Doom of the Dragon Read online

  Skylan was growing frustrated. “So I am told, but if I am alive, what am I doing here?”

  “I didn’t say you were alive,” Joabis replied. “I said you weren’t dead.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the hall. “Old Graybeard didn’t explain?”

  “If you mean Torval, no,” said Skylan shortly.

  He had no intention of discussing either his life or his death with this god.

  Joabis tilted the wineskin to his lips, but nothing came out. Shaking his head, he tossed the empty wineskin on the ground.

  “You should go talk to the Norn,” Joabis suggested. “If anyone will know, they will. I’ll come with you, if you like. I know the way.”

  Skylan considered this. Every person had his own wyrd, as did every god. The Norn were the three sisters who lived beneath the World Tree, weaving together the wyrds of both men and gods to form the tapestry that is life, cutting the threads of those whose wyrds had come to an end. The suggestion was a good one; yet Skylan was on his guard. There had to be a reason why the drunken god had taken this sudden personal interest in him.

  “I thank you for the offer,” said Skylan, “but I can find the way on my own.”

  “Oh, I very much doubt that,” Joabis said, chuckling.

  Skylan frowned at him. “I thought you had business with Torval?”

  “That can wait,” said Joabis.

  He latched on to Skylan’s arm, and before Skylan could divest himself of the god, who stank of wine, the forest and the Hall vanished in a swirl of blinding snow. The wind rushed about Skylan, roared in his ears. He could see nothing for the blinding snow, not even the god who had hold of him.

  And then the snow stopped. The air cleared and grew extremely warm and humid, smelling like wheat fields after a summer rain. Skylan found himself standing at the foot of an immense oak tree. He had to tilt his head back until his neck ached to look up the gigantic trunk to the strong, leafy branches spreading far above him. He could see through the leaves the sun and the moon and the stars wheeling about the universe, and he felt very small and insignificant.

  “Stop gaping like a peasant,” said Joabis, adding in a whisper. “Those are the Norn! Be careful not to offend them!”

  He pointed to three old women seated comfortably on wooden stools at the base of the tree, laughing and talking as they worked. The three were small and shrunken with age, their white hair drawn back into neat, tight buns and their black, bright eyes barely visible through webs of wrinkles.

  One held the distaff of life under her arm, spinning wyrds on a wheel until they formed a fine, shining thread. This sister would cut the thread, beginning life, and hand it to the second Norn, who wove the wyrds of gods and men into the vast tapestry. The third Norn wielded a pair of golden shears, snipping the wyrds, ending life. Some of the threads were long, spanning many years. Others were quite short—a life cut off almost before it had begun. The Norn worked busily, their movements quick and deft, paying no attention to their visitors. The sisters were far too interested in their own conversation, as they gossiped about all those lives that passed through their bony hands and cackled with glee when they cut one short.

  Skylan shuddered and even Joabis appeared daunted, for he was sweating profusely, mopping his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. Skylan wanted nothing to do with these terrible old women, but he stood his ground.

  “Talk to them,” said Skylan, turning to Joabis, only to find the god trying to slink behind the trunk of the World Tree.

  Skylan seized Joabis and dragged him back.

  “This was your idea,” Skylan reminded him. “You’re a god. Speak to them. Ask them what happened to me.”

  Hearing his voice, the three Norn stopped their chatter and turned their bright eyes on them.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Joabis,” said one.

  “He looks a bit sickly to me,” said another.

  “That he does, Sister,” said the third.

  Picking up the god’s wyrd in her hand, she waved her sharp golden shears perilously close to the fragile thread.

  “No, no, no!” Joabis gabbled, clasping his hands and falling to his knees. “I beg you! Let me live!”

  “I think he pissed himself,” said one.

  The Norn laughed uproariously. The sister holding the shears thrust them into the pocket of her apron dress.

  “What do you want, you old sot?” said the one with the distaff. “Make haste. We are busy.”

  Joabis clambered to his feet.

  “I’ve come about him,” said the god and jerked his thumb at Skylan.

  “What about him?” asked one in disdainful tones.

  “Who is he?” asked another.

  “And why should we care?” asked the third.

  As the three laughed again and started to go back to work, Skylan saw the sisters steal sly, amused glances at each other. He strode forward to confront them.

  “My name is Skylan Ivorson and you know who I am. I died in battle this day, yet Torval and this god both claim I am not dead. I want to know what is going on.”

  “Should we tell him?” asked one.

  “Might prove entertaining,” said another.

  The three sisters again stopped their work to turn to him.

  “I was doing the spinning,” said the second, “when I saw my sister preparing to cut another thread. I asked her whose life she was ending.”

  “‘The life of Skylan Ivorson,’ I answered,” said the third.

  “‘Past time for that rascal,’ I said,” remarked the first.

  “I held the sharp blades over the thread and began to cut,” the third resumed. “The wyrd was thick and stubborn and the shears were dull from much use. I hacked at the thread and cut apart strand after strand and finally there remained only a single thread. I tried to cut it, but my hand jerked and I dropped my shears to the ground.”

  “We stopped spinning,” said the first.

  “We stopped weaving,” said the second. “We stared in shock at the shears, lying on the roots of the World Tree, and wondered what to do.”

  “What did you do?” Skylan asked.

  “Nothing,” said all three together.

  “Why not?” Skylan demanded.

  The Norn pointed to a wyrd—a single strand finer than a spider’s silk.

  “The thread of your wyrd is strong,” said the first. “You alone can break it.”

  Skylan stared in shock. He had heard those very words before, the time when Sinarians had taken him and his people into slavery. He had been near despair, blaming himself, knowing that his arrogance and his lies and his failures had led his people to this sad fate. His friend, Garn, had come back from the dead to speak to him.

  The thread of your wyrd is strong, Garn had said to him. You alone can break it.

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Skylan.

  “The gods have given you a gift, Skylan Ivorson,” said the second.

  “Or a curse,” the third cackled.

  Skylan looked from one to the other.

  “Which is it?” he demanded. “A gift or a curse?”

  The sisters nudged each other with their elbows, smirking.

  “It is what you make of it,” they said in unison.

  They turned their backs on him. One took up the distaff. The other sat down at her spinning. The third resumed her weaving and cutting. Skylan watched her gleaming shears snap, slicing a thread.

  “Then, if I may choose, I choose to return to life,” Skylan said to the Norn.

  The three old women frowned and shook their heads at him.

  “We take life. We don’t give it. Be gone, Skylan Ivorson,” scolded one.

  “And take that wine-soaked sot with you,” added the second.

  The third pointed her bony finger at Joabis and menacingly waved her shears.

  “We should go,” said Joabis, tugging at Skylan.

  “I won’t go without a straight answer!” Skylan said in frustration. Digging in h
is heels, he easily shook loose of the god’s grip. “What do they mean, I may choose, and then they do not give me a choice?”

  Joabis leaned near to whisper.

  “Bah! Who knows? They’re crazy, these old hags! We should leave. I don’t like the way the one is waving around those scissors. I have an idea! Come with me to my island,” Joabis said in wheedling tones, once more taking hold of Skylan’s arm. “I have a wager for you.”

  “I’m not interested in gambling, especially with you,” said Skylan, glowering.

  “Here’s my wager,” said Joabis, pretending he hadn’t heard. “I’m passionately fond of a game of dragonbone and I hear you consider yourself a champion. If you win, I will return you to life. If I win, you must remain with me on my island.”

  “If you can return me to life, then do so now,” said Skylan.

  “Ah, but you must make it worth my time and trouble,” said Joabis. He heaved a deep sigh. “To tell the truth, I am bored. The other gods think only of their precious war. No one will drink with me or throw the dice. Come entertain me. Cheer me up. It’s only a game. What have you got to lose?”

  Skylan considered. He did not trust this god, but, as Joabis said, what did he have to lose? Skylan did consider himself to be an excellent dragonbone player and this was not, after all, the first time he had played the game against a god.

  He grimly recalled those dreadful matches aboard the ghost ship, forced to play dragonbone night after night with what he believed to be the draugr of his dead wife. He had later discovered the fearful ghost was in truth the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, who had used the game to teach him about the five dragonbones and their importance in the battle against Aelon.

  “I will take your wager,” said Skylan. “But we will not play the game on your island. We must go somewhere neutral—Torval’s Hall.”

  “Torval is not neutral,” Joabis complained. “He despises me. And he will not let you inside.”

  “You must convince him. That is my offer,” said Skylan. “Take it or leave it.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Joabis grumbled.

  He waved his hand and the World Tree and the three old women vanished. Skylan found himself standing once more in the trampled, bloodstained snow outside Torval’s Hall of Heroes.

  Joabis knocked at the door and was admitted.

  “Wait here,” he told Skylan.

  The door shut.

  CHAPTER

  2

  As Skylan paced back and forth in the snow, slapping himself with his arms to keep himself warm, he pondered the words of the Norn. Unlike Joabis, Skylan did not think the old women were crazy. He had seen for himself his single thread shining in the sun.

  A man’s wyrd was his fate, his destiny, rolling out in front of him toward some unknown end. As for choosing his own wyrd, all men are free to make choices. That is the gift—and the curse—of the gods, for while men are free to choose, they must choose blindly, unable to foresee the outcome.

  “Why am I different?” Skylan wondered. “Or am I different at all? Perhaps the Norn are toying with me.”

  And yet, there was that single thread.

  Growing impatient, Skylan went to the door that had been left open a crack to look for Joabis and saw him talking to Torval. They must be discussing him, for Joabis gestured toward the door and Torval turned his head to look in Skylan’s direction. Torval looked very grim, but he gave an abrupt gesture. The door flew open.

  Joabis met him, smacking his lips over a mug of foaming ale.

  “Torval has agreed to let you into the Hall, but only for the sake of the wager. Once the game is ended, you must leave.”

  Removing his helm in respect, Skylan crossed the threshold, pausing a moment in the doorway to gaze in awe at this holy place. He had known since he was a child and first fashioned a sword from a stick that he would die a hero and be proud and content to spend his afterlife here.

  A roaring fire blazed in a great stone fireplace. The heroes of the Vindrasi, men and women, filled the Hall. Some sat laughing and talking over mugs of ale at rows of long, rough-hewn tables made of planks of wood laid across trestles. Others were on their feet, wrestling or practicing their techniques with sword or spear or axe, bashing at each other, while their fellows watched and freely criticized. Still others were gathered around a harper, listening to his tale.

  Torval sat sprawled at his ease in a huge chair at the front of the Hall. He was holding a mug of ale in one hand and beating time to the music on his knee with the other. He gazed at his assembled warriors with pride and smiled with pleasure. But his smile seemed wistful to Skylan, touched by the shadow of sorrow that darkened his eyes.

  Skylan searched for his father and saw Norgaard sitting with a group of his friends in the warmest corner of the Hall, near the fireplace. Most of his father’s friends had died before Skylan was born, for Norgaard had died an old man of forty-five, outliving all the warriors of his generation. Norgaard appeared to be telling the tale of some battle, for he was on his feet, jabbing at an imaginary foe with his sword.

  Skylan was pleased to see that his father, who had always walked with a limp, was hale and whole once more.

  Feeling a heavy hand on his shoulder, Skylan looked to see Torval standing alongside, his gaze also on Norgaard.

  “How did my father die?” Skylan asked.

  “Bandits attacked the village,” Torval replied. “With you and most of the warriors gone, Norgaard and a few other old men, the Torgun women, and their children were the only ones left to fight. Norgaard died defending his people.”

  “A good death,” said Skylan.

  Torval nodded. “I will tell him you are here.”

  “No, don’t,” said Skylan.

  “Why not?” Torval asked, frowning.

  “Because I have no right to be here,” said Skylan, his face flushing in shame. “Because I have been ungrateful, full of my own importance, proud and arrogant. I lied to my father and mocked him. I thwarted your will and took the chiefdom of our people from him. How can I face him now, especially in company with Joabis? He will think I have chosen to spend my afterlife in drunken revelry.”

  He knew Torval would understand. When Torval had slain the Great Dragon Ilyrion and taken the world as his prize, he had invited his friends to join him: Aylis, the Sun Goddess; Skoval, God of Night; Sund, God of Stone; Vindrash, the Dragon Goddess; Akaria, the Goddess of the Sea; Freilis, Goddess of the Tally. Each of the gods had given the people of the world a gift and chosen a part of the world to rule.

  Joabis had given mankind the gift of ale and wine and chosen to rule the Isle of Revels, taking those souls who had spent their lives in riotous living. While the Vindrasi appreciated Joabis’s gifts, particularly the ale, they had small use for drunkenness and debauchery.

  “When I come back to this Hall a hero, I will embrace my father and ask his forgiveness,” Skylan continued. “Until then, do not let him know I am here. I would not add to his disappointment in me.”

  “You are learning, Fish Knife,” said Torval, regarding him with approval. “Though I must say it’s taken you long enough. I will send your father and his friends out on patrol.”

  He summoned one of the warriors, who went to carry his orders to Norgaard. Skylan watched his father arm himself with shield and sword, put on his helm and walk proudly from the Hall. He was no longer in constant pain from the broken ankle that had never properly healed. He no longer walked with the aid of a stick. Skylan could grieve his loss, but, as he said, his father had died a good death.

  Torval motioned to a small table and two chairs that had been placed in front of the fire. “For better or ill, Fish Knife, you agreed to this wager with Joabis. Set up the dragonbones, play your game, and then be gone.”

  Skylan looked around for Joabis and found him circulating among the crowd of warriors, trying to interest them in making side bets. Skylan sat down at the table and began to set up the game, which took some time.

 
The game board was made of oak, and painted with pictures of the sun and the moon and the stars, dragons and dragonships, swords and shields, trees and mountains and seas. Paths marked with runes wound among them.

  Skylan began to divvy up the “bones,” giving half to himself and half to Joabis. The bones were made of antler carved into different shapes, painted different colors, all of them marked with runes. Players cast the bones on the table and then moved the pieces according to the runes inscribed on them. He was counting out the bones when he heard a bench scrape and he looked up to see Garn taking a seat across from him.

  “My friend! I am glad to see you!” said Skylan.

  “I am glad to see you, but not in such poor company,” said Garn with a frowning glance at Joabis, who was shouting loudly for more ale. “What is going on?”

  “You remember how you told me my wyrd was strong and that only I could sever it?” Skylan said.

  “I do, yes,” Garn replied.

  “Well, it seems you were right. According to the Norn I died and yet I didn’t,” said Skylan and explained what the Norn had told him.

  “I am trapped betwixt life and death and I have no idea how to get back,” Skylan concluded despondently. “Joabis offered me this wager. What else could I do?”

  “The question is—how did you come to be here?” said Garn, regarding Skylan intently. “You are not dead. You could not have found Torval’s Hall on your own. Freilis brought me and the others. Some god must have led you here.”

  “That’s true,” said Skylan, struck by the notion. “I hadn’t considered that. Do you have any ideas?”

  “As far as I know, Torval and the other gods were with us, doing battle with Aelon’s demonic hordes.”

  “All the gods?”

  “All except Joabis,” said Garn.

  He and Skylan both turned to look at the god and Skylan thought back to their meeting in front of the Hall. “When I first met him, he said he was here to talk to Torval. He seemed deathly afraid. When I spoke to him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.”

  “Be on your guard,” Garn warned. “He is plotting something.”

  They were both silent, arranging the pieces on the board.