Doom of the Dragon Read online

  The Dragon Kahg was already sailing in pursuit. His red eyes, blazing in the fog, swiveled around and aimed their lurid glow at the boy.

  “Told you so,” said Wulfe.

  Kahg gave an irate snort that caused the ship to rock alarmingly. Wulfe had to grab hold of the bulkhead to keep from falling overboard.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The Isle of Revels was beautiful as a summer’s day in Skylan’s homeland. From the deck of the dragonship, he gazed at an immense island with rolling hills of green forests and lush golden fields. The clear blue water reflected a clear blue sky.

  Leaving the ship in the shallow water, he waded ashore, walking out of the surf onto grass-covered dunes. In the distance he could see a village that looked much like his village, including a tall and imposing longhouse that must be the Chief’s Hall.

  Skylan paused and looked back, to see if he could catch sight of the Venejekar. That brief glimpse of Aylaen, pale and grieving, and the sight of his body that she had so lovingly tended filled Skylan with sorrow. He could still feel the touch of her skin warm on his lips and see the joy in her eyes when she realized he had not died.

  Skylan did not know how he had ever found the courage to leave her. He could not explain it, except that as his love for her made it hard for him to leave, her love gave him the strength to go.

  “She’s coming. Don’t be so impatient,” said Joabis, splashing through the water. “That dragon of yours knows where to find me.”

  “When she arrives, you will send me back to join her,” Skylan confirmed. “That is our bargain.”

  Joabis kept walking and did not answer. He was headed toward the village and now Skylan could hear music and singing, shouting and uproarious laughter. Eager to join the merriment, the god could move fast when he chose and Skylan had to run to catch up with him. He took hold of Joabis by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “I said—that is our bargain!”

  “Of course it is, my dear friend,” said Joabis with an ingratiating smile. “You have my word.”

  He patted Skylan on the shoulder and then hurried off toward the village, leaving Skylan to grimly stare after him.

  “The bastard has no intention of keeping our bargain,” Skylan muttered. Aloud he called after the god, “Where are my warriors?”

  Getting no response, Skylan could do nothing except trudge after the god, thinking that perhaps his men were in the village, joining the celebration. As they drew nearer, he could see men and women dancing in the streets.

  “Is today a feast day?” he asked.

  “Every day is a feast day!” Joabis said. “We always find a reason to make merry.”

  Spreading his arms wide, he shouted, “My friends! I am back!”

  The dancing stopped as the villagers ran to greet Joabis. The women kissed him and teased him. Someone handed him a mug of ale, as a group of men hoisted the god to their shoulders and, singing uproariously, started to carry him away.

  “Joabis, wait!” Skylan cried, running after him. “Where are my men?”

  Joabis looked back over his shoulder and made a vague gesture.

  “The Chief’s Hall!” he bawled, waving his mug. “You’ll be able to hear them. Like I said, they’re wrecking the place!”

  The riotous crowd bore Joabis away. A few women invited Skylan to come with them, but he scornfully refused. Shrugging and laughing, they ran off. Once again Skylan thought of the valiant souls of the warriors in Torval’s Hall, fighting against Aelon’s fiends, while these fools danced and drank. He grew angry and began to wonder about his friends.

  Perhaps they were here because they wanted to be here.

  The longhouse stood some distance from the village, across a green field filled with wildflowers. The building appeared to have been hastily constructed and was in a deplorable condition of disrepair. He could see holes in the thatched roof and timbers sagging and starting to rot.

  Reaching the door, he did not immediately go inside. He had no idea what he might be facing when he entered that building and he stood with his ear pressed against the door, listening.

  Joabis had said his men were wrecking the place, but Skylan could not hear anything and that was alarming. He thought wrathfully that if Joabis had deceived him, he would shove a wineskin down his throat.

  Skylan gave the door a tentative push, expecting it to be barred. To his surprise, the door swung open on creaking, rusty hinges. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and cautiously walked in.

  The hall had no windows and was lit only by a few rays of sunlight straggling through the holes in the roof. The cavernous chamber was hazy with smoke from a poorly vented fireplace. The shields hanging from the walls were covered with dust and cobwebs. Plank tables had been overturned. Trestles and benches were scattered about the floor.

  Skylan stared in bleak dismay, thinking he had come too late to save his friends. Bodies of Vindrasi and ogre warriors lay sprawled on the floor, draped over the tables or the long wooden benches. The hall was covered in blood and the smell of death was overwhelming.

  And then one of the corpses belched.

  Skylan bent down to examine the bodies more closely and realized to his chagrin that the horrible stench in the air was not the smell of death. It was the smell of piss and vomit.

  The warriors were not dead.

  They were dead drunk.

  Filled with shame for his people, Skylan stalked into the hall and began kicking at those on the floor, trying to rouse them and searching for his friends.

  “Where is Sigurd?” he demanded, going from one to another. “I’m looking for a man called Sigurd? Have you seen him?”

  Men mouthed curses and passed out again.

  “Sigurd! Erdmun! Bjorn!” Skylan yelled until he finally heard what he thought was a mumbled response.

  He stepped over bodies until he came to a man with black hair and a black beard slumped on a table. Skylan grabbed the man by the hair and lifted his head.

  “Sigurd!” Skylan eyed him in disgust. “Sober up! We need to talk!”

  Sigurd had seen forty winters, and he had never thought the much younger Skylan should be chief over him. Dour and hot tempered, he had few friends. For all that, Sigurd was a fierce warrior. He looked at Skylan with bloodshot, bleary eyes.

  “Piss off,” he said thickly.

  Skylan slammed Sigurd’s forehead against the table.

  Howling in pain, Sigurd clenched his fist, took a swing at Skylan, missed, and fell off the bench.

  Skylan grabbed a mug of stale ale and tossed it into his face. Sigurd sputtered, wiped his eyes, and gave a bitter laugh.

  “If it isn’t the great Skylan Ivorson. So Joabis caught you, too.”

  “Caught me?” Skylan repeated. “What do mean ‘caught me’? I came here of my own free will searching for you and the others. I feared something dire had happened to you. Instead I find you swilling ale.”

  “Ale. A good idea,” Sigurd said.

  He picked up a mug and tried to drink, only to find it was empty.

  “You spilled it,” he said to Skylan. “Fetch me more.”

  “I’ll be damned if I—” Skylan began.

  Sigurd scowled. “You’ll be damned! We’re all damned! We’re dead and it’s all your fault! You sent us off in that rat-infested, leaky whoreson of an ogre ship.”

  He propped his elbows on the table and let his head sag into his hands. Skylan sat down across from him.

  “How did you die?”

  “We were caught in a storm.” Sigurd’s face paled beneath the thick growth of beard. “I have sailed the seas all my life and I have never seen a storm like it. The sun fled. The day grew black as night. Clouds of black and green whirled above us, turning into a waterspout that sped across the sea, sucking up the seawater and roaring like a thousand fiends. The whipping winds shredded the sail and broke off the mast. I knew we were doomed and I drew my sword so that I would die a warrior and then wind tore the ship
apart. The raging seas dragged me under. I held my breath as long as I could, but the pain was too great and I gave up.”

  Sigurd sat in morose silence, recalling his death. Skylan was quiet a moment out of respect, then said, “What happened next?”

  Sigurd shrugged. “I woke up here. Grimuir and Erdmun and Bjorn were with me. They’re somewhere.” He cast a vague glance around.

  “So Joabis brought you here,” said Skylan.

  Sigurd snorted. “As if he dared! I would have slit him from gizzard to gullet. Vindrash brought us and all the Vindrasi warriors.”

  “But why would Vindrash bring warriors to the Isle of Revels?” Skylan asked, frowning.

  “How should I know? It was dark and the winds were howling. The next I knew, we were here.”

  He motioned Skylan near. “And there are others!” he said, breathing beery breath into Skylan’s face. “Ogres and outlandish folk! In the back of the hall.”

  Skylan stared into the back, but the room was so dark and smoke filled he couldn’t see what “outlandish folk” Sigurd meant. He did see many more Vindrasi, some of whom he recognized, for they had been in attendance at his Vutmana, the ritual battle where he had defeated Horg and been named Chief of Chiefs.

  These men are also warriors, he realized. By the looks of their wounds, they died in battle. They, too, should be with Torval. He needs all the warrior souls he can get.

  Skylan glowered back at Sigurd. “Why do you men sit here all day swilling ale in company with that sodden wretch, Joabis? Why don’t you leave? Go to Torval, explain to him what happened.”

  “Because we can’t,” said Sigurd flatly.

  “Can’t what?”

  “We can’t leave.”

  “Nonsense,” said Skylan angrily. “Walk out the door.”

  “What door?” Sigurd frowned. “There is no door. Nothing but solid timber.”

  “Are you blind? I see a door!” Skylan exclaimed.

  “Maybe you do,” said Sigurd. “Some god loves you … The great Skylan…” He gave a drunken grin. “Yet here you are, dead, just like the rest of us.”

  “I’m not dead,” said Skylan. “I’m not alive, either. I’m caught in between.”

  “You’re not dead?” Sigurd seized hold of his wrist, gripping him painfully. “Then help us! Get us out of here!”

  “That’s why I’m here. Find the others. Something is not right. I’ll go talk to Torval—”

  “Skylan,” said a voice behind him, a voice Skylan recognized. “Is that you?”

  Skylan turned to see the bald head, guileless face, and hulking body of an ogre standing behind him. The ogre’s head was painted white with a black stripe running from the neck to the chin and another black stripe crossing the nose and cheeks. Skylan knew only one ogre who painted his face like this.

  “Keeper, my friend!” Skylan cried, flinging his arms around as much of the ogre as he could reach. “I am glad to see you!”

  “I am not glad to see you,” said Keeper. “For if you are here, this means you are dead.”

  Skylan suddenly remembered that Keeper had died and the fault was his. The ogre had been murdered by Treia, who had given him a potion to ease his pain. Her potion had eased him out of this life.

  Skylan drew back, ashamed. “I am sorry, Keeper. I failed you. I should have never left Treia alone with you.”

  “You had no way of knowing that evil woman would poison me,” said Keeper. “I knew she was a traitor. I was a fool to drink what she gave me.”

  He embraced Skylan in a hug that nearly broke his ribs. “We will speak of this no more.”

  Skylan hesitated, still not ready to forgive himself. Keeper smiled and Skylan took the ogre’s hand in his own. “I will make it up to you.”

  He looked at Keeper and a sudden astonishing thought came to him. “How do you come to be here, my friend? In the afterlife of the Vindrasi? Don’t you ogres have your own afterlife?”

  Keeper scratched his head. “I always thought so. Yet here I am. And many others of my race. And there are others of another race, as well. Cyclopes!”

  “Cyclopes!” Skylan repeated, amazed. “How do Cyclopes come to be in our afterlife?”

  “Outlandish folk,” Sigurd muttered. “Wait until you see them. They have three eyes and skin the color of night.”

  “I spoke to one of their warriors,” said Keeper. “She said that after she died, the Gods of Raj carried her here to this hall, then left her.”

  “The Gods of Raj!” Skylan grew more and more perplexed. Was Joabis conspiring with the Gods of Raj?

  “Whoever brought us,” Keeper added, “Sigurd is right. We cannot leave. We have tried.”

  Hefting an axe, he pointed to great gouges in the log wall.

  “We even tried to crawl out through the roof, but it is too far above us,” Keeper added, glancing up at the ceiling that seemed as high as heaven.

  “We are prisoners of Joabis,” Sigurd said bitterly.

  “But why did he bring you here? What does he want with you and all the other Vindrasi warriors? And what do Vindrash and the Gods of Raj have to do with this?”

  “What does it matter? There’s nothing we can do.” Sigurd gloomily shook his head.

  Skylan pondered. “Are all those here warriors?”

  “All warriors,” Keeper confirmed.

  “Joabis said you were wrecking the place,” said Skylan, looking at the overturned tables, upended benches, broken crockery, and pools of spilled ale. “I see he was right about that.”

  “All those here are enemies. The ogres hate the Cyclopes and the Vindrasi hate us. We exchanged insults, then fell to fighting,” Keeper admitted. “Battle is thirsty work, however. Joabis brought in barrels of ale and we declared a truce and started drinking.”

  “And kept drinking,” said Sigurd. “At least, for a time, we forget we are prisoners.”

  Skylan thought this over.

  “Find the others and see to it they’re sober,” he told Sigurd.

  “Where are you going?” Sigurd demanded.

  Skylan looked grim. “To have a talk with Joabis.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Reaching the door, Skylan eyed it warily, fearing that it might suddenly vanish, trapping him here with the others. The door stayed where it was, however, and he was vastly relieved to be able to push it open and walk out into the sunshine.

  He was accosted by a group of revelers the moment he stepped outside. Men draped their arms around his shoulders, hailing him as if they were brothers. Women offered him ale and wine and kisses.

  “Where is Joabis, friends?” Skylan asked in good-natured tones, thinking it best if he played along. “I need to speak with him.”

  No one seemed to know. Some said he was here. Others said he was there. One woman said she thought she had seen him enter the shrine to pray.

  “Pray?” Skylan said, interested. “To what god?”

  “Why, Joabis, of course,” the woman returned, laughing.

  Only Joabis would pray to himself, Skylan thought.

  The revelers offered to take him to the shrine, which they said was on a remote part of the island. As they shoved their way through streets thronged with merrymaking souls, Skylan wondered that such constant reveling didn’t grow wearing after a time.

  Leaving the village behind, they walked past fields of barley and wheat. Skylan was surprised to see people working among the plants.

  “So people actually work on this isle?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t call it work,” said one of the women, who had been trying to persuade Skylan to forget about Joabis. “Everyone here does what they love to do best.”

  By this time most of the revelers had abandoned him for more pleasurable pursuits. Those few who remained took him to a grove of immense spruce trees.

  “The shrine is in a garden and the garden is in the grove,” the revelers told him.

  Skylan thanked them and the revelers laughingly bid him farewell
and went back to the party.

  Skylan could find no path, and had to thrust his way through the spreading tree branches. He tried to move silently, but that proved impossible. Dead needles crunched underfoot, sticks snapped, and limbs rustled. Clad in his heavy armor, he was hot and sweating. Branches hit him in the face, needles stuck his flesh. He had begun to think he might be trapped forever in this forest when it came to an end.

  Parting the branches, he saw a garden of such beauty that he stopped to stare, enthralled. He had not known so many different types of flowers existed in the world. Bees droned among the fragrant blossoms, birds sang in the trees. Paths of crushed marble wound among the flower beds, sparkling in the sunlight.

  Joabis stood in the midst of the flowers, holding a sword in his shaking hand.

  “Stop right there, whoever you are!” he cried, his voice quivering. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “It’s me. Skylan Ivorson.”

  Raising his hands, Skylan emerged from the shadow of the pine trees.

  “Who were you expecting, Joabis?” Skylan asked. “Aelon?”

  At the sound of the name, the god began to tremble. Throwing the sword to the ground, he sank onto a marble bench and groaned.

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing for certain,” said Skylan. “I know enough to know that you’ve been lying to me, however, so I suggest you tell me the truth.”

  “What about?” Joabis asked, mopping his head with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “The warriors,” said Skylan, drawing steadily nearer. “The Vindrasi, the ogres, and the Cyclopes. All those you are keeping prisoner in the Chief’s Hall.”

  “They’re not prisoners,” Joabis said, trying to look Skylan in the eye and failing. “They can leave whenever they want.”

  “There’s no door!” Skylan said through gritted teeth.

  “You got out,” Joabis mumbled.

  “Because I am not dead. Because I am not in thrall to you or Vindrash or the Gods of Raj!”

  Joabis flinched. “Keep your voice down.”

  Skylan stood over Joabis, glaring at him. “Tell me what is going on. Tell me what has you so frightened you’re about to piss your pants. Tell me why these warriors are here. Tell me why you brought me here or I will shout to Torval that you are a traitor, that you are conspiring with our enemies!”