Bones of the Dragon Page 38

  The fog curled and slithered over the flat gray water. No need for bonfires. Those out fishing had seen the fog bank rolling across the sea and managed to make their way to shore in time. Treia and Aylaen were the only people on the beach, and Aylaen wondered uneasily why they had come.

  Treia let go of her sister and stood gazing out into the fog. Her eyes squinted. She seemed frustrated.

  “Can you see anything?” she asked Aylaen.

  “What am I looking for?” Aylaen asked, and then stopped, astonished.

  A dragonship glided out of the fog, seeming to materialize before Aylaen’s eyes, taking shape and form from the mists.

  “I see a ship,” she said.

  “Yes, I see it now, as well,” said Treia.

  The dragonship drew nearer. Aylaen scanned the decks and gasped, trembling. “Treia, there’s no one on board. It’s a ghost ship!”

  “It is Skylan’s ship, the Venjekar,” said Treia with implacable calm.

  “But Skylan left here with many men,” Aylaen said, dismayed. “And the Kai Priestess was with him. Where are they now? What terrible thing has happened? Why would the dragonship come back without them?”

  “Fetch Norgaard,” Treia told her.

  Aylaen hesitated a moment; then, hiking up her skirts, she ran across the dunes, shouting wildly for the Chief.

  Treia remained standing in the wet sand, gazing at the ship. “A ghost ship,” she repeated. “So it is. The ghost of the might of the Vindrasi.”

  A crowd gathered on the beach and watched in silence as Garn and Bjorn and several other warriors waded out into the gray water to board the Venjekar. The warriors were armed, and they approached the ship warily. The Dragon Kahg would never permit an enemy to board his ship, but dragons were mortal. Kahg might be dead. This could be a trick—for all knew the story of the Olfet Clan.

  Long ago, their dragonship had been attacked at sea by Cyclopes. The Cyclopes boarded the ship, killed the dragon and the crew, then sailed the ship to Vindrasi shores. People of the Olfet Clan spotted the ship floating on the waves. Seeing it empty and apparently adrift, they boarded it and were immediately set upon by the Cyclopes, who had been lying flat on the deck. The Cyclopes killed everyone, wiping out the Olfet Clan, leaving only a cautionary tale behind.

  Garn grabbed hold of the hull and pulled himself up over the side slowly. He scanned the deck. The ship appeared to be deserted, no enemy lying in wait. The spiritbone hung in place. The eyes of the Dragon Kahg gazed fiercely into the fog. Motioning the other warriors to accompany him, Garn walked across the deck. He tried to be quiet, but the wooden boards creaked beneath his weight. The ship rocked as the warriors clambered aboard.

  Finding a pile of blankets on the deck, Garn reached down to pick one up. He heard a noise and froze in place. The noise had come from below—a sound of feet scrabbling and a thud, as if someone, bumbling about in the murky darkness, had knocked over something.

  Garn motioned for Bjorn and Erdmun. “Someone’s down there!” he mouthed, pointing.

  The three padded soft-footed to the sealed hatch. They stood over it, listening. The sound was not repeated. At Garn’s gesture, Bjorn and Erdmun lifted their battle axes and took up positions on either side of the hatch. Garn grasped the trapdoor and gave a sudden jerk. Throwing it open, he sprang back, ready to fight.

  “What? Who’s there?” a voice called.

  “Skylan!” Garn yelled, staring into the darkness. “Are you all right?”

  Skylan, sword in hand, appeared at the foot of the ladder. His hair was tousled, his face creased from sleep. He gazed at his friend in groggy bewilderment. “Garn?” he said dazedly, lowering his sword. “Is that you? Or am I dreaming?”

  Garn climbed down the ladder. “You are home, my friend!”

  Skylan stared at him; then he dropped his sword and wiped his hand across his eyes.

  “Thank Torval!” Skylan said fervently. “I did not think I would ever see you again!”

  Garn regarded his friend in astonishment and concern. Skylan’s arms and torso were covered with welts and jagged cuts. His face was bruised and battered; patches of hair and bits of scalp were sloughing off from an ugly wound on the back of his head.

  “Skylan, where is everyone?” Garn asked. “What happened? Where is the Kai Priestess?”

  Skylan shook his head. “Is my father here?”

  “He’s waiting onshore,” said Garn.

  “I must speak to him,” Skylan said. He bent to pick up his sword, and that seemed to remind him of something, for he glanced around the hold.

  “Wulfe?” he called out. “Where are you?”

  There was no response, and Skylan turned to Garn. “Did you see a boy up on deck?”

  “No,” Garn said, mystified. “What boy?”

  “He must be hiding,” Skylan said, and he smiled. “Of course. It’s your sword. You frighten him.” He raised his voice. “These are my friends, Wulfe. They won’t hurt you.”

  “Who is this Wulfe?” Garn asked.

  “He’s a strange kid. I think he’s crazy, but he seems harmless. He was a good friend to me. He treated my wounds and nursed me through a fever. Let all men know he is under my protection.”

  Skylan called for Wulfe again. When he didn’t answer, Skylan shrugged. “I guess he’ll come out when he gets hungry.”

  He sighed and squared his shoulders, preparing for a difficult task. “And now I must tell my father and the rest of the people the terrible news.”

  “Draya?” asked Garn.

  “She is dead,” Skylan said. “They are all dead. Their bodies lie at the bottom of the Hesvolm Sea.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  When we reached the Dragon Isles,” Skylan said, “we did not beach the dragonship, but kept it in the water. There was something strange about this place I did not like. Draya felt the same, and she remained on board the ship while my men and I went to shore. When we walked onto the beach, I knew immediately that going to the Dragon Isles had been a terrible mistake.”

  Skylan paused to take a drink of ale. No one spoke. The Torgun gave him their full attention, listening in hushed, respectful silence, no one interrupting, no one expressing doubt or disbelief. Skylan was telling his tale well. Not surprising. He had spent so much time on board the dragonship rehearsing his lie, perfecting it, reciting it over and over, that he was almost starting to believe it himself.

  “We came upon a strange imprint in the sand,” Skylan continued. “We did not know at first what to make of it. The imprint was huge, as long as this hall, and it was not natural. I looked at it, looked at the shape. And then I knew. It was made by a foot. A foot as long as this hall and just as wide.”

  Skylan paused for effect and lowered his voice. “It was the footprint of a giant.”

  “A giant!” Erdmun laughed in disbelief, as did many of the young warriors.

  The older warriors shouted angrily for silence.

  “Do you laugh at Torval?” Norgaard asked sternly, glaring at Erdmun, who tried to hide from his Chief’s wrath by ducking behind his older brother. “Torval gave the giants the Dragon Isles to live upon. In return, the giants guard the Hall of Vektia.”

  “I confess, Father, that I did not believe the old tales,” said Skylan. “I should have listened to them.”

  In truth, it was Norgaard’s stories about the giants of the Dragon Isles that had given Skylan the idea. Legend held that giants guarded the Hall of Vektia. No one had ever seen a giant, however, and many Vindrasi, especially the young, doubted the giants’ existence.

  The tale of giants was admirably suited for Skylan’s purposes, however. His father believed in them, as did the older warriors. The fact that no one had seen a giant in many generations was easily explained. The giants appeared only when the Hall was threatened.

  “The next moment,” Skylan continued, “a spear, the size of a full-grown oak tree, flew from the sky and cut down three of my warriors. The giants came thunderi
ng out of the woods. They bore spears and clubs, but they needed no weapons. They had only to stomp their feet and my men died, crushed to bloody pulp. Most of my warriors fell before they ever knew what had happened to them.”

  “Why would the giants attack?” Norgaard demanded. “We have not broken any law—” He stopped in midsentence.

  “As you have guessed, the Vektan Torque is the reason, Father,” said Skylan. “I fought the monsters. Draya was on board the ship, trying to summon the Dragon Kahg. Before she could complete the spell, a giant grabbed hold of her and plucked her off the ship. I fought for her,” Skylan added, subdued. At least that was the truth. “I tried to save her. The giant flung her, screaming, to the ground. Her back was broken. She could not move. I held her in my arms as she died.”

  Women wiped tears from their eyes. Men rubbed their noses. Aylaen wept. Norgaard was grim. Skylan did not look at Garn. It was Treia who broke the sorrow-laden silence. She seemed to be taking the sad news with calm equanimity.

  “The giants killed the Kai Priestess. They killed your men. How came you to survive?”

  Skylan had been waiting for this question.

  “I wanted to die,” he said somberly. “I wanted to be the one to lead my warriors before Torval. I was not given the chance.”

  He choked with shame and grief, and he had to stop to clear his throat. His emotions were real, if his tale was not. He had lost his men. He had been forced to watch Draya die horribly. He had tried to save his wife and failed. The true and the false began to blur in his mind.

  “I challenged the giants, taunted them, dared them to fight me. But as we Vindrasi always leave one survivor in a battle to carry a warning to our enemies, so the giants left me alive. They sent me back with a message. Because Horg gave the Vektan Torque to our enemies, the gods have cursed us. We are not permitted to return to the Dragon Isles until we have recovered the sacred torque from the ogres.”

  This was the part of the lie that Skylan considered inspired. The Vindrasi nation would be roused to action. Skylan would recover the torque and redeem himself in the eyes of Torval. All his lies, his blunders, and mistakes would be forgiven him.

  Drawing his sword, he held it high above his head. “I vow to Torval that by the next moonrise, the dragonships of the Vindrasi will sail. As Chief of Chiefs, I will lead our warriors to battle! We will find the ogres’ lands, and we will put the monsters to the sword and take back our sacred torque! Then we will sail to the Dragon Isles and lay it at the feet of the gods!”

  The Torgun cheered and stamped on the floor and pounded the tables with the flats of their hands. The hall thundered with their approval. Long years had passed since the Vindrasi had gone to war.

  Only two people did not join in the wild enthusiasm. Aylaen stood with her hands at her side, her fists clenched. Garn, too, was somber. He said something to her, but she refused to look at him.

  The Torgun gathered around Skylan, offering their condolences on his loss and vowing their support for his cause. The young warriors crowded near, vying with each other, each hoping they would be chosen to go on this journey that would be celebrated for generations in story and song.

  Skylan turned away. He was in a dark mood, and he wanted them all to just leave him alone. He didn’t know why he was upset. All was going well. His people believed him. His lie had been a success. But perhaps that was the problem. He had failed to save those he had pledged to protect, and now he was using them to gain what he wanted. He was like the craven warrior on the field of battle who hides beneath the corpses of his fallen comrades, praying his enemies do not find him.

  Garn rested his hand on Skylan’s arm.

  “You don’t look well,” he said. “You should have Treia tend your head wound.”

  “I don’t want some Bone Priestess praying over me,” Skylan said. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Garn offered.

  “I don’t need a guide.”

  “I thought you might need a friend,” Garn said quietly.

  Skylan shook his head. “I can find my own way home.”

  He bade good night to his father and took his leave, walking out the door of the hall just as another man was walking in.

  “What’s this?” the man said heartily. “A celebration! I seem to have come at the right time!”

  Skylan stopped dead. The man was Raegar. His eyelid flickered in a wink. He shoved past Skylan and entered the hall.

  “Norgaard Ivorson!” Raegar shouted. “Even after all these years, I would know you anywhere! Let me embrace you, brother!”

  Norgaard stared at the stranger, mystified; then he gasped. “Can it be Raegar?”

  “The one and the same!” Raegar roared, grinning. “I have come home.”

  Treia knew Skylan was lying. The others were so gullible, swallowing that silly tale about giants. She didn’t know why he had lied, but she could guess. It was to cover his crime and Draya’s. The fact that between them they had conspired to murder Horg. Treia didn’t know how. She didn’t have proof. She had only suspicions. Once she knew for certain, she would go before the Kai, expose them both. The Kai would be shocked, of course, but they would also be grateful. So grateful they would choose Treia to be the new Kai Priestess.

  Before now, Treia had never considered aspiring to such heights. Before now, she had known she didn’t have a chance. None of the Priestesses liked her. Under normal circumstances, they would never consider selecting her.

  Circumstances were not normal, however. Draya had named no successor. Even if she had, once the Kai discovered she had murdered Horg, robbed Torval of his judgment, the Kai would renounce her. It would be as if she had never been.

  Treia’s suspicions had been aroused by the fact that Horg had behaved strangely during the fight. She couldn’t see all that well, but she had been able to recognize a sick man when she saw one. Horg had acted sick—clutching his belly, staggering about, retching. He had not taken any serious wounds, she was certain of that. People standing around her even commented on the fact. Treia thought it over and came to suspect that Horg had been poisoned. Her suspicions were confirmed when Draya had swiftly covered up the corpse, so that no one should see it, and then ordered the Dragon Kahg to get rid of the body.

  Treia had considered voicing her suspicions, and she would have if anyone else had come forward. No one did, and she was forced to keep her doubts to herself. The people were satisfied with the decision of the gods. They had not liked Horg, and they did like Skylan. All that would change, though, once Treia had proof.

  She slipped unnoticed out of the hall. Taking down a torch to light her way, she hastened through the empty streets, heading for the shore. She needed proof that Skylan was lying. No one would believe her otherwise.

  The Venjekar rested on its keel on the beach. The wind had risen and shredded the fog. The moon was thin and pale; the stars seemed cold and distant. The sea was dark and stirred sullenly. As Treia boarded the dragonship, she felt the eyes of the Dragon Kahg on her.

  Treia took down the spiritbone from where it hung on the figurehead, clasped it tightly in her hand, and boldly confronted the dragon.

  Wulfe crouched in the hold, afraid to come out. The fierce warriors with their terrible swords and tree-killing axes had frightened him half out of his wits. He had run away to hide and stumbled over a stool, sending it crashing, which had brought the warriors down on top of him.

  He found some small comfort in the fact that Skylan had been glad to see these men. They were his friends, not enemies. Skylan had called him to come out, but Wulfe was still too afraid. He remained hiding behind some barrels, relaxing only after they all left the ship.

  He was now more hungry than afraid, but he feared if he went ashore alone, the warriors would find him and kill him. Skylan had told him lurid tales of what the Torgun had done to the ogres who had dared set foot on their land. Wulfe hoped Skylan would come back to fetch him, but the night wore on with no sig
n of his friend.

  Wulfe decided to sleep on board the ship until the return of daylight, figuring that Skylan would certainly come for him then. He was almost ready to come out from behind the barrels when he heard the sound of someone walking on the deck, and that sent him scurrying back to his hiding place.

  He heard someone talking to the dragon. It sounded like a woman—a real, live woman, not the draugr. The woman’s voice was low, and Wulfe couldn’t understand what she was saying. He could tell by her tone that she was addressing the dragon with reverence and respect.

  The dragon did not respond.

  The woman’s tone changed, became sharper.

  The dragon’s silence continued.

  The woman stomped her foot in frustration. Her tone was commanding.

  Wulfe could sense the dragon’s rising anger, and the boy shivered and wished the woman would take heed and leave. Perhaps she did notice after all, for she fell silent. She did not leave, however. Wulfe saw torchlight shining down into the hatch, and he realized in dismay that she was going to descend into the hold.

  The woman climbed slowly down the ladder, moving hesitantly, holding the skirts of her robes in one hand and the torch in the other.

  Wulfe recognized her by the robes.

  It was the draugr. Coming for him.

  He gave a piercing shriek and jumped out from behind the barrels, startling the draugr, who nearly dropped the torch. He dashed past the draugr, giving her a shove that sent her staggering backwards. He climbed two rungs of the ladder, then felt a hand seize him around the ankle.

  Wulfe screamed and kept screaming, shrill and piercing, like the rabbit when the fox sank his teeth in its neck. He kicked frantically to free himself from the draugr’s clutches. The draugr gave a yank, and he lost his grip on the ladder and tumbled down to lie on his back at the draugr’s feet.

  Except it wasn’t a draugr. He could see that now. She was a living, breathing woman, and she stared down at him in astonishment.