Bones of the Dragon (29 page)

Well, he would see about that!

Horg turned to face the crowd.

“I drew first blood!” he shouted, appealing to them. “By the laws set down by the gods, I am the winner! The Kai Priestess is trying to thwart the will of Torval!”

No one spoke or called out in support. Then Draya said quietly, “It is late, Horg, for you to be calling on the gods.”

Horg rounded on her. He walked closer, hulking over her, glaring down at her. “You scheming bitch! You had best pray I lose!”

He turned back to face the crowd. “If the Kai Priestess can break the rules, so can I! This will not be a fight between children. It will be a fight between men! A fight to the death!”

He looked over at Norgaard. “Do you agree to this, Chief of the Torgun?”

Norgaard opened his mouth, but it was Skylan who answered with a resounding and defiant, “I agree!”

Horg walked back to his place and was bending down to pick up his shield when a sharp pain jabbed him in the belly.

He grimaced and rubbed his stomach. Damn it, this was not the time for indigestion!

A
ges hence, whenever famous battles between champions were mentioned, a Vindrasi elder would say with a smile and a nod, “Ah, you can talk about Thorgunnd and Krega all you want. But
I
was witness to the fight between Horg and Skylan!”

At which the youngsters would regard the old man with envy and clamor to hear the tale.

The fight was later celebrated in song by Balin, Talgogroth and bard, and it became his most famous work. Long, long years after his death, bards still sang it whenever Vindrasi warriors gathered.

The song began: “Skylan, the bright-haired, his bright blood flowing, his bright sword kissed by Aylis . . .” and went on to describe the fight against Horg, whom the poet deemed: “the god-cursed, a coward who was never more brave than when all bravery was futile.” The song described every stroke and parry, every hit scored and thrust narrowly avoided. Indeed, the song was longer than the battle, which itself was relatively short.

And the song got the ending wrong. In this, one must not blame the bard. For Balin did not know the truth.

At that time, only two knew what really happened.

And one of them was dead.

Skylan advanced on Horg, watchful and wary. Too late, he had come to respect Horg—if not as a man, then at least as a warrior. Skylan had learned a bitter lesson. But for the judgment of Torval, Skylan would be back on board the dragonship at this very moment, sailing homeward in shame and humiliation. He meant to justify Torval’s belief in him.

He watched Horg’s every move, remembering belatedly to watch Horg’s feet as well as his eyes, for Norgaard had taught his son that a man’s eyes could lie, but his feet could not. Horg had to shift his weight in order to put force behind his strike, and by watching his feet, Skylan might be able to anticipate his move, create an opportunity.

Garn had bound up the wound on his leg. Skylan shoved the pain to the back of his mind. Such a wound was nothing. He had seen men fight in the shield-wall with far worse wounds, with eyeballs hanging out of their sockets or missing limbs.

“Time is on your side,” said Norgaard. “Wear him out.”

Larger and heavier, Horg would tire more quickly. Skylan was lighter, more agile, and younger. He did not do what he longed to do—rush to end this swiftly. He took his father’s advice, prolonging the fight, drawing it out, waiting for Horg to tire.

Skylan dodged and lunged, jumped forward and fell back, striking with snakelike swiftness at Horg from all directions, keeping him confused and off balance, making him increasingly angry and frustrated. All the while Skylan waited and watched for his foe to make a mistake.

Horg landed his own hits, and they were devastating. His axe splintered Skylan’s second shield with a blow so powerful that Skylan’s arm went numb and he feared it was broken. He was forced to scramble backwards, retreat to his own side, not daring to take his eyes off Horg, who pursued him with his axe. That would have been the end of the song and of Skylan had not Garn risked his own life, jumping into the ring to hand Skylan his last shield.

Horg took a furious swipe at Garn, who was forced to dive to the ground, falling flat on his face to avoid being decapitated. At this, Horg’s shield-bearer, Rulf, leaped into the ring, prepared to take on Garn. An angry reproof from the Kai Priestess sent both men back to their respective sides.

People lining the cliffs were now caught up in the excitement. All realized they were watching an epic battle, and forgetting the solemnity of the occasion, they began to shout and cheer, exclaiming, groaning, gasping, applauding.

Both warriors slowed. Horg was rapidly tiring. He dripped sweat, his face was the color of lead, and every so often, he would grimace, as though in pain. Skylan couldn’t understand that; he had yet to do much damage. He had slashed Horg’s arm, and that was about it.

Skylan himself was finding it more and more difficult to pretend he
wasn’t
in pain. Sweat poured down his face and ran into his eyes. His sword was growing increasingly heavy. His knee ached; the cut on his leg burned and throbbed. He left bloody footprints on the trampled, mud-stained cloth.

His moment came. Horg was breathing hard, seemingly exhausted. He lowered his shield, provided a tempting opening. Skylan lunged forward to strike, put weight on his injured leg, and felt it give. He sagged to the ground. Horg ran at him, the blade of his axe flaring in the sun, and was on him in a flash. Skylan raised his shield, using it to deflect the deadly assault. Horg’s axe blade glanced off the iron boss, sending up a shower of sparks. Skylan, struggling desperately to regain his footing, lashed out wildly with his sword. He had no hope he would hit Horg. He hoped only to buy himself time, and that hope was feeble. Horg would certainly close in for the kill. A sword swipe wouldn’t stop him.

To Skylan’s astonishment, Horg did not attack. Horg’s face twisted in anguish. He doubled over, grabbing his gut. Skylan could only assume that he’d managed to strike Horg. Certainly the crowd thought he’d done so, for they gave a great roar.

Horg clasped his gut. Lifting his head, he stared, not at Skylan, but at Draya. His face twisted in pain and fury. He tried to speak. Foam bubbled on his mouth, and he choked. His jaw spasmed. His body shuddered. Horg moaned in agony and sank to his knees.

Skylan lowered his sword. He could have killed his foe, but he scorned to hit a man who was down. Horg was wounded, perhaps fatally. The Kai Priestess would call an end to the fight. Skylan, sweating and breathing heavily, waited for the end.

Draya said one word, speaking it coolly. “Continue.”

Skylan wiped sweat from his eyes. The blood thrummed in his ears, and he wasn’t certain he’d heard right. He glanced uncertainly at his father.

Norgaard gave a nod. “You have to finish it,” he said harshly.

Skylan looked back at Horg, who was in wretched condition, shivering and puking. Skylan had no stomach for this, but he knew what he had to do, and he understood why. So long as Horg lived, he would be a threat. Every man who had earned Horg’s ire would be forever looking over his shoulder, wondering where and when Horg would try to get his revenge. Still, it galled Skylan to win like this.

Skylan walked over to Horg and kicked him in the arm to draw his attention.

Horg turned pain-glazed eyes on him.

“Stand!” Skylan urged. “Pick up your axe.”

A warrior would not be admitted to Torval’s Hall unless he had died with his weapon in his hand.

Horg, gripping his gut, managed, with a great effort, to rise. He clamped his teeth over a groan and lifted his axe. He even tried to swing it.

Skylan drove his sword into the man’s chest. He felt the metal scrape the bones of the rib cage and penetrate deep. Horg gasped. His eyes bulged. Blood spewed from his mouth. Skylan yanked out the sword. The blade, covered with gore, slid out of Horg’s body. He pitched forward and lay on the ground in a crumpled heap.

Skylan bent over the corpse, intending to turn it over, make certain Horg was dead.

“Do not touch him! Go to your side!” Draya ordered Skylan sternly, almost angrily.

Skylan limped wearily back to where his father and Garn stood waiting for
him. They thumped him on the back, congratulated him. Skylan slumped to the ground and sat there with his head between his knees. He was numb with fatigue. He did not feel triumphant. He felt only an overwhelming sense of relief that it was over.

The Kai Priestess felt for a pulse in Horg’s neck, then rose to her feet.

“Torval has judged!” she cried out. “Skylan, son of Norgaard Ivorson, is the victor!”

There were a few murmurs, no cheers. No one mourned Horg’s passing. The Heudjun knew Torval had judged fairly, but they did not rejoice in Horg’s fall. His defeat was their defeat. Once Horg was buried, they could lift their heads, regain their pride. But this moment was bitter for them.

Draya understood their feelings. She grasped the muddy, bloodstained cloth and ripped it loose from its moorings. She covered the body with the cloth, wrapping it around Horg, hiding him from the sight of men and gods. Her face, as she did this, was cold, pale, expressionless. When she finished, her hands and her clothes were covered in blood and dirt. She walked over to the island’s edge and washed her hands in the seawater. She even washed out the drinking horn, for Horg had been the last to drink from it. She filled the drinking horn with wine.

“Now is the time for celebration!” she called. She raised the drinking horn. “To Skylan Ivorson!”

A sigh rippled through the crowd. No one moved. And then one man, Sven Teinar, began to clap his hands. Soon, the rest of the crowd joined in. The clapping began halfheartedly, but then men began to stamp their feet on the ground. Women chanted his name.

“Rise, my son,” said Norgaard proudly. “They honor you. You must acknowledge them.”

Skylan rose unsteadily to his feet. He gazed up at the people assembled on the cliffs above him. Their applause reverberated through the earth, rising up from the ground, pulsing through his body, and seemed to carry him to heaven. He was giddy, dazed with happiness.

And there was Aylaen, clapping madly, looking down on him, her face radiant with pride.

Skylan raised his sword, and the crowd cheered wildly.

Hearing his name, he turned to find the Kai Priestess standing in front of him. She held out to him the drinking horn.

“Whoever drinks from this is the Chief of Chiefs,” she said demurely. Her eyes met Skylan’s.

He knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to take the drinking horn and hand it respectfully to his father, who was waiting to receive it.
Norgaard had thrown down his crutch. He stood tall and proud, this moment the crowning achievement of his life. The crowd went from chanting Skylan’s name to chanting Norgaard’s.

Skylan looked at his father, and he saw the old man who had slipped on the gangplank and gone sprawling on the ground.

I won the fight, Skylan said to himself. I defeated Horg.

He looked back at Aylaen.

If I were Chief of Chiefs, I would be a wealthy man. I could pay her bride-price three times over. Or perhaps I would not pay a bride-price at all! Perhaps I would tell Sigurd I intended to marry his daughter. He could not stop me, the Chief of Chiefs.

Skylan’s gaze swept the crowd. He saw the young warriors, hundreds of them, a mighty army going to waste. He would lead them on raids, fill his ships with gold and silver and precious gems to take to the dragons. He would sail to the ogres’ lands and take back the Vektan Torque and slaughter every ogre he could find. He would restore the Vindrasi to their former glory. Once again men would fear them, honor them, respect them.

Men would fear him, honor him, respect him.

Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs.

Skylan lifted the drinking horn, put it to his lips, and drank.

T
he chanting ceased. People watched in shock to see Skylan drink the wine, proclaiming himself Chief of Chiefs. No one could remember a time when a champion, fighting in the name of another, had taken it upon himself to claim the prize.

Skylan turned to his father. He found it hard to face him, and he avoided meeting his eyes. “I am sorry, Father. I think I will make a better Chief. You are old. I will take this burden from you.”

Norgaard’s lips were tightly clamped, his face dark. “What have you done, my son?” Norgaard said at last, more in sorrow than in anger. “What have you done?”

He picked up his crutch and, leaning on it heavily, he limped back to the dragonship.

Garn was far more harsh in his assessment. “You bloody fool!” Garn swore at him. “Of all the fool things you have done in your life, Skylan, this is the worst.”

Skylan flushed angrily. “Why should I not be Chief of Chiefs? I fought the battle. I risked my life! I defeated Horg! Torval gave me the victory!”

“And Torval meant you to give it to your father,” said Garn grimly. “You swore an oath, Skylan. Have you forgotten?”

Skylan stared at his friend, dismayed. He had, in truth, forgotten. His words to his father came back to him:

Your honorable wounds, a testament to your skill and valor, give you the right to select a warrior to fight in your place. If the Heudjun agree to the Vutmana, give me the privilege. I will make you Chief of Chiefs! I vow to Torval!

Skylan’s hand touched the silver axe he wore around his neck. He had never in his life broken a vow to his god.

Torval understands. He is a warrior. He would not want a crippled old man to lead his people. Torval fought at my side. He made me the winner. He intends for me to be Chief of Chiefs. As for breaking my oath, the god will overlook it. If he meant to punish me, he would have done so by now.

At that moment, the Kai Priestess took hold of Skylan’s hands.

“Skylan Ivorson, Torval has made you Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” the Kai Priestess said, and she added, almost shyly, “Our wedding will be celebrated soon, so that all may attend and be witness to our joy.”