Bones of the Dragon (17 page)

“Why so grim, brother?” Skylan bantered as he pulled his tunic over his head. “Cheer up! We do battle this day!”

He dressed swiftly, pulling on his trousers and then his boots, lacing them securely around his legs. Garn assisted him with his armor. Skylan buckled his sword around his waist. He put on his helm, which had belonged to his father, and picked up his shield. Last, as he always did before a fight, he reverently touched the silver axe and pledged himself to Torval.

“I will join the other warriors,” he announced to Garn. “You go to the Hall of Vindrash, escort the Bone Priestess to the battlefield.”

Garn nodded silently. Skylan thought his friend was unusually quiet. Skylan clapped his hand on Garn’s shoulder.

“Aylaen said I spoke Torval’s name in the night. Even though I don’t dream, it is undoubtedly a good omen,” Skylan said, trying to cheer his friend. “The Vektan Torque will be ours this day.”

His voice hardened; his expression grew grim. “And once I have it, I will take it to that whoreson Horg and shove it up his arse!”

“You should use your spear for that,
not
the sacred torque,” Garn said.

Skylan laughed. The two embraced.

Skylan tried to persuade Aylaen to give him a farewell kiss, but she shoved him away.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“No, you’re not,” said Skylan firmly. “It is too late for you to go to the hills with the other women, but you will be safe here.”

“Skylan’s right—,” Garn began.

Aylaen’s lips tightened, her chin lifted, her jaw set. Her red hair seemed to lift and stir as though it were alive. Her green eyes flickered dangerously. The two young men knew the signs, and they glanced at each other.

“I can fight her or I can fight ogres,” Skylan said to Garn. “I don’t have time to do both. Keep her with you and keep her safe.”

He hastened off, walking without a limp. He was in excellent spirits, and as the flames of the Sun Goddess’s torch began to lick the clouds, Skylan raised his voice in a war chant.

Garn began to walk rapidly toward the Hall of Vindrash. He moved so fast that he caught Aylaen off guard, and she was forced to run after him. She could not take his hand, because he was carrying a spear in his right hand and his shield in his left. She caught hold of his forearm. He moved his arm from her grasp.

“You should go back to Treia’s house,” he said.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Aylaen asked.

Garn kept walking, moving rapidly, for the torch of the Sun Goddess was spreading a golden sheen across the blue sky. The warriors would be assembling, preparing to take their places in the shield-wall.

Aylaen looked up into the glorious sky and said quietly, “Without the dragon, you cannot win. Not even Skylan can change that. You will die.”

“You nearly gave away our secret,” Garn said abruptly.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t you?” He glanced at her.

Aylaen flushed. She was about to continue denying the charge, but then saw no reason why she should.

“Very well. And why not?”

She rounded on Garn with a sudden savagery that took him aback. “Am I the only one with any sense? Skylan sings war chants and talks of dying with glory. I talk of dying, Garn! You could die today! I am not a fool. The ogres outnumber you. I know that if Kahg does not fight, you and Skylan and the rest of our warriors are doomed. I know that this time might be the last time we are ever together. I could lose you today, my love, and I can’t bear the thought.”

Garn’s expression softened. Aylaen wrapped her arms around herself, kept them tight beneath her cloak.

“And if the warriors all die, what happens to us women?” she said bitterly. “You men never think of that! You join Torval in his Hall to spend the afterlife singing war chants and reliving your glorious battles. This night I might be lying on my back with my hands bound with some grunting ogre on top of me—”

“Aylaen, don’t!” Garn said swiftly. He dropped his weapons and his shield and put his arm around her. He felt her shivering.

“You know it’s true,” she cried, pulling away from him. “You know the women are not safe in the hills. The ogres will pursue us. They will kill the children and the old people and enslave the rest of us. They will carry us off to their land, where we will be beaten and raped to death. And you and Skylan go into battle singing!”

She wanted him to suffer, and she’d succeeded. Garn went extremely pale. He had been on raids. He knew, better than Aylaen, the cruel fate suffered by women at the hands of raiders. In the old days, the Vindrasi had taken slaves, a practice that they discontinued. Slaves were a nuisance to deal with on a voyage, requiring constant guarding and gobbling up meager supplies. Even now, though, a victorious warrior could take his pleasure with a captured woman, do with her as he pleased, then abandon her.

“That is why I would rather be near the battle than skulking in the hills,” Aylaen stated.

She drew aside her cloak. She had brought the battle axe with her, the head tucked into the leather belt she wore around her slender waist. She smiled at him. “Do you think Torval will let me into his Hall?”

Garn could not speak; his emotion swelled his throat and choked off his voice. He drew her close and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry I was angry,” he said.

“I want the world to know of our love,” said Aylaen. “I don’t want to have to stand guard on my lips, fearful of letting the wrong word slip out. I don’t want to have to slip away to meet you in secret—”

She stopped suddenly, sniffed the air. “I smell smoke!”

The two looked at each other in alarm, then looked at the Hall of Vindrash. They could see smoke rising, but they could not tell what was burning.

Garn picked up his weapons. He and Aylaen broke into a run, heading for the Hall. The same thought was in both of their minds: The ogres had somehow found the Hall and set it on fire. Aylaen cried out her sister’s name, but there was no answer.

Reaching the Hall, Garn and Aylaen stopped and stared in shock and dismay. The statue of Vindrash was going up in flames. Treia stood beside the fire, watching the statue burn, her face impassive.

Garn ran toward the fire with some wild thought of trying to save the statue, snatch it from the flames. He could see that he was too late. Not only was the wood old, but it had also been soaked in oil, for part of the Priestess’s daily ritual was to rub it and polish it lovingly. The flames crackled. The Dragon Goddess withered.

“The statue was broken,” said Treia, not looking at either of them.

Aylaen put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. She looked at Garn.

“It is time,” he said harshly. “Past time. We must make haste.”

He told the two women to walk in front of him. He followed behind, his weapons in his hands. Treia held the spiritbone pressed against her chest.

“Have you ever been in a battle?” Aylaen asked.

Treia shook her head.

“Neither have I. We have been lucky, Mother says. No enemy has attacked us on our own soil in many years, not since before I was born.” Aylaen hesitated, then said, “Did Vindrash answer your prayers?”

Treia’s lips tightened. She stared straight ahead, then said, “Why do you think I burned the statue?”

Aylaen’s mouth went dry; her stomach clenched. A tremor of fear ran through her. Without the dragon to help even the odds, the Torgun could not win. Aylaen had talked of being taken captive by the ogres, but she had said that mainly to hurt Garn, not because she’d truly confronted the awful reality. Now she did so, and she was sick with fear. Her hands shook; her palms were wet with sweat. She gripped the axe tightly to keep the handle from slipping out of her grasp.

“I prayed to Vindrash, that she would answer your prayers,” Aylaen said softly, thinking this would please her sister.

Treia’s face went livid. “Because I am a failure.”

“No, sister, truly!” Aylaen faltered. “I never thought that!”

“Who asked you to come, anyway? I don’t want you. Go home where you will be safe,” Treia said, and she stalked off.

Aylaen stared after her, dismayed.

“Did you hear?” she asked Garn. “The goddess didn’t answer!”

“Don’t tell the others,” he said.

Skylan led the Torgun warriors from the Chief’s Hall. He took with him a scouting party and sent the rest out to form the shield-wall on the ground he had selected for the battle. He and his small troop of men topped a ridgeline overlooking the bay. The ogres were leaving their ships, coming ashore. Unlike the dragonships of the Vindrasi, which were lightweight and steered by a uniquely designed rudder that allowed them to sail almost up onto a beach, the heavy ogre ships had to remain in the deep water, forcing the ogre warriors to jump into the sea and swim.

The Torgun paused to watch the ogres floundering in the waves, which were breaking over their heads. The seas were rough this morning, and he worried that the angry Sea Goddess might drown his foe, robbing him of his battle. Akaria seemed content with tormenting them, however, slapping them with waves while a vicious undertow sucked at their ankles, trying to drag them under.

Although ogres disliked water, they were strong if clumsy swimmers, and they reached the shore without too much difficulty. The first to arrive took up positions along the beach in order to protect the rest of the army. They brought with them a small boat piled high with their weapons, armor, and shields, and while some ogres stood guard, others armed themselves for battle.

Also in the boat was the shaman. Akaria’s breath ruffled the black feathers of his cape. He was holding a large gourd, painted and decorated with feathers, which he would shake at the ogre warriors as they came ashore. Some of the ogres glanced askance at the shaman and rolled their eyes or glared at him in disgust. Ogre shamans did not fight, and some ogres, who followed the old religion, considered them cowards who hid behind the skirts of their gods. Many of the ogres bowed their heads, however, and reached out to reverently touch the gourd.

Skylan laughed and made a crude comment about the gourd and what it resembled. The warriors chuckled at Skylan’s lewd jest, all except Erdmun.

“There are a lot of them,” he observed gloomily. “They outnumber us four to one.”

“Not so,” said Skylan. “We outnumber them. One Torgun warrior is worth five ogres. The fight seems so one-sided, I am considering reducing our army by half.”

Erdmun looked alarmed and opened his mouth to protest.

“He’s joking,” his brother told him, and added, “We could attack them now, Skylan, while they’re disorganized.”

Skylan had been considering that idea, then rejected it. One Torgun might equal five ogres, but his scouting party was too small to do much damage. They would waste their strength and their spears with little to show for it. Better to meet the enemy on the battlefield, standing shoulder to shoulder in the shield-wall.

“Norgaard said the shaman doesn’t fight, but what if he comes onto the battlefield?” Erdmun asked. “He could cast his holy magic on us, strike us blind or wither our arms—”

Skylan laughed and nudged Bjorn with his elbow. “Your brother has been spending too much time with Owl Mother. He’s starting to believe her wild tales! Best be careful, Erdmun. The black stork might shake his ‘gourd’ at you!”

Skylan grabbed his crotch to make his meaning clear. The men sniggered, and Erdmun flushed, chagrined and angry.

Skylan led the way to the strip of ground he had chosen for the battle. Like him, the other young men were in high spirits, looking forward to the fight. Death was a possibility, of course, and none of them wanted to leave
this world, but every man must die sometime, and each wanted to stand proudly before Torval and join the other warriors in the Heroes’ Hall.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Bjorn scolded his brother. “You shame us both!”

“Skylan isn’t a goddamn god,” Erdmun muttered, but he said it below his breath.

T
he warriors gathered on the battlefield—a ridge of grassland not far from the village. Below the ridge, the ground rolled down into a slight depression, curved upward to form a smaller ridge before tumbling in a rocky torrent down to the sea. Skylan chose this ground because it was deceptive. An enemy standing on the opposite ridgeline could not readily see the slight depression. Their godlords would think they could send their warriors racing across a level field. Only when the ogres had run into the depression would they realize they had to fight while charging uphill.

The Torgun greeted Skylan with cheers. Skylan acknowledged them with a grin and raised his sword in salute; then he went to greet his father. Though Norgaard had to rely on a crutch to walk, he insisted on being present at the battle.

“Better to die standing with an axe in my hand than having my throat slit while hiding in a cave.”

Norgaard embraced his son, and Skylan was touched to see tears of pride in his father’s eyes. The Torgun cheered the two of them and then lifted their voices in a rhythmic war chant. Their blood was up, their spirits roused.

The Torgun were angry at the ogres, but they were furious at Horg and the Heudjun. The Torgun meant to fight the battle Horg had basely fled, and they meant to win it. Until the day he died, each man would remember the shame he felt witnessing the ogre godlord standing in their Chief’s Hall, smirking at them, his filthy fingers toying with the sacred Vektan Torque.

Under Skylan’s direction, the Torgun warriors formed the shield-wall.

Somewhere in this world of Ilyrion, generals spent hours studying maps, devising devious strategies. Somewhere in the world, but not in the land of the Vindrasi.

Battle was a simple affair. The Torgun warriors drew together to form two
lines. Veteran warriors stood in the back row, prepared to take up the fight should the enemy break through the front ranks of the shield-wall. Men such as Sigurd and Alfric the One-Eyed carried spears, several at a time, and huge battle axes requiring two hands to wield them. These men could not hold shields and their weapons at the same time, so they took shelter behind the front line, made up of younger warriors eager for blood. These men stood close together, shield overlapping shield, protecting the men in the row behind them.