Bones of the Dragon (35 page)

Skylan looked at her in dumb agony. Aylaen was radiant. Her hair glittered like red gold in the sun. Her emerald eyes danced and sparkled. Her creamy skin was sun-kissed, with a smattering of freckles across her nose. He thought of Draya, her flabby breasts and wrinkled skin, her hands stained with Horg’s blood fondling his groin.

Skylan felt dirty, as though he had wallowed in muck. He did not like to think of Draya speaking to Aylaen, of being anywhere near her.

“What do you think of my new horse?” he asked.

Garn barely glanced at the animal. “I hear you are traveling to Hammerfall,” he said in wonder.

“To thank the god for my great happiness,” Skylan said tersely. He was sick and tired of everyone questioning him.

He rubbed Blade on the nose and praised the horse. “He has a warrior’s heart. He jumped a creek as wide as the dragonship. You should see him.”

“I would like to ride him,” Aylaen said. “I am so proud of you, Skylan. I know you are married, but I claim a sister’s privilege.”

She pressed her lips to his. The touch of her lips was like a fiery brand, burning his flesh. He had the strange impression the kiss had left a mark, and he put his fingers to his lips to see if he could feel it. He loved her so much, his heart seemed to break with the pain.

“Aylaen,” he said with quiet urgency, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you—”

Aylaen laughingly interrupted him. “We will talk, Skylan, only not now. I don’t have time. I must say good-bye to Treia. She’s staying for the Kai Moot.”

And before Skylan could entreat her to stay, as well, Aylaen gave him a smile and hurried away.

Garn started to say something, but Skylan cut him off. He kept his gaze averted.

“You had better leave, as well, my friend, or the ship will miss the tide. Take care of my father.” Skylan knew he was talking too fast, but he couldn’t help it. “Let me know if there is anything he needs.”

“Skylan, stop it,” Garn said, catching hold of him. “Something’s wrong. I know it. You can tell me. You know you can.”

Skylan stood with his hand on the saddle. Part of him longed to spew out the awful truth. He longed to purge his soul, as last night he had purged his stomach.

Blade whinnied softly and pushed at Skylan with his nose, eager to be on the move. Skylan stroked the neck of his magnificent horse. He glanced back at his father, who was swelling with pride. He saw Aylaen, her hair shining in the sunlight, and felt the touch of her lips.

Norgaard would disown him. Aylaen would be lost to him forever.

“What could be wrong, my friend?” Skylan asked. “I am Chief of Chiefs.”

He swung himself up on his horse and smiled down on his friend. Garn did not return the smile. He stood stubbornly at Skylan’s stirrup, his hand holding on to the bridle.

Skylan felt a flash of irritation. He was not a child, to be badgered and questioned. Turning his horse’s head, he dug in his heels and galloped off across the beach. He did not stop or look back until he had ridden over the windswept dunes. He climbed a ridge and pulled his horse to a halt and looked out to sea.

The
Venjekar
rose and dipped among the waves. He could see Garn on board, standing near the prow alongside Norgaard and Aylaen. There was Bjorn chatting with his brother, Erdmun. There was Alfric the One-Eyed, sharing a jest with Sigurd. He saw the others striding along the deck, gazing out to sea, talking together, probably talking of him and how proud they were. The young man who had slain Horg. The young man who had raised the Torgun to exalted heights. The young man who was Chief of Chiefs. His clansmen would return to Luda to take up their lives, leaving him behind.

This is the pain the dead feel, he thought. I stand on the cold and
lonely shore, watching those I love sail away. They go on with life, while I remain alone.

His grief unmanned him, and he wept. Through the blur of tears, Skylan caught a flash of fire—the red eyes of the Dragon Kahg. The ship was just coming level with him. The eyes of the dragon sought him out, stared fixedly at him. He imagined he heard a voice speaking to him:

The spear is broken. The sword bent. The shield shattered. You cannot change what has happened. Will you fall to your knees and grovel at your enemy’s boots in surrender, or will you keep fighting?

There could be only one answer. Skylan drew his sword from its sheath and lifted it high in the air, so that the sunlight flared off the blade. The dragon’s eyes flickered in response.

Sheathing his sword, Skylan turned his horse’s head south, toward Hammerfall.

S
kylan was on the road for more than two weeks, riding through dark forests and over sunny grasslands. He had never traveled this extensively, and he enjoyed the journey. He dawdled, took his time, loathe to return home. Each day brought new sights, and along with that, the somber realization that the Vindrasi were in trouble. He rode past crops withering in the cracked, dry earth. He saw too many cattle herds whose numbers were small, the beasts pitifully thin. Rivers were sluggish and shrunken. Creeks had dried up. And still, the Sun Goddess Aylis blazed in the heavens, her eye glaring down on the land. He could not remember the last time it had rained.

Skylan knew the reason. Treia had explained it to him: Aylis was furious about the death of her daughter, the Goddess Desiria, and she was taking out her fury and her grief on the Vindrasi. Skylan had stated that he considered this unreasonable on the part of the goddess. She should take out her anger on the evil gods who were responsible for slaying Desiria, not punish her loyal followers.

Treia had asked him snidely if he considered himself wiser than the gods. Skylan said no, of course not, but privately he thought that in this instance he
was. He recalled the ill-fated dinner with the ogre godlords. They had looked well-fed, their bellies huge, even after a prolonged sea journey during which they’d been forced to cut back on rations. They had bragged that their harvests were large, their people prosperous. The shaman had been loud in his praise of the Gods of Raj, who lavished blessings upon their people. “The Vindrasi should be glad to worship them,” he’d said.

Our people need to go raiding, Skylan resolved. Our warriors need to feel good about themselves. They need to win silver and gold and jewels for the dragons. They need to bring back fat cattle to feed their hungry children. The ogres bragged that their land was wealthy. Then we will raid the ogres.

Skylan had no idea where the ogres’ lands were located. He doubted any of the Vindrasi still living did. But the ogres would have left evidence of their route along the way. Skylan could follow the trail of plundered villages and burned-out houses to trace his route to their lands.

He longed more than ever to undertake this epic voyage. He could picture himself sailing back to Vindraholm in triumph, the sacred torque gleaming on his neck, his dragonship filled with ogre silver, gold, and jewels.

Instead, he would be sailing with his wife to the Dragon Isles.

On the seventh day of his journey, Skylan stopped at a farm house to ask directions. He had to be getting close to his destination. The farmer told him that, yes, he was within a day’s ride of Hammerfall. He had only to follow the road until he came to a trail, which was not marked, but which he could not fail to recognize, for it had been made by many warriors before him.

Skylan followed the road and came across the trail, just as the farmer had said. He turned Blade’s head and rode along the trail a short distance. Reaching the summit of a hill, he reined in the horse. The steep rock walls of the crater jutted up from the grassland, like sharp teeth eager to take a bite out of the blue sky.

The trail on which he was riding cut through the grasslands, led straight to those gray walls. He looked down on the trail with a feeling of awe. Warriors had walked this trail since time’s beginning. Perhaps the great Thorgunnd had walked this path. Devout warriors all, going to honor Torval with noble hearts and unstained souls.

Whereas Skylan was an oath-breaker and a murderer—or as near to being a murderer as did not matter. He was a cheat and a liar, and he had invoked Torval’s name in his lies.

I try to do right. It’s just that things keep going wrong. Torval understands. Skylan tried to reassure himself. The god sees into my heart.

He guided his horse to the top of the ridge and was about to ride down the hill, when he heard a raucous caw. A shadow swept over him, causing him to duck involuntarily. An unusually large raven landed with a flurry of
black wings on the trail directly in front of Skylan, spooking Blade, who snorted nervously and did a little sideways dance. Skylan pulled on the reins, dragging his startled horse to a halt.

A dead hare lay on the trail. The raven glared at Skylan, warning him away from the prize. Calmly, unafraid, the raven hopped onto the carcass, dug its claws into the brown fur, and just as calmly began to peck out the rabbit’s eyes.

Skylan shuddered. The raven was sacred to Hevis, God of Fire, Deceit, Hidden Acts, and Treachery. No omen could be clearer or more terrible.

Skylan shouted, hoping the bird would take fright and fly away. The raven continued to feast on the rabbit. Skylan urged Blade forward. The raven glanced at him and then, to his horror, the bird spread enormous black wings, leaped off the corpse, and flew straight at Skylan’s head.

Skylan ducked, yanking on the reins so hard that Blade spun around and nearly lost his footing. Terrified, Skylan rode at a gallop back down the trail, retracing his steps.

Behind him, the raven gave a raucous, cawing laugh.

Skylan rode for days with no clear notion of where he was or where he was going. He wanted only to put as much distance between himself and Hammerfall as possible. When Blade grew tired, Skylan dismounted and continued on foot, leading the horse. He fell asleep on his feet, only to wake with a start from dreams that ravens were pecking out his eyes.

Skylan, who never dreamed, now dreamed all the time.

Torval was clearly furious with Skylan. The god had turned his back on him. Not content with that, Torval had sent the treacherous Hevis to bar Skylan from the sacred site. Skylan had to find a way to propitiate Torval, appease the angry god. He had no idea how to go about this. As a child, whenever Skylan had made Norgaard angry, the boy had simply kept out of his father’s way until Norgaard cooled off. Skylan had hoped such a tactic would work with the god, but obviously it did not. He did not know what more he could do. He needed advice, and Garn was not around.

The road on which Skylan traveled led inland for a long distance. Stopped by the foothills of the Kairnholm Mountains, the road turned toward the coast, dipped down to the Hesvolm Sea.

Days had passed since he’d fled Hammerfall. The afternoon was waning. Skylan had to start thinking wearily about finding somewhere to make camp. He stood gazing at the vast expanse of water that spread gleaming before him and noted several boats drawn up along a barren strandline.

Skylan first thought this was a raiding party, but then he realized that
didn’t make much sense. There were no villages anywhere near. The boats were only five in number, and they were not swift-sailing, sleek warships. They were short, squat merchant vessels, designed to carry goods, not warriors.

The boats were far from any town, and he wondered if they were lost. Moving closer, he could see that one boat had been turned upside down. Men swarmed over it. That was the explanation. A boat had been damaged, and the traders had put ashore to repair it.

Skylan longed to hear a human voice after listening so long to his own confused, dark thoughts, and he urged his horse to a gallop. Traders went everywhere, saw everything. They tended to remain neutral, and even if their countries were at war, they still plied their routes, selling goods to friend and foe alike. Anything to make a living.

Traders traveled far, as well. The thought was in Skylan’s mind that they might know how to find the ogres’ lands.

One of the traders caught sight of Skylan, as he came galloping across the sands, and he gave a warning shout. Seeing a warrior clad in armor, armed, and bearing a shield, the men left the work on the damaged boat to form a line across the road. They were armed with swords and axes and looked like they knew what they were about. Skylan removed his helm and kept his sword sheathed, showing he had no hostile intent.

The men had the black hair and beards and swarthy complexions of those who lived in lands far, far to the south. All except one. This man had blond hair and a bushy blond beard. He was taller than the others, broad-shouldered, and big-boned. Skylan regarded this man with interest. He had to be Vindrasi.

Skylan’s first thought was that he was a guide hired by the Southlanders. Then he saw that the blond man was dressed in the same type of clothing as the Southlanders—long, flowing robes belted at the waist with loose-fitting sleeves. He gestured at Skylan, then shouted something at his companions. The men put away their weapons and returned to their work—or rather, to supervising the work. Skylan saw now that the men repairing the ship were slaves, wearing leg irons and shackles.

Skylan noted that there were women among the group; short, dark women with long black curling hair, black eyes, and smooth brown skin. He saw the women eyeing him, and he regretted the fact that he had not shaved in several days or combed his hair or bathed.

“I am Skylan Ivorson,” Skylan called out when he was within hailing distance. He was the stranger, and it was up to him to proclaim himself. “I am the son of Norgaard of the Torgun.”

He almost added proudly, “Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” but at the last moment, he thought better of it. He did not know these men or why they were here. A Chief of Chiefs would be worth his weight in ransom.

The blond man stared at Skylan in amazement, and then he gave a great roar. “I do not believe it! It is little Skylan!”

Now it was Skylan’s turn to stare. Who was this man?

The blond-bearded face split in a wide grin. “The last time I saw you was thirteen winters ago,” the man proclaimed. “You were five then, and nearly sliced off my thumb with your father’s sword. I have the scar to prove it!”