Bones of the Dragon (13 page)

He flung Draya to the floor. She landed heavily on her hands and knees. She tasted blood. Her teeth had cut the inside of her mouth. Her eyes burned with tears. She kept her head lowered, determined not to let him see that he had made her cry.

She heard Horg’s footfalls thud across the floor, felt them vibrate through her body. He slammed the door, and she flinched at the sound.

Draya remained where she was, afraid to get up. Finally, she glanced around. Seeing that Horg had truly gone, she sighed and leaned weakly against the altar. The awful calamity had stunned her. She touched her hand gingerly to her face, felt the bruises Horg’s gouging fingers had left behind.

“It’s not true,” she said bleakly. The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “It’s not true!”

“I’m afraid it is, my dear,” said a gentle voice. “We who are immortal. We who cannot die. We watched Aylis cradle her dying child, Desiria, in her
arms. Her wyrd had snapped, and now the tapestry of all our lives is starting to unravel.”

The wyrd.

The Vindrasi believed that when the thread that ties a babe to the mother is cut, the thread of that child’s wyrd begins. The wyrd is spun by the Norn, three sisters of the God Gogroth, who came at Torval’s summons to plant the World Tree. His three sisters sat beneath the tree, one twisting the wyrd on her distaff, one spinning the wyrd on her wheel, one weaving the wyrds of gods and men on her loom. Every person had his own wyrd, as did each god. The wyrds of both men and gods together formed the tapestry that is life. A single thread is fragile. The tapestry itself is strong. Before now, Draya would have said indestructible.

“We lost the battle,” Vindrash said. “The Gods of Raj and Aelon, Lord of the New Dawn, are young gods, and they are powerful. They proved too strong for us. Desiria, Goddess of Life and Healing, is dead. Her twin sister, the Sea Goddess, has gone mad with grief, and there is no telling what she will do now. Skoval threatens. Hevis plots. Sund advises caution. The God Joabis basely fled the battle and has disappeared. I myself dare not linger in one place long. My enemies seek my destruction.

“Since time’s beginning,” the goddess continued, “mortals have come to the gods seeking our help. Now, at what may well be time’s end, we gods are forced to go to mortals. I need your help, Draya.”

Draya remembered a time when a raging wildfire had swept through the small village where she’d grown up, destroying everything, leaving nothing standing. She felt now as she’d felt then, overlooking the charred remains of what had once been a town. Now she stared out over the charred and blackened remains of what had once been her world.

“I am honored by your trust, Blessed Vindrash. Whatever you ask of me, I will do,” Draya answered through her tears. “I would give my life, if it would help you.”

Vindrash was silent a moment. When the goddess spoke again, it was with sorrow.

“Long ago, Torval foresaw the day of our doom. He made preparations—though, in our arrogance, none of us truly thought we would be forced to resort to them. Sadly, the day of doom has come. The Bones of the Vektia Five must be found and brought together.”

Draya sat upright, staring at the goddess in dismay.

The Old Gods had once ruled the heavens from their thrones in the realm of Edonai. A great battle erupted among the gods, and Edonai had been destroyed.
The gods and the mortals who worshipped them had been scattered throughout the heavens. Roving the universe, searching for a world of his own, Torval came upon a world beautiful as a jewel. He had never seen anything so wondrous and wanted this world for his own.

But the world was guarded by the Great Dragon Ilyrion, and she refused to give it up. Torval declared he would not relinquish the gem, and he challenged the dragon to a fight. Torval and Ilyrion fought for many thousands of years. During their battle, the two enemies came to respect and admire each other, even as they sought to kill each other.

At last Torval slew Ilyrion. As she lay dying, the dragon forgave the god and bequeathed a final gift to the world she was leaving. Her bones and teeth, claws and scales rained down upon the world and buried themselves deep in the ground, taking the form of precious gems, each endowed with a portion of Ilyrion’s soul.

Knowing his rival gods still roamed the universe in search of worlds, Torval feared the day would come when he would be called upon to defend his prize. He summoned other gods, those he could trust, to assist him in protecting his conquest. Sund came, God of Stone, a thoughtful, contemplative god. Gogroth came to plant the seed of the World Tree. Freilis came, Goddess of the Tally, to rule over the dead. Joabis came, bringing wine to celebrate.

When the gods were assembled, Torval used Ilyrion’s crest to create the Five Dragons of Vektia, immensely powerful dragons who would be the guardians of the world. To keep them hidden from their enemies, Torval secreted the spirit of each dragon inside a bone taken from Ilyrion’s own skeleton.

All that was left of Ilyrion was her blood. Torval poured the blood into his drinking horn, and from this sprang Vindrash, Goddess of Dragons. Torval loved her on sight and made her his consort. He gave her the spiritbones of the Vektia Five as a wedding gift. Vindrash, in turn, divided the five spirit-bones among the other gods, ordering them to hide the spiritbones away and keep them hidden. This they did, though none of the gods ever believed the bones of the Five would be needed.

The tale ran through Draya’s mind, and she was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task.

“Vindrash,” Draya cried helplessly, “I do not know where to find the spiritbones of the Five.”

“You know where one of them is,” said Vindrash, and her voice was cold and pitiless as the dead of winter. “Your husband gave it to the ogres.”

G
arn saw Aylaen and her sister safely enter Treia’s dwelling, and then he hastened back to the feast. Treia’s dire statement that Norgaard “already knew” worried Garn. Priestesses were always deliberately vague when it came to such pronouncements. That way, no matter what happened, they were never wrong.

Garn believed in the Gods of the Vindrasi, but he did not believe that the gods were constantly peering over a man’s shoulder. Garn believed that as a child plays with a top, so the gods had set the world spinning and now watched it wobble around creation.

Skylan, on the other hand, believed that Torval was always listening to him, always watching him, always prepared either to reward Skylan or slap him up the side of the head. Their differing viewpoints led to some heated arguments, for Garn liked to speculate about such things. Skylan did not, and once he realized which direction the conversation was tending, he would always end it.

Garn looked toward the cliffs and saw, to his concern, that the beacon fire was being allowed to die. True, the fire had done its work, sent its message. Horg and his warriors would be making preparations for battle, perhaps even setting sail. The beacon fire should continue to burn—in defiance, if for no other reason. But all that was left was a sullen red glow atop the peak.

When Garn reached the Chief’s Hall, his uneasiness became alarm. Torches blazed inside and out. The ogre guards were gone, which meant the godlords had returned to their ships. Garn should have heard laughter and raucous voices raised in stirring songs of battle, accompanied by feet rhythmically stamping the floor, hands slapping the table. He should have heard boasting about the great deeds the warriors would perform tomorrow. He should have heard Skylan, the War Chief, leading his men in a war chant.

Instead, there was quiet—and no Vindrasi feast was ever quiet. Even funerals were riotous affairs.

Garn broke into a run. The thought came to his mind that the ogres had poisoned everyone. Half-expecting to find his friends slumped over dead, Garn burst into the hall. He came to a halt, staring.

The warriors, alive and well, sat in silent gloom around the table. Drinking horns lay empty. Plates filled with food had been thrust aside. The face of
every man was shadowed and grim. No man looked at another. Each stared into some private hell.

Norgaard’s head was lowered, his arms resting heavily on the table. His face was gray and drawn. He had aged years in the time Garn had been gone.

Skylan sat hunched on the bench. He had fresh hurts—his jaw was swollen, and blood trailed from a split lip. He was staring at the table in silence; then suddenly he slammed his fist down and jumped to his feet.

“We cannot sit here like dead men,” he said. “Dead men who have died dishonored! We have to act.”

No one responded. A few grunted and some glanced at him and then looked away. Most didn’t even do that.

“What has happened?” Garn demanded. “What is wrong?”

Skylan rounded on him. “Where have you been?” he asked accusingly. “I needed you!”

“The Chief sent me to fetch Treia—”

“Is she coming?” Norgaard lifted his head and looked at Garn, hope flickering in his eyes.

“No, Chief,” Garn said. “She is not.”

He tried to think of some reason that was not the truth, yet not an outright lie. He hesitated too long, however, and Norgaard saw through him.

The Chief shook his head and slumped back into his misery.

“Skylan . . . someone tell me!” Garn insisted.

“The sacred Vektan Torque!” Skylan said, choking on his rage. “One of their goat-screwing, shit-eating godlords was wearing it around his fat neck!”

Garn staggered, knocked off balance by the astonishing news.

“No help is coming,” Norgaard said. He stared down at his gnarled hands, which lay limply on the table, and repeated, “No help is coming.”

“The Heudjun are all dead, then,” said Garn, dazed. “Horg, our cousins, our clansmen. The ogres have slain them—”

“Not according to the ogres,” Skylan said, seething. “As they tell it, the ogres had no plans to raid us. Why should they? We are a piss-poor clan with nothing they want. They were going to raid the Heudjun. Horg called for a parley. He gave them the Vektan Torque in exchange for their promise to leave the Heudjun in peace.”

“The ogres are lying,” said Garn. “Horg would never do such a thing.”

“That’s what I said,” Skylan said.

“And what did the ogres say?” Garn asked.

“They asked—had we heard Heudjun horns calling the clans to battle? Had we seen the smoke of their beacon fire summoning us to help them? Did
we see the flames of burning houses? Are the ogre ships now filled with Heudjun cattle and Heudjun slaves? The answer to all is no.”

Garn stared at his friend in silence. He tried to think of some logical explanations, but none came to mind.

“How did you get a bruised jaw?” he asked at last, though he could guess.

“Sigurd had to knock some sense into him,” Norgaard growled. “He would have fought all the godlords single-handed and got himself killed.”

Skylan shrugged. “We’ll be dead by morning anyway. I am not afraid to die in battle. Every warrior prays that when he goes to Torval, he will stand before him with a sword in his hand. But I go into this battle tomorrow with one regret.”

The warriors shouted in anger. They knew what he was going to say.

Skylan raised his voice. “My regret is that I will not have the chance to slit open the coward Horg’s belly and throw his yellow entrails to the dogs!”

“Not my dog,” shouted Alfric the One-Eyed. “I think too well of that mutt to poison him!”

The other warriors laughed and pounded on the table in agreement.

“Then I say we do not lose the battle tomorrow,” said Garn. “No, wait! Hear me out, lord.”

He turned to Norgaard. “We are outnumbered—that is true. But if the Dragon Kahg were to fight for us, that would more than even the odds.”

“And if shit were gold, I would be a wealthy man,” said Norgaard impatiently. “The ogres have captured our dragonship. It rides at anchor among their fleet. Their ships have it surrounded. Ogre spearmen would cut us down before we came near it.”

“One man might well succeed where an army would fail,” Garn replied. “After all, we do not need the dragonship. We need only the dragon.”

Skylan’s eyes flared with blue flame. “This is why you are my brother!” he cried, pleased. He turned to Norgaard. “You must admit it, Father. Garn’s plan will work! I will swim to the dragonship, board it, and bring back the spiritbone. No one will see me in the darkness.”

Norgaard’s graying brows twitched. His lips creased in a rare smile. “It might work,” he conceded, and that grudgingly. The Chief leveraged himself painfully to his feet, took hold of his crutch. “I will go inform the Bone Priestess, tell her to hold herself in readiness—”

“I’ll do that, lord,” Garn said hastily. The last thing Norgaard needed now was to see his Dragon Goddess lying on the floor in pieces. “You should remain here with the warriors. In case anything goes awry.”

“Very well,” Norgaard agreed readily. He sank back down thankfully into his chair. The walk to Treia’s dwelling was a long one.

Skylan was already stripping off his clothes, preparing for his swim. He started to pull off his trousers. The movement caused him to draw a sharp breath. The gash inflicted by the boar’s tusk ran the length of his thigh, a long red weal, and though the flesh had closed, it was obviously causing him discomfort.

“Skylan, you should let someone else go,” Garn ventured to protest.

“I am War Chief. I would never order another man to face danger in my place,” Skylan said.

Garn glanced about the hall. The other warriors were talking excitedly among themselves, making plans for the morrow. Garn moved closer to speak to Skylan in private.

“A War Chief must also put the good of the people above his own needs and wants. Your wound may be healed, but it obviously causes you pain, and you are weak from loss of blood. No man would say that you were shirking your duty if you asked someone who is strong and fit to undertake this.”

“Like yourself?” Skylan returned. “So that you can grab all the glory?”

Garn made no reply to Skylan’s remark. He folded Skylan’s tunic and placed it on the table, then bent down to pick up his trousers.