Bones of the Dragon Page 39

  “Stop shrieking,” she snapped, and Wulfe stopped.

  “Who are you? Where did you come from?” the woman asked.

  Wulfe didn’t like her. The elder said Wulfe had an animal’s sense about people, perhaps because of the way they smelled. This woman did not carryiron, but she smelled of iron, as though her soul were made of iron.

  No wonder the dragon had refused to answer her questions. Wulfe decided to do likewise. He kept his lips clamped tight and did not move.

  “Are you dumb, boy?” The woman peered down at him through squinting eyes.

  Wulfe shook his head.

  “Not deaf, are you? Can you hear me? Do you speak our language?”

  Wulfe nodded.

  “Are you a friend of Skylan’s?”

  Again Wulfe nodded.

  The woman’s voice softened; her tone became soothing, as though she were trying to placate a snarling dog. “You don’t need to be afraid. I am Skylan’s friend, too.”

  She held out her hand. “I can take you to him, if you want. No one will hurt you. Not if you’re with me.”

  Ignoring the outstretched hand, Wulfe scrambled to his feet, keeping his distance. “Can I have something to eat?”

  The woman gave a tight, stiff smile. “So you can talk, after all. My name is Treia. What is your name?”

  Names were powerful. Wulfe kept quiet.

  The woman named Treia gave an exasperated sigh and motioned with her hand. “Wait for me up on deck. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Wulfe hesitated, then did as he was told. He stood on the deck, feeling oddly unsteady now that the ship was no longer moving. He could hear her rummaging about down below. He had no idea what she was looking for, and he didn’t think she did either. He wished she would hurry.

  Treia came back up the ladder. Her face was rigid. She seemed annoyed. When she saw Wulfe, she tried another smile, but didn’t quite manage it.

  “Come with me,” she ordered.

  She offered Wulfe her hand again. Again he didn’t take it. Shrugging, she walked across the deck, and Wulfe trailed after her. She paused a moment to look up at the dragon.

  The dragon had nothing to say, and Treia’s lips compressed.

  “How did you and Skylan meet?” she asked as they walked across the sand dunes. She had to glance around at him, for he walked several paces behind her, not liking to get too close.

  Wulfe pretended he hadn’t heard. He could see the roofs of longhouses silhouetted against the stars. Skylan had told him about the village, about his home, about his friends and his father and about the woman he loved. Wulfe hoped that this was not the woman. He didn’t think it was. Skylan had told him she had hair the color of fire. This woman had hair the color of donkey piss.

  The woman kept asking him questions, all of them about Skylan. Wulfe didn’t believe her when she said she was Skylan’s friend. If she was his friend, she wouldn’t ask so many questions. He wished she would be quiet. Her voice was like being poked with a sharp stick.

  They walked the streets. Wulfe’s nose twitched, and his mouth watered. He could smell the meat and vegetables simmering in the stewpots.

  “I’m really hungry,” he said. “And I want to see Skylan.”

  Now it was Treia who did not answer him. She was peering down the street at a large building, the largest Wulfe had ever seen. The door to the building stood open—light poured out, and with it a hubbub of voices, lots of people talking all at once.

  “Something has happened,” said Treia.

  She reached out and grabbed his arm, startling Wulfe, who hadn’t been expecting that. His instinct was to pull away, but she was moving at a run toward the large building, dragging Wulfe behind. He thought maybe this was where he would find Skylan and maybe there would be something to eat, and so he let the woman keep hold of his arm, wondering why she felt the need to hang on to him. If she feared he would have trouble keeping up with her, she was wrong. He could run far faster than she could, especially on all fours.

  Someday he would show her.

  The Torgun crowded around Raegar, exclaiming and rejoicing, clapping him on the back, offering him drink and food, rearranging the benches, giving him a seat of honor.

  Raegar embraced Norgaard, calling him “brother,” and then asked, with easy good nature, “Where is my favorite cousin? Where is little Skylan?”

  At this, everyone roared with laughter.

  Skylan came forward. Raegar made a fine show of being astonished, proclaiming that this fine handsome young man could not be the scrawny little boy he remembered. He marveled to hear not only that this young man truly was Skylan, all grown up, but also that Skylan was now Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi nation.

  Raegar embraced his cousin in a bear hug. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe!” Raegar whispered, his breath tickling Skylan’s ear.

  Grinning, Raegar slapped Skylan on the back and turned away to speak to Norgaard.

  Skylan didn’t find that very reassuring. All Raegar had done was remind Skylan that he had a secret and that Raegar knew it and could reveal it at any time. Skylan longed to go to bed, for the strain was exhausting. He couldn’t. He had to find a chance to talk to Raegar in private, discover why he had come to Luda.

  Everyone wanted to know Raegar’s story, and he was glad to tell it. He related how he had been wounded and near death and how his captors had healed him in order to sell him into slavery and how he had made a new life in the Southland. He was in the middle of the tale, with everyone listening eagerly, when Treia appeared in the doorway, holding Wulfe by the hand.

  “Skylan,” she said, interrupting Raegar’s flow of talk, “this boy claims to know you.”

  Raegar stopped in the middle of a sentence. His mouth dropped open. He rose to his feet and took a step toward her, as though drawn by some invisible thread.

  Treia blinked at him. He stared at her.

  “I did not remember the women of the Torgun were so beautiful,” he said. “Or else I would have crawled home on my hands and knees.”

  Treia’s cheeks were flushed from running. Her blond hair had come loose from the elaborate braids and cascaded down around her shoulders. Her eyes glistened in the firelight; her breath came fast. None would have called Treia beautiful before this, but seeing her through the eyes of a stranger, they wondered where their own eyes had been all this time.

  Treia’s flush deepened. She blinked again at Raegar, trying to bring him into focus, and was about to reply to his compliment when Wulfe broke free of her grasp and made a lunge at the table. He seized a large bowl of stew, clasped it in both arms, and turned and dashed outside.

  “What was that?” Norgaard asked, astonished. “An imp from the Nethervold?”

  “The boy I told you about,” said Skylan. “The one I found adrift in the sea. I warned you he was a little mad.”

  “More than a little, it seems,” said Norgaard dryly. “Well, you had better go catch him before you lose him again.”

  “Cousin, I would first have a word with you,” said Raegar, plucking at Skylan’s sleeve. He drew him off into a shadowy corner.

  “Yes, Cousin, what can I do for you?” Skylan asked pleasantly. Once they were out of earshot of the others, he glowered at Raegar. “What in the name of Hevis are you doing here? Why have you come?”

  “I bring good news. I found a map that gives the location of the ogres’ lands,” Raegar said coolly, and he grinned. “Ah, I thought that would please you. The ogres are not far. A month’s sailing, perhaps.”

  “That is good news,” Skylan admitted. “I am grateful.”

  “There’s another reason.” Raegar glanced over his shoulder to the people laughing and talking. “Meeting you made me start thinking about my kin. I realized I had been away too long. It was time to come home.”

  As if he’d heard his nephew’s words, Norgaard rose and called for silence. “We are all glad our clansman has returned home,” he said. “I trust he will not soon leave us. T
his night has been long, starting in sorrow and ending in joy.” He raised his drinking horn. “A toast to Raegar, who has come back from the dead.”

  The Torgun grinned at Raegar and lifted their drinking horns and drank.

  Norgaard raised his horn to Skylan. “To our Chief of Chiefs and his safe return.”

  The Torgun drank this toast and then refilled their horns, all of them waiting eagerly for the toast they knew was coming.

  “It is far too long since the Vindrasi have gone to war.” Norgaard lifted his drinking horn high in the air. “To Torval and the destruction of our foe!”

  The Torgun roared, “To Torval!” and drank.

  “We have much work to do to prepare,” said Norgaard, placing his empty horn on the table. “This meeting is ended.”

  Moving slowly and painfully, leaning heavily on his crutch, Norgaard limped over to Skylan and rested his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “You have been through a terrible experience, my son,” Norgaard said. His eyes were moist. “You handled it well. I am proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Skylan. His throat closed, choking on his lies.

  People streamed out of the hall. Norgaard stood talking a moment with Raegar. Skylan made a hasty escape and plunged out the door. He nearly stumbled over Wulfe, who was squatting in the middle of the street, hunched over the bowl, shoveling food into his mouth with both hands. Skylan took down a flaring torch from the wall.

  “Come with me,” he said, grabbing Wulfe, who grabbed the bowl.

  “Where are you taking me? To the ship?”

  “To my home,” said Skylan.

  Wulfe planted his feet and stood firm. “I want to go back to the ship.”

  Skylan considered. Perhaps it would be best if Wulfe remained on board the ship. He would be less likely to talk to people than if he lived with Skylan in the village.

  “Very well,” said Skylan. “But you’ll have to stay on the ship by yourself. I can’t be with you.”

  “I won’t be alone,” said Wulfe. “The dragon is there.”

  “I didn’t think you liked the dragon.”

  “I like him better. He wouldn’t talk to that woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “The woman who brought me.”

  “You mean Treia? She was talking to the dragon? What did they talk about?”

  “You,” said Wulfe, licking his fingers.

  Skylan stopped, troubled and immediately suspicious. The only reason Treia would have to speak to the dragon would be to find out if Skylan was telling the truth. He glanced back over his shoulder. The Torgun were filing out of the hall, and some would be sure to come looking for him. Skylan doused his torch in a nearby bucket and ducked down a side street, hauling Wulfe with him.

  “What did she say to the dragon?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wulfe. “I couldn’t hear. It doesn’t matter, because the dragon wouldn’t answer her. That made her mad, and she came down into the hold. She scared me. I thought she was the draugr. She was dressed like the draugr. She asked me questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Where I met you and where was I when I met you and who was with you and did I see the giants.”

  “What did you say?” Skylan waited nervously for the answer.

  “Nothing,” said Wulfe. “I don’t like her.”

  “That’s good!” said Skylan, relieved.

  Wulfe used a piece of meat to scoop up gravy, running it around the side of the crockery bowl. “What did she mean about you fighting giants?”

  Skylan paused. He’d known this moment was coming. He hadn’t expected it to come so soon. He squatted down in front of the boy, looked him in the eyes.

  “It’s a story I made up. Wulfe, if Treia or anyone else asks you, tell them I found you adrift in the sea, lost in the fog.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Wulfe.

  “I know. It’s a lie, but it’s a good lie, not a bad lie. Like the lie about the giants is a good lie. I told the lie because I want to protect the druids and your people on Apensia.”

  Wulfe looked puzzled by this. “You don’t need to lie.”

  “Yes, I do. If my people found out that the druids killed my wife—”

  Wulfe interrupted. “The druids didn’t kill her. The druids don’t kill people.”

  “I saw them drive a stake through her belly,” Skylan said harshly. “Don’t argue. Just listen! If my people ever find out what happened, they will sail to Apensia and use their swords to kill the elder and the others.”

  Wulfe smiled at his friend in reassurance. “They can’t. The faeries won’t let them. Your people would be the ones to die.”

  Skylan gazed out across the sea, dark in this dark night.

  “Wulfe,” said Skylan, “if my people hear the truth, I will die. They will kill me.”

  “I’ll say you found me in the sea,” said Wulfe.

  BOOK

  4

  THE DRAGON ISLES

  CHAPTER

  1

  The Vindrasi were going to war.

  A month had passed since Skylan’s return from his ill-fated voyage. The Vindrasi celebrated the summer solstice that launched the time of Skoval, the raiding season. The weather was hot and continued dry. Rain came in sporadic bursts, pelting the hard ground with huge drops that were of small benefit to languishing crops. The Vindrasi needed a week of gentle soaking rains. The Bone Priestesses offered prayers to Akaria, but the temperamental goddess did not see fit to respond.

  Despite these ongoing concerns, Skylan was in good spirits. The time of his return had been dark and unhappy, but now that was over. His sun had risen once more, and hope for the future shone brightly. He moved from Luda to Vindraholm, took up residence in the house of the Chief of Chiefs, empty now that his wife was dead.

  The funerals for the Heudjun dead had been hard, but he’d managed to get through them. If he was somber, people put it down to sorrow. Skylan expanded on the heroics of the warriors, describing the make-believe fight with the giants in detail. The Heudjun mourned their dead and honored them for their heroism and then made ready to go to war.

  Draya’s funeral was the most difficult. Skylan grieved for Draya with a grief compounded of guilt and remorse and self-recrimination. He tried to assuage her restless spirit and his conscience by giving the statue of Vindrash the lavish gift of a valuable turquoise necklace. The offering did not work. The draugr continued to plague him. Night after weary night, she came to Skylan before he slept and forced him to play dragonbones with her. He could not understand why she did this. It seemed her only purpose in walking this earth as a corpse was to play this game—a game he never won.

  He had to admit the draugr had made him a better player. He kept hoping that if he finally beat the draugr, she would leave him alone, and thus he concentrated more on the game than on anything he’d ever done in his life. Previously he had always made his moves as the moment took him, rarely thinking more than one or two moves in advance. He had been quick to see his foe’s weakness, but had generally failed to note her strength until it was too late.

  The draugr was an excellent dragonbone player. Skylan had never gone up against such a skilled opponent. She was better than Garn, who had beaten everyone among the Torgun so often that now no one would play him. Skylan eventually realized that if he studied the way she played, the tactics she used to defeat him, he might learn something to his advantage. He began to do that, and he began to see that the game was far deeper and more complex than he had realized. He forced himself to be patient, to be observant, to think first before he acted. He still never won. But the matches more frequently ended in draws.

  Skylan’s next official duty, after presiding over the funerals, was to rally his people for war. Escorted by a troop of young warriors, he rode Blade or sailed in the Venjekar to meet with the other Clan Chiefs, convince them to give him warriors and what wealth they had to pay for the expedition against the ogre
s.

  The Chiefs needed no convincing. All of them were eager to fight. The Vindrasi had long chafed under Horg’s unwillingness to allow so much as a blood feud among kin. They were glad to have a Chief of Chiefs who was going to lead them into battle against their enemies.

  Wulfe did not accompany Skylan on these journeys. Concerned and a little nervous at leaving the strange boy on his own, Skylan had tried to persuade him to go. But the warriors who escorted the Chief of Chiefs went heavily armed, and Wulfe could not bear to be around them. Skylan considered this aversion of the boy’s to iron a silly notion, taught to him by the peace-loving druids. Skylan tried numerous times to persuade Wulfe that a stewpot was not his foe.

  “How are you going to fight at my side in the shield-wall if you refuse to even touch a sword?” Skylan had asked the boy.

  “I don’t need a sword to fight,” Wulfe had replied. “I won’t be at your side in a battle, but I will be there to protect you. I saved your life. You belong to me.”

  The boy was intensely serious, and Skylan had smiled and reached out his hand to brush Wulfe’s shaggy hair out of his eyes.

  “You’re a strange one,” Skylan had said. “And someday I will teach you to use a sword.”

  While Wulfe remained behind, Raegar accompanied Skylan on his travels. His cousin had been true to his promise. He had kept Skylan’s secret faithfully. And, as promised, he had brought Skylan a map, which he claimed revealed the location of the ogre nation. Skylan could not read, and therefore he could make nothing of the map himself. Skylan was forced to take his cousin at his word. He was forced to take Raegar at his word about a lot of things—one reason Skylan liked to keep Raegar close to him.

  Raegar was at least a jovial companion, unlike Garn, who had turned into a killjoy, or so it seemed to Skylan. Garn always looked grave and somber; he was always wanting to “talk,” which meant he wanted to lecture.

  Skylan was convinced that Garn knew he was lying about the giants, about most everything, and in this, he was right. Garn knew Skylan was not telling the truth. Skylan was wrong about Garn wanting to lecture him, however. Concerned for his friend, Garn only wanted to find some way to help.