Bones of the Dragon Read online

  As a child, Skylan had been bothered by the fact that their spiritbone was not so magnificent as the gold-and-sapphire Vektan Torque. He felt that the Torgun were being disrespectful of their dragon, and he had vowed to his father than when he was Chief, he would set Kahg’s bone in the finest gold and surround it with jewels.

  Norgaard had explained why Skylan would do no such thing. Skylan took hold of the leather thong and gently and reverently removed the spiritbone from the peg. He remembered his father’s words, and now he saw the old man’s wisdom.

  “An enemy who seizes our ship and sees a bone hanging from a peg will not look at it twice. An enemy who sees a bone decorated with gold and jewels will do what with it, Skylan?”

  “He would steal it,” Skylan had said then, and he said the same softly now.

  Ogres did not worship the Dragon Goddess. Their shamans had no way to summon dragons, and even if they did, the dragons would not stoop to serve ogres, or at least so Skylan liked to think. Seeing a bone decorated in gold and jewels, the ogres would have taken it for the wealth alone. As it was, they had probably not even noticed it.

  He removed the leather thong and was hanging it over his head when he heard the sound: a booted foot, trying to move quietly, had stepped on an auger lying on the deck. The tool had rolled out from underneath, causing the foot to slip and scrape on the deck.

  A third guard. Right behind him.

  The ogre let out an immense roar, sounding the alarm. Enormous arms wrapped around Skylan’s body. Clamping both arms to Skylan’s rib cage, the ogre hoisted Skylan off his feet and began to squeeze the life out of him.

  Warned by a split second of the coming attack, Skylan had his knife in hand, but with his arms pinned, he couldn’t use it. He flexed his arm muscles, pushing against the ogre’s arms, hoping to break the brute’s grip. Feeling Skylan wriggle, the ogre gave a grunt and tightened his grasp.

  Skylan was finding it hard to breathe. His head pressed against the ogre’s massive chest, he could hear him grunting and smell the stink of unwashed flesh.

  Skylan flailed about with his feet, trying to find the deck in order to gain purchase. The deck was nowhere near, but the prow was. Skylan lifted his knees and, with a desperate lunge, thrust out his legs. Hitting the prow with his feet, he pushed himself backwards straight into the ogre, whose feet went out from under him. The ogre landed heavily on the deck with Skylan floundering about on top of the immense belly. The stupid brute refused to let loose.

  Skylan jammed his foot into the ogre’s crotch. The ogre groaned in pain and let go of Skylan to grab himself. Skylan scrambled to his feet and cast a quick glance around at the ogre ships.

  Lantern light flared. Ogres milled about on the decks, trying to see who had raised the alarm, determine the threat. Several of them caught sight of Skylan and began yelling and pointing at him. A spear thudded into the prow not a hand’s span from his head.

  Skylan grasped the spiritbone. Feeling it secure around his neck, he ran to the ship’s hull, swung himself over the side, and dropped into the water. He would have to swim between two ogre ships to reach the shore. Looking up, he saw an ogre holding a trident and peering down. Skylan made a desperate dive. The trident splashed into the water beside him, a narrow miss.

  Skylan swam underwater as long as he could hold his breath, until at last he was forced to surface. The ogres had been watching for him. Sighting his head, they raised a shout. Spears plunked into the water all around him. Skylan had to search for the shoreline; he’d grown confused in the darkness. A spear struck him in the leg, but its flight was slowed by the water, and it did little damage. Akaria, his blessing on her, held her lantern high. The beach gleamed white silver in the moonlight, and Skylan sucked in a breath and dived down once more.

  He thought he heard more spears strike the water, but he couldn’t be sure, and by now he no longer cared. His strength was flagging. The waves carried him forward, and at last his feet struck the sandy bottom. He lurched up out of the water and staggered toward the shore and heard the ogres yell. Spears thunked around him, and he fell to his knees and began to crawl. He was about finished. He could not make it much farther.

  Two men rose up out of the dunes. Bjorn and Erdmun, braving the spears, dashed across the sand. Each grabbed hold of Skylan by his shoulders and, lifting him up, hauled him bodily across the beach and into the shadows of the dunes.

  Skylan shook with the cold. Bjorn flung a cloak around him, began rubbing him down.

  “Did you get the spiritbone?” Erdmun asked worriedly.

  “I would not . . . have come back . . . without it,” Skylan said through chattering teeth.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Skylan sank into a deep sleep, his hand clasped around the spiritbone, while Bjorn and Erdmun worked unsuccessfully to warm him. They tried to wake him, but he remained unconscious. They tried to pry Skylan’s fingers from the spiritbone, but even in his sleep, he refused to let it go. Eventually, not knowing what else to do, they picked him up and carried him back to the village, where they were met by a contingent of armed men.

  Having heard the ogres’ shouts, they thought the battle had started. They cheered when they saw Skylan and heard he had the spiritbone. When he did not rouse at the cheering or at the sound of his father’s voice, they grew concerned. They loaded him onto a wooden plank and carried him to the dwelling of the Bone Priestess.

  Garn waited with Aylaen and Treia in the small longhouse. Hearing the shouts, Garn picked up his axe.

  “Is it ogres?” Treia asked calmly.

  Garn listened carefully. “I don’t think so. But something’s happened. I’ll go see.” He ducked out the door. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder. “Wait here!”

  Aylaen looked at her sister. Treia did not appear at all frightened. She remained seated on a stool, her hands folded in her lap. If anything, Treia sounded almost relieved.

  “It’s Skylan!” Garn cried exultantly.

  Aylaen met him in the doorway.

  “He has the spiritbone!” Garn told her. “Norgaard says your sister should make preparations for the ceremony to summon the dragon.”

  “Is Skylan all right?” Aylaen asked, noting Garn looked worried.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Something is wrong. He has fallen into a strange sleep, and he won’t wake up. I’m going to him.”

  Before Aylaen could say a word, Garn dashed off. She turned to her sister. “Did you hear?”

  Treia nodded. “Shut the door.”

  Aylaen stared at her. “But they will be coming—”

  “I said shut the door.” Treia’s voice grated.

  Aylaen did as her sister asked and pulled the heavy door shut.

  The only light in the dwelling came from the fire, and that had been allowed to burn low. Treia’s face was a pale glimmer in the shadows. Aylaen sat down beside her sister. She reached out, clasped Treia’s hand.

  “Treia,” Aylaen said softly. “What’s the matter?”

  Treia did not look at her. She sat gazing into the darkness.

  “The last time I tried to summon the Dragon Kahg, on the raid, the dragon would not come,” said Treia.

  “You said he was angry,” Aylaen reminded her. “The warriors had not found any jewels—”

  Treia shook her head. “I lied. Vindrash won’t speak to me. How can I summon the dragon if the Dragon Goddess won’t answer my prayers? And then there’s the statue. . . .”

  “Treia, it broke—”

  “It broke,” said Treia, “when I touched it.”

  Aylaen was shocked, but she tried to devise an excuse. “As Garn said, the statue was old—”

  Treia made an angry, impatient gesture.

  Aylaen loved and admired her sister, but she was also intimidated by her. Treia was so smart, so clever, always thinking deep and serious and complex thoughts. Aylaen wanted life to be simple. She wanted only to love Garn and be loved by him in return. The gods w
anted life to be simple, too. Aylaen had always felt close to the gods, perhaps because as a little girl she had liked making up stories about them and telling them to her friends.

  An unhappy child—bereft of the father she had adored, mistreated by her stepfather, and generally ignored by her grieving mother—Aylaen found a father in Torval, who would protect her from Sigurd’s thrashings, and a loving mother in Vindrash. The dragon would let Aylaen ride upon her back, between her wings, and carry her off to heaven.

  Aylaen could hear voices outside. The men were coming, bringing with them the unconscious Skylan and the sacred spiritbone.

  Treia made no move to rise.

  Aylaen sighed. She squeezed her sister’s cold hand and said quietly, “Skylan risked his life to recover the spiritbone. You have to try to summon the dragon, Treia.”

  “And let them see me fail again?” said Treia bitterly.

  “You won’t fail,” said Aylaen. “The gods know we are in trouble. They will come to our aid.”

  Treia shifted her bleary-eyed gaze toward her. Aylaen had often tried to imagine what it would be like to see the world through imperfect eyes. Treia had once told her she saw everything a blur, as though someone had wiped a wet rag across the world.

  “I was twelve years old when the Kai Priestess took me away,” said Treia, the words pouring from her in an ugly, bitter torrent. “Only twelve. And I was alone in a strange place, living with strange people, none of whom gave a crap about me. Nothing I did was ever good enough for Draya. All she thought and talked about day and night were the gods. Her husband, Horg, is a drunken pig. He was always trying to force himself on me. Once, when I was fourteen years old, he had his filthy hands all over me.

  “I worked like a slave, scrubbing and cleaning and cooking. And all the while, I had to listen to stories of the gods. Draya droning on and on until I wanted to scream. And the sick people! I had to help the Priestesses heal them, which meant I did all the horrid work while they prayed. I can still smell the stink of rotting flesh and the puke and the pus oozing from putrid wounds. I wanted them to die. I wanted them all to die—”

  “Treia, stop!” Aylaen cried, frightened.

  Treia fell silent. Aylaen could hear the men muttering outside. Having found the door closed, they wondered what was amiss.

  Garn raised his voice. “Bone Priestess, open the door.” His tone was respectful, but there was an edge to his voice.

  “I’ll let them in, shall I, Treia?” Aylaen asked hesitantly.

  Treia sat with her hands clenched in her lap. Her face was like granite, her lips tight. Suddenly she rose to her feet. Pushing past Aylaen, Treia walked to the door and flung it open. She stood on the threshold, gazing out at the warriors, at Skylan, unconscious, lying on his cloak on the plank.

  “Bring him inside,” Treia ordered.

  The warriors lifted Skylan and carried him into the dwelling. They laid him on the bed—a platform made of wood covered with cushions.

  “Return to your homes,” Treia told the warriors. “There’s nothing more you can do this night.”

  “The Priestess is right,” said Garn. “Go back to your homes. Get what sleep you can before the battle.”

  The warriors departed, some to sleep, but most to make ready for the fight.

  Treia frowned at Garn, who settled himself in a corner.

  “I’m staying,” he said in answer to her look.

  Treia shrugged. Kneeling down beside Skylan, she ordered Aylaen to bring a light. Aylaen lit a candle and held it above Skylan. His lips had a bluish cast. Every so often, a tremor shook his body. His hand was still wrapped around the spiritbone. Treia rested her head on his chest.

  “His heart is weak. He needs warmth,” she said. “Build up the fire. Cover him with furs and blankets. I will mix a potion to heat his blood.”

  Garn cast a troubled glance at Aylaen. She avoided his gaze, pretending to be busy in gathering up blankets. Her sister’s outburst had left a raw, bleeding gash in her soul. Aylaen had always pictured her sister’s life in Vindraholm as one of serene tranquillity. She had imagined Treia being honored, loved, and cherished—for the Bone Priestesses were revered among the Vindrasi. In a few brief and bitter words, Treia had destroyed Aylaen’s illusions, portraying instead a life of loneliness, fear, and deprivation.

  Aylaen was consumed with remorse. Her life with her stepfather had not been easy, for Sigurd was a hard man. But Aylaen had been fortunate to have friends, like Garn and Skylan. For Treia, there had been no one.

  Treia crouched over a kettle, engaged in combining various ingredients and stirring them together. Aylaen rested her cheek against her sister’s and put her arms around her. At first Treia stiffened in Aylaen’s embrace and seemed about to rebuff her. Something in Aylaen’s softened expression touched her sister. A faint smile flitted over Treia’s thin lips. She touched Aylaen’s hand, and then she went back to her work.

  Garn returned with wood and built up the fire until the room was almost too hot to bear. Aylaen piled furs and blankets on top of Skylan, wrapping him snugly. He remained sunk in the strange sleep.

  “He’s still so cold,” she said.

  She smoothed back Skylan’s wet hair with a gentle hand, looking with deep concern at the pallid face of her friend. Skylan was dear to her, taking second place only to Garn in her heart.

  “Treia should ask the gods to help him,” said Garn.

  Aylaen cringed and glanced around, but Treia was absorbed in her work and did not seem to hear.

  “I’m certain she knows best,” Aylaen said, and changed the subject. “What Skylan did was very brave. And very foolish.” She shook her head in fond exasperation. “He should have sent someone who didn’t have a gash in his thigh.”

  “Skylan is War Chief,” said Garn. “It was his right to accept the danger.”

  Aylaen could tell by his tone that he secretly agreed with her, but he would let himself be sliced open and turned inside out before he would say anything against his friend.

  “Which is why I love you,” Aylaen whispered, and she brushed her lips against his shoulder as she rose to go see if she could assist Treia.

  “Hold this,” said Treia, and she handed Aylaen a drinking horn.

  Liquid clear as water simmered in the kettle. Treia filled a ladle and poured the contents into the horn mug.

  Aylaen regarded it dubiously. “What is it?”

  “It is called bread wine,” Treia said. “It is wine made from grain, not grapes. The process is secret, known only to the Kai Priestess. Draya gave me some to bring with me.”

  “It looks just like water,” Aylaen said. “Are you sure it will warm him?”

  “It will warm everything inside him,” said Treia dryly. “Taste it, if you like.”

  Aylaen tipped the mug gingerly to her lips and swallowed a small mouthful. Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t catch her breath, and she choked and gagged. Treia was right. The liquid burned from her tongue down her throat and into her belly.

  “Lift his head,” Treia ordered Garn.

  Treia shoved the horn mug into Skylan’s mouth and expertly tilted back his head, forcing the liquid into his mouth and down his throat. Skylan gagged much of it back up, but Treia was persistent and kept pouring it down him.

  When the drinking horn was empty, Garn laid his friend back down on the bed.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “He wanders the Nethervold,” said Treia, shrugging. “He will either find his way back or he won’t.”

  Dark waves washed over Skylan’s head. He swam and swam, but he could not reach the shore. He was cold, bitterly cold, and exhausted and in pain. He kept swimming because he had the spiritbone and his people needed the dragon. He swam until he was so cold that he could no longer feel his arms and legs. He was tired. Very tired. It would be easier to die. He started to sink. . . .

  His feet touched sandy bottom. He almost wept with relief as he waded out of the water. The sun blazed down on
him, warmed him. He had landed on a strange shore, one he did not recognize. White cliffs soared high above him. He had to crane his neck to see to the top. Eagles circled in the blue sky.

  Naked, Skylan walked the shore, searching for a ship, a boat, a raft—anything. He had to return to his people before it was too late.

  At the bottom of the white cliffs was a cave. Outside the cave, a man sat on a boulder. He had his back to Skylan, who walked toward him. The man was a warrior, and an important one at that. He must be a lord, the Chief of some wealthy clan. He wore a helm adorned with dragon wings, and he was clad in plate armor and chain mail, bright and shining in the sunlight. His shield, painted blue and gold, lay on the ground. A beautiful two-handed sword hung at his side.

  “Hail, noble sir!” Skylan said, calling out so that the lord would not think he was sneaking up on him.

  The lord turned his head, and Skylan was startled to see the noble lord bent over a hot flat rock, cooking fish.

  Skylan stood touching his hand to his breast in a mark of respect, but he couldn’t help staring.

  The armor the man wore was costly. The sword alone could ransom a king. So what was this noble warrior doing sitting alone on an empty stretch of beach cooking his dinner like a poor fisherman?

  The warrior had long gray hair and was clean-shaven. He had a beaked nose and far-seeing eyes, a strong jaw and jutting chin. He was old, far older than Norgaard, who was the oldest man Skylan had ever known. The lord’s eyes, shadowed by overhanging brows, glittered with an inner blue fire. The eyes pierced Skylan through and through.

  “Forgive my nakedness, sir,” Skylan said, ashamed. “I was shipwrecked, lost at sea. Can you tell me where I am and where I can find a boat? My people are going to battle against the ogres, and I must fight for them.”

  “I know all about your people,” said the old warrior, grunting. “I know about the ogres, Freilis take them and feed them to her demons. And I know you, Skylan Ivorson. You obviously do not know me, though you wear my axe around your neck and your prayers din in my ears daily.”