Doom of the Dragon Page 3

  “You spoke of the battle. How does the war go?” Skylan asked, glad to change the subject.

  Garn glanced sidelong at Torval, who was once more sitting in his great chair. The god stared pensively into the fire, seeming oblivious to the laughter and music.

  “We are losing,” said Garn.

  Skylan looked up, shocked. “That cannot be true! When I was outside, I heard our warriors boasting of victory.”

  “An empty victory. Meaningless,” said Garn. “Aelon fights a war of attrition. Our numbers dwindle with every battle.”

  “How is that possible? How can the dead die?” Skylan demanded.

  “They don’t die. Aelon claims their souls,” said Garn. “We fight hellkites—men who lived lives of such cruelty and depravity that when they died, no other god would take them. Aelon forces them to fight for him and if you fall by the accursed sword of a hellkite, you become one of them.”

  “Torval would not permit such an outrage,” said Skylan.

  Garn sighed. Looking around, he leaned nearer and said quietly, “Torval can do nothing to save his own warriors. Some say he has grown too weak.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Skylan stoutly. “When we have recovered the Five and the power of creation, Torval will be restored to glory and might. He will drive out the other gods and the world will go on as before.”

  He spoke with a confidence he did not feel. He and Aylaen had recovered three of the five spiritbones of the Vektia, that was true. But two more remained hidden. The Sea Goddess had told them they would find one in the land of the Stormlords. The whereabouts of the fifth was unknown. And unless he could find some way to return to Aylaen, she was going to have to complete this dangerous quest alone.

  “What will happen if I fail, Garn?” Skylan asked abruptly. “What will become of you and Torval and the others?”

  “You won’t fail,” said Garn, smiling. “You are Skylan, Chief of Chiefs.”

  Skylan sighed. Not so long ago, he had believed in himself. He had been invincible. Only to find one day that he wasn’t.

  “What will happen?” he persisted.

  “Our gods will be cast out of this world. Torval and the others will wander the universe as vagabonds. Those of us who survive will go with them.”

  Garn leaned across the table to add softly, “Here comes Joabis. Tread carefully, Skylan. I do not know what he wants from you, but he wants something.”

  “Watch my back,” said Skylan.

  “Always,” said Garn. Rising to his feet, he dragged over a bench and sat down beside Skylan.

  Joabis took his place at the table, placing the game board between him and Skylan with a mug and a pitcher of ale off to one side. Joabis lifted his mug in a toast, grinned, winked, and belched.

  Skylan grimaced in disgust. He hoped the other warriors didn’t think this drunken god was his friend. He was starting to wonder if coming to the Hall had been such a good idea. There was no help for it now, however. He had to go through with this wager, and he had to win.

  Before the draugr had taught him the strategy to the game, Skylan had played dragonbone as he had lived his life: reckless, impulsive, haphazard, doing what he pleased with no thought to the consequences. After playing all those dreadful games with the Dragon Goddess on board the ghost ship, he had learned that in the game as in life, one needed to be patient, to think several moves ahead, to consider carefully each move before he made it.

  He began the game by taking up five bones, arranging them in front of him, and then placing five in front of Joabis. He did this without thinking. In the myriad games he had played with the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash had taught him to play with what he had come to call the Five Bone Variant. She had started every game by placing five dragonbones in front of him and making him roll all five.

  He had come to think everyone played this way and he was surprised, therefore, to see Joabis staring at the five dragonbones in horror.

  “Why five of them?” he asked in strangled tones. “What does this mean?”

  “No reason,” said Skylan, puzzled at the god’s reaction. “It is the way I was taught to play. Why? What is wrong?”

  Joabis drank a mug of ale, refilled it from the pitcher and drank some more.

  “I don’t like it,” he mumbled through the foam. “I never play that way.” He looked to Torval. “You are the judge. What is your ruling? Must I play with five bones?”

  “I always do,” Torval said in stern tones. “And thus so must you.”

  Joabis cast the god an annoyed glance, then gulped a third mug of ale and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. He seemed nervous, sweating and mopping his forehead with his sleeve. He picked up the five bones and tossed them on the board quickly, as though they burned him.

  Skylan wondered at Joabis’s strange reaction, then put it out of his mind. Sometimes players tried all sorts of tricks to throw an opponent off his game. Some talked incessantly, fiddled with the pieces, tapped their feet, or drummed their fingers on the table. He had no idea what Joabis thought he was doing, but it wasn’t going to work.

  Skylan cast his bones and made his first move. Joabis, after another drink of ale, responded. As they played, the music ended. The dancing and the fighting stopped. Mugs in hand, the warriors gathered around the table to watch and comment and place wagers, some betting on the god, others on Skylan.

  As Skylan and Joabis continued advancing their pieces, losing some, winning others, Skylan looked at Garn to see what he thought of his strategy.

  Garn smiled and nodded his head in approval. Since Garn was an excellent dragonbone player, Skylan was pleased. He played on and was soon confident of winning. Joabis, continually refilling his mug with ale, was making mistakes—picking up the wrong piece, miscounting the number of moves he could make, forgetting he must roll five bones.

  Skylan moved his war chief and was just thinking that four more moves would bring him victory when he heard people in the crowd start to murmur, pointing at his side of the board, shaking their heads.

  Skylan didn’t understand. One would think he had just lost. He looked back at the board and saw his peril.

  With a gleeful chuckle, Joabis picked up his dragon and knocked Skylan’s war chief off the board.

  “I win!” Joabis announced. “Skylan Ivorson, your soul is mine.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  “You cheated!” Skylan cried.

  The warriors standing around the table either vigorously nodded their heads in agreement with Skylan or denounced him as a poor loser, depending on which side they’d placed their own wagers. Torval sat back at his ease in his chair, rubbing his bearded chin. He seemed to find this amusing.

  “He lost the wager, Torval,” Joabis whined. “His soul is mine. Make him pay.”

  Skylan rose to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Garn, you were watching the game,” said Skylan, keeping his gaze fixed on Joabis. “What did you see?”

  “Skylan is right, Torval,” Garn said, rising from his bench to stand beside his friend. “Joabis used some sort of trickery to switch the dragon with his eagle. In the previous turn, his dragon was on the other side of the board.”

  Some of the warriors added their testimony to Garn’s, while others were equally loud in favor of Joabis.

  “I did not cheat. He lost and now he is trying to weasel out of his wager, Torval,” Joabis said nervously, careful to keep the table between himself and Skylan.

  “You claim he is a liar.” Torval gathered his fur cape around him. “Fish Knife claims you cheated. There is one way warriors settle such a disagreement—with their swords.”

  “I would, but I have no sword,” Joabis said with a sly smile.

  “I need no sword to deal with you!” Skylan cried.

  Skylan handed his sword to Garn, knocked aside the table, and lunged. Stumbling backward, Joabis grabbed the pitcher of ale and flung the foaming brew into Skylan’s face. The ale stung his
eyes and flew down his throat. Half blinded, coughing, and choking, he heard Garn shout a warning and saw Joabis was about to smash a wooden bench over his head. Skylan lashed out with his foot, kicking Joabis in the groin. The god groaned and slumped to the floor.

  Another warrior tried to hurl a mug into Skylan’s face. Garn punched him in the stomach. His friend joined in and then everyone was fighting. A group of warriors upended a table, heaved it off its trestles, and used it to shove another group back against the wall, while others grabbed the empty trestles and started bashing heads. The floor was soon awash in spilled ale, causing some of the warriors to slip and fall, as others laughed until they, too, found themselves on their backsides.

  “Joabis,” said Torval, laughing heartily. “Here! Use my sword.”

  Skylan stood back, waiting for Joabis to haul himself up off the floor and take Torval’s sword. Instead, Joabis seized Skylan around the ankles and pulled his legs out from under him. Skylan crashed to the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the table. Joabis launched himself through the air and landed heavily on top of Skylan, knocking the wind out of him and belching beery breath in his face.

  Skylan floundered beneath the god’s weight, lashing out at him with his fists and trying to knee him. Suddenly Joabis flew up into the air with a startled wuff. Garn had grabbed him from behind and flung him off to one side.

  Garn then pulled Skylan to his feet. “Are you all right?”

  “I feel as though a tree fell on me,” Skylan said, grimacing and rubbing his ribs. “Where is the bastard?”

  “Complaining about you to Torval,” Garn said.

  Joabis was jabbing his finger in Skylan’s direction and shouting loudly that Skylan was trying to get out of his bet. Torval appeared more interested in the brawl than in listening to the god, however, for he kept interrupting Joabis to yell encouragement, applaud a good blow, and roar with laughter at a warrior who landed face-first in a puddle of beer.

  Skylan and Garn went to argue their case to Torval, first stopping to deal with a huge warrior swinging a battle axe. Skylan tripped him and Garn clouted him on the head. Joabis, seeing them coming, ducked behind Torval.

  “Make him pay, great Torval!” Joabis cried.

  Torval turned to face Skylan.

  “Wherever you go, Fish Knife, trouble follows.” The god spoke severely, but Skylan saw a gleam in his eyes and took heart.

  “Joabis cheated and therefore has to forfeit the wager,” Skylan said. “Garn is my witness. Joabis must keep his promise to me, give me back my life.”

  Torval reached around, seized the god by his tunic and dragged him forward.

  “You cheated,” said Torval. “And don’t deny it, for I saw you. As for you, Fish Knife, you were a fool to wager with him. All know he is dishonest.”

  “Perhaps I was a fool, Torval, but I am desperate!” said Skylan. “You say I am not dead. The Norn say I am not alive. Joabis promised to return my life and he must keep his promise!”

  “He will keep it,” said Torval grimly. “The honor of the gods is at stake.”

  He gripped Joabis’s tunic and gave it a twist, hauling the rotund god off the floor so that his feet dangled.

  “You have heard my ruling!” Torval growled.

  “I did! I will!” Joabis whined. “Put me down.”

  Torval let go of him, and Joabis dropped to the floor. He straightened his tunic and tugged it back into place.

  “Although, Skylan Ivorson,” Joabis added, “I can think of four reasons you will want to come to my isle.”

  “I do not know of one reason I would have for coming to the Isle of Revels, let alone four,” Skylan returned.

  Joabis held up four fingers and counted them down. “Their names are Sigurd, Grimuir, Bjorn, and Erdmun.”

  Skylan and Garn exchanged startled glances.

  “You name my friends, members of my clan,” Skylan said. “What business do you have with them?”

  “Not business,” said Joabis. “Purely pleasure. They are with me on my isle, enjoying themselves in their afterlife.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Skylan said angrily. “These are brave men, Torgun warriors! If they were dead, their souls would be with Torval, not with you!”

  “You may be surprised to hear this, but some people actually prefer an afterlife of merry living to whacking at each other with swords,” said Joabis.

  The god cast a disparaging glance around the Hall, where the warriors were wiping off blood, mopping up ale, and good-naturedly shaking hands and working together to right the overturned tables. Skylan looked to Torval, who was glaring at Joabis.

  “We fight your battles while you sit with your head in an ale barrel,” Torval said. “Explain what you mean, you sodden swine! Why do you have the souls of my warriors?”

  Joabis opened his mouth, seeming about to bluster, then he caught Torval’s angry eye and his courage failed him. He sank down onto a bench with a groan.

  “I don’t know why I have them and the gods know I don’t want them!” Joabis cried, wringing his hands. “The souls of these four arrived on my island along with a host of other warrior souls and since then they have been fighting and brawling and wrecking the place! I came here to beg you to deal with them, great Torval, and then I met Skylan and it occurred to me that he could do it just as well. I wouldn’t have to bother you.”

  “Who brought them to you?” Torval demanded. “Was it Freilis of the Tally? Why would she bring them to you?”

  Joabis hesitated just long enough for Skylan to think, He’s lying! and then said, “I thought you sent them, great Torval. Perhaps your Hall had become too crowded. I realize now I was wrong…”

  Torval grunted and gave a snort of disgust.

  Garn drew Skylan aside. “What were Sigurd and the others doing?”

  “They were sailing back to Vindraholm to warn our people that Aelon is planning to attack our homeland,” said Skylan with a worried frown. “I need to find out what happened to them.”

  “This could be a trap,” Garn warned. “I do not trust Joabis any more than I can stand the stink of him.”

  “I do not trust him,” said Skylan. “But I cannot abandon my men.”

  Skylan’s thoughts went to Aylaen. He could picture her alone and grieving for him, thinking she would never see him again. Skylan longed to return to her, to put his arms around her and tell her how much he loved her. He had only to tell Joabis to send him back to her and the god would have to obey.

  Then he thought of having to tell Aylaen he had abandoned their friends.

  “I will go with you,” Skylan told Joabis.

  Torval raised a questioning eyebrow. “Are you certain, Fish Knife?”

  “These men are my friends, great Torval,” Skylan explained. “I am their chief. If they are on Joabis’s isle, I need to know what happened to them, and to discover if they were able to take the warning to our people.”

  Torval said nothing, but Skylan had the impression he was surprised by his decision.

  “No doubt he thought I would selfishly leave my men to their fate,” Skylan commented to Garn as they walked toward the door. “I suppose I have only myself to thank for his bad opinion of me.”

  “You are too hard on yourself,” said Garn, smiling.

  “And you are too good a friend,” said Skylan.

  Joabis was by the door, motioning him to hurry.

  Outside the sky was darkening with the coming of night, a gray gloom settling over the world. A blast of cold air hit him and he looked wistfully back over his shoulder at the fire’s bright glow, the warriors returning to their drinking and singing. Torval called for ale and motioned his bard to begin to play the harp and sing.

  “Someday I will return a hero,” said Skylan.

  “Just not too soon, my friend,” said Garn. “We need you among the living. Give my love to Aylaen.”

  As the two embraced, Garn whispered in Skylan’s ear. “Keep your eye on Joabis!”


  “I would keep three eyes on him, if I had them,” Skylan returned. “Farewell, my friend.”

  As he was leaving, Skylan heard the bard singing a song of the glory of the Vindrasi and he saw Torval sitting in his chair, listening with an expression of sorrow and melancholy that made Skylan’s heart ache.

  He put his hand to the amulet, only to remember that it was lost.

  “Make haste!” Joabis said, shoving Skylan over the threshold.

  The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Skylan and the God of the Revel out in the snow and cold.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Acronis, former Legate of the Oran Empire, woke in the night to the creaking of timbers and the feel of the dragonship gently gliding over the calm sea. He had made his bed on a pallet on deck and from where he was lying he could see the square sail black against the glittering stars and, beyond, the graceful curve of the neck of the dragon’s head prow.

  At first glance, the casual observer would take the figurehead for an ornate and beautiful carving of a dragon. Upon close examination, the observer would see that the eyes of the dragon glowed red with a fiery intelligence. The observer would also note that no one was rowing the ship or steering it, yet it sped across the waves, sending up foam in its wake. The Dragon Kahg had imbued his spirit into the dragonship and was sailing the vessel.

  The feel, the sight, the sounds of a ship at sea were familiar to Acronis. As a Legate, he had spent most of his forty-some years at sea, commanding a Sinarian war galley, a trireme. He had been a powerful man in the capital city of Sinaria, a very wealthy man, until he had run afoul of a new god, Aelon, and her new Priest-General, Raegar.

  When his beloved daughter, Chloe, had died, Acronis had lost the will to live and tried to end his life. But he was stopped by Skylan Ivorson, who had once vowed to kill him and instead had turned out to be his salvation.

  Acronis had left Sinaria and his old life behind to set sail with Skylan in the dragonship, Venejekar, for reasons Acronis did not yet quite understand. He had been lost, adrift, desolate; Skylan had hit him like a tidal wave, crashing into his life, sweeping him up and carrying him along with him on an unusual quest to save strange gods.