Bones of the Dragon Read online

  Skylan’s jaw dropped. He stared, gaping. “Torval!” He couldn’t help but add in disbelief, “Cooking fish?”

  “What of it? I can’t stomach them raw.” The god eyed Skylan. “You’re an arrogant young dog, aren’t you?”

  Skylan flushed, not sure what to say. Torval, Warrior God of the Vindrasi, should have been sitting at ease in his chair in the Hall of Heroes, drinking and celebrating with those valiant warriors who had died in battle and would fight with Torval in the last great war at Time’s end. Instead, he was here alone on a empty beach, roasting fish.

  “I worship you, Torval, and honor—,” Skylan began.

  Torval rubbed his chin. “You claim to have faith in me. But I’ll wager you have more faith in yourself.”

  Skylan’s flush deepened. His dearest wish in all the world was to stand before Torval, and here he was, saying, doing, and thinking all the wrong things. “I swear to you, Torval—”

  “Forgo swearing.” Torval sighed. He looked suddenly very old and very tired. “We don’t have much time together. My enemies pursue me, harry me. I cannot remain here long. I cannot remain anywhere long.”

  “Then what the ogres claimed is true!” Skylan said, dismayed. “The Gods of the Vindrasi lost the battle—”

  “I did not piss my pants and run!” Torval roared. “Nor am I dead, as they claim. Though I did lose Desiria, who was dear to me.”

  His eyes grew moist as he spoke. He clenched his fist in anger, and the fire burned away his tears.

  “We gods will continue the fight. Or at least some of us will; I have no idea where that craven coward Joabis is hiding. I’ve had my eye on you, Skylan Ivorson. Most of what I’ve seen I’ve liked. Not all.” He shrugged. “But most.”

  Skylan fell to his knees. “I am yours, Torval.”

  “You must fight in the battle for the Vektan Torque tomorrow,” said the god. “The very survival of the Vindrasi is at stake, and so I’m going to do for you what I’ve never done for any mortal. I’m going to make you whole again.”

  “Thank you, Torval!” Skylan was elated. “I will justify your faith in me.”

  The god grunted. “We’ll see about that. I am not an easy master, as you will soon find out. Here, drink this.”

  He handed Skylan his drinking horn. Inside was a clear liquid. Skylan drank and choked and coughed and kept coughing, his eyes watering so he could not see. When he finally caught his breath, Torval had disappeared.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Garn asked, waking with a start.

  He had not meant to fall asleep, but he was worn out from the day’s exertions. He’d leaned his back against the wall near Skylan’s bed, planning to keep watch over his friend. Sleep had crept up on him and captured him without a fight. He glanced outside. The sky was still dark. The stars still shone brightly. Morning was yet some distance away.

  “He’s breathing normally,” Aylaen said. “His skin is warm to the touch! Treia was right. Sister, look!”

  Treia came over to the bed. She bent down, placed her hand on Skylan’s head and then on his chest. He smiled and let go of the spiritbone.

  “Torval,” he muttered, “I am yours!”

  “Your prayers worked, Treia!” Aylaen said softly. “What the ogres claimed is not true! The gods are not dead. The broken statue was just a broken statue.”

  “I didn’t pray for him,” Treia said.

  Lifting Skylan’s head, she removed the spiritbone from around his neck. “I am going to the Hall of Vindrash,” Treia announced, taking up a torch. “Alone,” she added, guessing that Garn would offer to escort her. “I will be safe. After all, the gods are with me.”

  Aylaen winced at her sister’s mocking tone and hoped Garn did not notice.

  “I will take the good news to Norgaard, and then I will be back,” Garn said. He looked very grim.

  He left, heading for the village at a run. Treia walked into the darkness, carrying the spiritbone, clutching it tightly, her fingers curled over it as though she secretly longed to crush it. She kept her head lowered, forced to peer, squint-eyed, at the uneven ground beneath her feet to avoid tripping and falling. The torch flame wavered in the wind.

  Aylaen watched from the doorway until she saw the torchlight vanish and she was certain Treia had reached the Hall safely. Sighing, Aylaen shut the door. She drew the blanket up around Skylan’s shoulders and tucked it around him and added more wood to the fire. The room was warm; the heat was making her drowsy. She needed something to do to keep herself awake. Skylan would be hungry when he woke. Garn had brought along some of the boar meat. Aylaen tossed it in the stewpot and began chopping up vegetables. Intent on her work, she was startled to feel that someone else was in the room with her. The presence was not threatening. It was reassuring, warming as the bread wine.

  “Treia? Is that you?” Aylaen asked. She turned abruptly and almost cut herself with the sharp knife. “I didn’t hear you come in—”

  The door was shut. The room was empty.

  Aylaen looked at Skylan, but he lay sprawled comfortably on his back, fathoms deep in easeful slumber.

  Aylaen finished her task and sat down. She thought back to a time when she was a little girl and she had run away from Sigurd and his fist and had ended up getting lost in the woods in the night. She had been terrified and had started to cry, and then she had felt a presence as she felt now, gentle and loving. She had imagined wings folding around her, holding her close, keeping her safe. She had fallen asleep. . . .

  Aylaen woke with a start.

  “Vindrash,” Aylaen whispered, “I am not one of your Priestesses. I know it’s not my place to ask, but as you love your people, please grant Treia’s prayers this night!”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Skylan woke before dawn feeling groggy, his head pounding, as though he’d spent the night carousing, not dodging spears and fighting ogres. He reached immediately for the spiritbone, and not finding it, his eyes flared open and he sat up, alarmed.

  “Relax,” said Garn, smiling. “Treia has the spiritbone. She has gone to summon Kahg.”

  Skylan sighed in relief. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and winced.

  “How’s your leg?” Garn asked.

  “Stiff,” Skylan admitted, adding in a puzzled tone, “It’s not my leg that aches. It’s my head. I feel as though I’d gone swimming in ale, not seawater.”

  “It must be the bread wine Treia gave you,” Garn said.

  “The stuff tasted foul,” Aylaen said. “It sent you into a deep sleep. You called on Torval in your dreams.”

  “I never dream,” Skylan returned contemptuously. “Ask Garn.”

  “He doesn’t,” Garn agreed with a shrug. “Or if he does, he never remembers them.”

  Aylaen was skeptical. “Everyone dreams.”

  “I don’t,” Skylan said firmly. He glanced around at his surroundings, dim in the gray light. “Where am I?”

  “My sister’s house,” said Aylaen, and she handed him a bowl of stew along with a hunk of bread.

  Skylan sniffed at it dubiously. “Did you make this?” He winked at Garn. “Perhaps I should have you taste this first, like the ogres, to make sure you haven’t poisoned me.”

  “Fine. I’ll take it back,” said Aylaen, reaching for the bowl.

  Skylan yanked it out of her hands. He dipped the bread in the gravy, stuffed it hungrily into his mouth.

  Aylaen handed Garn a bowl of stew. As he took it from her, their hands touched.

  “Torval be with you this day,” she said softly.

  “He will be,” said Skylan, scooping meat into his mouth with the bread.

  He looked up to find Aylaen standing close to Garn, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Seeing Skylan watching, she flushed and moved her hand. Garn cleared his throat and stepped a pace away.

  Skylan quit eating to stare at them. “You two . . .”

  “What?” Garn asked in a tight voice.

  Sk
ylan smiled. “The three of us together this morning. My brother and my betrothed. It makes me happy, that’s all.”

  He handed Aylaen the empty bowl.

  “A good thing I’m not marrying you for your cooking,” he jested.

  Aylaen’s face went crimson. She took the bowl and laid it aside, hardly knowing where she put it. Garn opened the door and stood breathing deeply. Aylis the Sun Goddess had not yet risen from her bed, but the light of her blazing torch could be seen above the treetops, brightening the sky in the east, causing the stars to grow pale in homage.

  “A fine day for a fight,” said Skylan.

  He wrapped the blanket around his waist and rose from the bed, putting weight on his leg. The wound was sore, but his leg bore his weight without complaint.

  “I brought you some clothes.” Garn gestured to the foot of the bed. “And your weapons, your armor, and your shield.”

  “Why so grim, brother?” Skylan bantered as he pulled his tunic over his head. “Cheer up! We do battle this day!”

  He dressed swiftly, pulling on his trousers and then his boots, lacing them securely around his legs. Garn assisted him with his armor. Skylan buckled his sword around his waist. He put on his helm, which had belonged to his father, and picked up his shield. Last, as he always did before a fight, he reverently touched the silver axe and pledged himself to Torval.

  “I will join the other warriors,” he announced to Garn. “You go to the Hall of Vindrash, escort the Bone Priestess to the battlefield.”

  Garn nodded silently. Skylan thought his friend was unusually quiet. Skylan clapped his hand on Garn’s shoulder.

  “Aylaen said I spoke Torval’s name in the night. Even though I don’t dream, it is undoubtedly a good omen,” Skylan said, trying to cheer his friend. “The Vektan Torque will be ours this day.”

  His voice hardened; his expression grew grim. “And once I have it, I will take it to that whoreson Horg and shove it up his arse!”

  “You should use your spear for that, not the sacred torque,” Garn said.

  Skylan laughed. The two embraced.

  Skylan tried to persuade Aylaen to give him a farewell kiss, but she shoved him away.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  “No, you’re not,” said Skylan firmly. “It is too late for you to go to the hills with the other women, but you will be safe here.”

  “Skylan’s right—,” Garn began.

  Aylaen’s lips tightened, her chin lifted, her jaw set. Her red hair seemed to lift and stir as though it were alive. Her green eyes flickered dangerously. The two young men knew the signs, and they glanced at each other.

  “I can fight her or I can fight ogres,” Skylan said to Garn. “I don’t have time to do both. Keep her with you and keep her safe.”

  He hastened off, walking without a limp. He was in excellent spirits, and as the flames of the Sun Goddess’s torch began to lick the clouds, Skylan raised his voice in a war chant.

  Garn began to walk rapidly toward the Hall of Vindrash. He moved so fast that he caught Aylaen off guard, and she was forced to run after him. She could not take his hand, because he was carrying a spear in his right hand and his shield in his left. She caught hold of his forearm. He moved his arm from her grasp.

  “You should go back to Treia’s house,” he said.

  “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Aylaen asked.

  Garn kept walking, moving rapidly, for the torch of the Sun Goddess was spreading a golden sheen across the blue sky. The warriors would be assembling, preparing to take their places in the shield-wall.

  Aylaen looked up into the glorious sky and said quietly, “Without the dragon, you cannot win. Not even Skylan can change that. You will die.”

  “You nearly gave away our secret,” Garn said abruptly.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Didn’t you?” He glanced at her.

  Aylaen flushed. She was about to continue denying the charge, but then saw no reason why she should.

  “Very well. And why not?”

  She rounded on Garn with a sudden savagery that took him aback. “Am I the only one with any sense? Skylan sings war chants and talks of dying with glory. I talk of dying, Garn! You could die today! I am not a fool. The ogres outnumber you. I know that if Kahg does not fight, you and Skylan and the rest of our warriors are doomed. I know that this time might be the last time we are ever together. I could lose you today, my love, and I can’t bear the thought.”

  Garn’s expression softened. Aylaen wrapped her arms around herself, kept them tight beneath her cloak.

  “And if the warriors all die, what happens to us women?” she said bitterly. “You men never think of that! You join Torval in his Hall to spend the afterlife singing war chants and reliving your glorious battles. This night I might be lying on my back with my hands bound with some grunting ogre on top of me—”

  “Aylaen, don’t!” Garn said swiftly. He dropped his weapons and his shield and put his arm around her. He felt her shivering.

  “You know it’s true,” she cried, pulling away from him. “You know the women are not safe in the hills. The ogres will pursue us. They will kill the children and the old people and enslave the rest of us. They will carry us off to their land, where we will be beaten and raped to death. And you and Skylan go into battle singing!”

  She wanted him to suffer, and she’d succeeded. Garn went extremely pale. He had been on raids. He knew, better than Aylaen, the cruel fate suffered by women at the hands of raiders. In the old days, the Vindrasi had taken slaves, a practice that they discontinued. Slaves were a nuisance to deal with on a voyage, requiring constant guarding and gobbling up meager supplies. Even now, though, a victorious warrior could take his pleasure with a captured woman, do with her as he pleased, then abandon her.

  “That is why I would rather be near the battle than skulking in the hills,” Aylaen stated.

  She drew aside her cloak. She had brought the battle axe with her, the head tucked into the leather belt she wore around her slender waist. She smiled at him. “Do you think Torval will let me into his Hall?”

  Garn could not speak; his emotion swelled his throat and choked off his voice. He drew her close and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry I was angry,” he said.

  “I want the world to know of our love,” said Aylaen. “I don’t want to have to stand guard on my lips, fearful of letting the wrong word slip out. I don’t want to have to slip away to meet you in secret—”

  She stopped suddenly, sniffed the air. “I smell smoke!”

  The two looked at each other in alarm, then looked at the Hall of Vindrash. They could see smoke rising, but they could not tell what was burning.

  Garn picked up his weapons. He and Aylaen broke into a run, heading for the Hall. The same thought was in both of their minds: The ogres had somehow found the Hall and set it on fire. Aylaen cried out her sister’s name, but there was no answer.

  Reaching the Hall, Garn and Aylaen stopped and stared in shock and dismay. The statue of Vindrash was going up in flames. Treia stood beside the fire, watching the statue burn, her face impassive.

  Garn ran toward the fire with some wild thought of trying to save the statue, snatch it from the flames. He could see that he was too late. Not only was the wood old, but it had also been soaked in oil, for part of the Priestess’s daily ritual was to rub it and polish it lovingly. The flames crackled. The Dragon Goddess withered.

  “The statue was broken,” said Treia, not looking at either of them.

  Aylaen put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. She looked at Garn.

  “It is time,” he said harshly. “Past time. We must make haste.”

  He told the two women to walk in front of him. He followed behind, his weapons in his hands. Treia held the spiritbone pressed against her chest.

  “Have you ever been in a battle?” Aylaen asked.

  Treia shook her head.

  “Neither have I. We have been lucky, Moth
er says. No enemy has attacked us on our own soil in many years, not since before I was born.” Aylaen hesitated, then said, “Did Vindrash answer your prayers?”

  Treia’s lips tightened. She stared straight ahead, then said, “Why do you think I burned the statue?”

  Aylaen’s mouth went dry; her stomach clenched. A tremor of fear ran through her. Without the dragon to help even the odds, the Torgun could not win. Aylaen had talked of being taken captive by the ogres, but she had said that mainly to hurt Garn, not because she’d truly confronted the awful reality. Now she did so, and she was sick with fear. Her hands shook; her palms were wet with sweat. She gripped the axe tightly to keep the handle from slipping out of her grasp.

  “I prayed to Vindrash, that she would answer your prayers,” Aylaen said softly, thinking this would please her sister.

  Treia’s face went livid. “Because I am a failure.”

  “No, sister, truly!” Aylaen faltered. “I never thought that!”

  “Who asked you to come, anyway? I don’t want you. Go home where you will be safe,” Treia said, and she stalked off.

  Aylaen stared after her, dismayed.

  “Did you hear?” she asked Garn. “The goddess didn’t answer!”

  “Don’t tell the others,” he said.

  Skylan led the Torgun warriors from the Chief’s Hall. He took with him a scouting party and sent the rest out to form the shield-wall on the ground he had selected for the battle. He and his small troop of men topped a ridgeline overlooking the bay. The ogres were leaving their ships, coming ashore. Unlike the dragonships of the Vindrasi, which were lightweight and steered by a uniquely designed rudder that allowed them to sail almost up onto a beach, the heavy ogre ships had to remain in the deep water, forcing the ogre warriors to jump into the sea and swim.

  The Torgun paused to watch the ogres floundering in the waves, which were breaking over their heads. The seas were rough this morning, and he worried that the angry Sea Goddess might drown his foe, robbing him of his battle. Akaria seemed content with tormenting them, however, slapping them with waves while a vicious undertow sucked at their ankles, trying to drag them under.