chief of Chiefs. I will tell the people what you have done.”

  Horg shrugged. “Go ahead. And I’ll tell them what I know about the gods.” He smirked at her. “Where does that leave you, Kai Priestess? If the gods are dead, who in the name of Hevis needs you anymore? Certainly I don’t!”

  Horg made a lunge for her. She tried to escape, but he was too fast. He grabbed hold of her, gripping her by her chin and digging his fingers into her jaw. Draya moaned in his grasp. He held her so tightly, she was afraid to move for fear he would shatter her jaw as if it were an eggshell.

  He laughed again, then snarled at her. “Here’s what I think of you. And here’s what I think of your fucking gods.”

  He flung Draya to the floor. She landed heavily on her hands and knees. She tasted blood. Her teeth had cut the inside of her mouth. Her eyes burned with tears. She kept her head lowered, determined not to let him see that he had made her cry.

  She heard Horg’s footfalls thud across the floor, felt them vibrate through her body. He slammed the door, and she flinched at the sound.

  Draya remained where she was, afraid to get up. Finally, she glanced around. Seeing that Horg had truly gone, she sighed and leaned weakly against the altar. The awful calamity had stunned her. She touched her hand gingerly to her face, felt the bruises Horg’s gouging fingers had left behind.

  “It’s not true,” she said bleakly. The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “It’s not true!”

  “I’m afraid it is, my dear,” said a gentle voice. “We who are immortal. We who cannot die. We watched Aylis cradle her dying child, Desiria, in her arms. Her wyrd had snapped, and now the tapestry of all our lives is starting to unravel.”

  The wyrd.

  The Vindrasi believed that when the thread that ties a babe to the mother is cut, the thread of that child’s wyrd begins. The wyrd is spun by the Norn, three sisters of the God Gogroth, who came at Torval’s summons to plant the World Tree. His three sisters sat beneath the tree, one twisting the wyrd on her distaff, one spinning the wyrd on her wheel, one weaving the wyrds of gods and men on her loom. Every person had his own wyrd, as did each god. The wyrds of both men and gods together formed the tapestry that is life. A single thread is fragile. The tapestry itself is strong. Before now, Draya would have said indestructible.

  “We lost the battle,” Vindrash said. “The Gods of Raj and Aelon, Lord of the New Dawn, are young gods, and they are powerful. They proved too strong for us. Desiria, Goddess of Life and Healing, is dead. Her twin sister, the S
ea Goddess, has gone mad with grief, and there is no telling what she will do now. Skoval threatens. Hevis plots. Sund advises caution. The God Joabis basely fled the battle and has disappeared. I myself dare not linger in one place long. My enemies seek my destruction.

  “Since time’s beginning,” the goddess continued, “mortals have come to the gods seeking our help. Now, at what may well be time’s end, we gods are forced to go to mortals. I need your help, Draya.”

  Draya remembered a time when a raging wildfire had swept through the small village where she’d grown up, destroying everything, leaving nothing standing. She felt now as she’d felt then, overlooking the charred remains of what had once been a town. Now she stared out over the charred and blackened remains of what had once been her world.

  “I am honored by your trust, Blessed Vindrash. Whatever you ask of me, I will do,” Draya answered through her tears. “I would give my life, if it would help you.”

  Vindrash was silent a moment. When the goddess spoke again, it was with sorrow.

  “Long ago, Torval foresaw the day of our doom. He made preparations—though, in our arrogance, none of us truly thought we would be forced to resort to them. Sadly, the day of doom has come. The Bones of the Vektia Five must be found and brought together.”

  Draya sat upright, staring at the goddess in dismay.

  The Old Gods had once ruled the heavens from their thrones in the realm of Edonai. A great battle erupted among the gods, and Edonai had been destroyed. The gods and the mortals who worshipped them had been scattered throughout the heavens. Roving the universe, searching for a world of his own, Torval came upon a world beautiful as a jewel. He had never seen anything so wondrous and wanted this world for his own.

  But the world was guarded by the Great Dragon Ilyrion, and she refused to give it up. Torval declared he would not relinquish the gem, and he challenged the dragon to a fight. Torval and Ilyrion fought for many thousands of years. During their battle, the two enemies came to respect and admire each other, even as they sought to kill each other.

  At last Torval slew Ilyrion. As she lay dying, the dragon forgave the god and bequeathed a final gift to the world she was leaving. Her bones and teeth, claws and scales rained down upon the world and buried themselves deep in the ground, taking the form of precious gems, each endowed with a portion of Ilyrion’s soul.

  Knowing his rival gods still roamed the universe in search of worlds, Torval feared the day would come when he would be called upon to defend his prize. He summoned other gods, those he could trust, to assist him in protecting his conquest. Sund came, God of Stone, a thoughtful, contemplative god. Gogroth came to plant the seed of the World Tree. Freilis came, Goddess of the Tally, to rule over the dead. Joabis came, bringing wine to celebrate.

  When the gods were assembled, Torval used Ilyrion’s crest to create the Five Dragons of Vektia, immensely powerful dragons who would be the guardians of the world. To keep them hidden from their enemies, Torval secreted the spirit of each dragon inside a bone taken from Ilyrion’s own skeleton.

  All that was left of Ilyrion was her blood. Torval poured the blood into his drinking horn, and from this sprang Vindrash, Goddess of Dragons. Torval loved her on sight and made her his consort. He gave her the spiritbones of the Vektia Five as a wedding gift. Vindrash, in turn, divided the five spirit-bones among the other gods, ordering them to hide the spiritbones away and keep them hidden. This they did, though none of the gods ever believed the bones of the Five would be needed.

  The tale ran through Draya’s mind, and she was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task.

  “Vindrash,” Draya cried helplessly, “I do not know where to find the spiritbones of the Five.”

  “You know where one of them is,” said Vindrash, and her voice was cold and pitiless as the dead of winter. “Your husband gave it to the ogres.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Garn saw Aylaen and her sister safely enter Treia’s dwelling, and then he hastened back to the feast. Treia’s dire statement that Norgaard “already knew” worried Garn. Priestesses were always deliberately vague when it came to such pronouncements. That way, no matter what happened, they were never wrong.

  Garn believed in the Gods of the Vindrasi, but he did not believe that the gods were constantly peering over a man’s shoulder. Garn believed that as a child plays with a top, so the gods had set the world spinning and now watched it wobble around creation.

  Skylan, on the other hand, believed that Torval was always listening to him, always watching him, always prepared either to reward Skylan or slap him up the side of the head. Their differing viewpoints led to some heated arguments, for Garn liked to speculate about such things. Skylan did not, and once he realized which direction the conversation was tending, he would always end it.

  Garn looked toward the cliffs and saw, to his concern, that the beacon fire was being allowed to die. True, the fire had done its work, sent its message. Horg and his warriors would be making preparations for battle, perhaps even setting sail. The beacon fire should continue to burn—in defiance, if for no other reason. But all that was left was a sullen red glow atop the peak.

  When Garn reached the Chief’s Hall, his uneasiness became alarm. Torches blazed inside and out. The ogre guards were gone, which meant the godlords had returned to their ships. Garn should have heard laughter and raucous voices raised in stirring songs of battle, accompanied by feet rhythmically stamping the floor, hands slapping the table. He should have heard boasting about the great deeds the warriors would perform tomorrow. He should have heard Skylan, the War Chief, leading his men in a war chant.

  Instead, there was quiet—and no Vindrasi feast was ever quiet. Even funerals were riotous affairs.

  Garn broke into a run. The thought came to his mind that the ogres had poisoned everyone. Half-expecting to find his friends slumped over dead, Garn burst into the hall. He came to a halt, staring.

  The warriors, alive and well, sat in silent gloom around the table. Drinking horns lay empty. Plates filled with food had been thrust aside. The face of every man was shadowed and grim. No man looked at another. Each stared into some private hell.

  Norgaard’s head was lowered, his arms resting heavily on the table. His face was gray and drawn. He had aged years in the time Garn had been gone.

  Skylan sat hunched on the bench. He had fresh hurts—his jaw was swollen, and blood trailed from a split lip. He was staring at the table in silence; then suddenly he slammed his fist down and jumped to his feet.

  “We cannot sit here like dead men,” he said. “Dead men who have died dishonored! We have to act.”

  No one responded. A few grunted and some glanced at him and then looked away. Most didn’t even do that.

  “What has happened?” Garn demanded. “What is wrong?”

  Skylan rounded on him. “Where have you been?” he asked accusingly. “I needed you!”

  “The Chief sent me to fetch Treia—”

  “Is she coming?” Norgaard lifted his head and looked at Garn, hope flickering in his eyes.

  “No, Chief,” Garn said. “She is not.”

  He tried to think of some reason that was not the truth, yet not an outright lie. He hesitated too long, however, and Norgaard saw through him.

  The Chief shook his head and slumped back into his misery.

  “Skylan . . . someone tell me!” Garn insisted.

  “The sacred Vektan Torque!” Skylan said, choking on his rage. “One of their goat-screwing, shit-eating godlords was wearing it around his fat neck!”

  Garn staggered, knocked off balance by the astonishing news.

  “No help is coming,” Norgaard said. He stared down at his gnarled hands, which lay limply on the table, and repeated, “No help is coming.”

  “The Heudjun are all dead, then,” said Garn, dazed. “Horg, our cousins, our clansmen. The ogres have slain them—”

  “Not according to the ogres,” Skylan said, seething. “As they tell it, the
ogres had no plans to raid us. Why should they? We are a piss-poor clan with nothing they want. They were going to raid the Heudjun. Horg called for a parley. He gave them the Vektan Torque in exchange for their promise to leave the Heudjun in peace.”

  “The ogres are lying,” said Garn. “Horg would never do such a thing.”

  “That’s what I said,” Skylan said.

  “And what did the ogres say?” Garn asked.

  “They asked—had we heard Heudjun horns calling the clans to battle? Had we seen the smoke of their beacon fire summoning us to help them? Did we see the flames of burning houses? Are the ogre ships now filled with Heudjun cattle and Heudjun slaves? The answer to all is no.”

  Garn stared at his friend in silence. He tried to think of some logical explanations, but none came to mind.

  “How did you get a bruised jaw?” he asked at last, though he could guess.

  “Sigurd had to knock some sense into him,” Norgaard growled. “He would have fought all the godlords single-handed and got himself killed.”

  Skylan shrugged. “We’ll be dead by morning anyway. I am not afraid to die in battle. Every warrior prays that when he goes to Torval, he will stand before him with a sword in his hand. But I go into this battle tomorrow with one regret.”

  The warriors shouted in anger. They knew what he was going to say.

  Skylan raised his voice. “My regret is that I will not have the chance to slit open the coward Horg’s belly and throw his yellow entrails to the dogs!”

  “Not my dog,” shouted Alfric the One-Eyed. “I think too well of that mutt to poison him!”

  The other warriors laughed and pounded on the table in agreement.

  “Then I say we do not lose the battle tomorrow,” said Garn. “No, wait! Hear me out, lord.”

  He turned to Norgaard. “We are outnumbered—that is true. But if the Dragon Kahg were to fight for us, that would more than even the odds.”

  “And if shit were gold, I would be a wealthy man,” said Norgaard impatiently. “The ogres have captured our dragonship. It rides at anchor among their fleet. Their ships have it surrounded. Ogre spearmen would cut us down before we came near it.”