Bones of the Dragon (49 page)

Garn rested his hand on Skylan’s arm.

“You don’t look well,” he said. “You should have Treia tend your head wound.”

“I don’t want some Bone Priestess praying over me,” Skylan said. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Garn offered.

“I don’t need a guide.”

“I thought you might need a friend,” Garn said quietly.

Skylan shook his head. “I can find my own way home.”

He bade good night to his father and took his leave, walking out the door of the hall just as another man was walking in.

“What’s this?” the man said heartily. “A celebration! I seem to have come at the right time!”

Skylan stopped dead. The man was Raegar. His eyelid flickered in a wink. He shoved past Skylan and entered the hall.

“Norgaard Ivorson!” Raegar shouted. “Even after all these years, I would know you anywhere! Let me embrace you, brother!”

Norgaard stared at the stranger, mystified; then he gasped. “Can it be Raegar?”

“The one and the same!” Raegar roared, grinning. “I have come home.”

Treia knew Skylan was lying. The others were so gullible, swallowing that silly tale about giants. She didn’t know why he had lied, but she could guess. It was to cover his crime and Draya’s. The fact that between them they had conspired to murder Horg. Treia didn’t know how. She didn’t have proof. She had only suspicions. Once she knew for certain, she would go before the Kai, expose them both. The Kai would be shocked, of course, but they would also be grateful. So grateful they would choose Treia to be the new Kai Priestess.

Before now, Treia had never considered aspiring to such heights. Before now, she had known she didn’t have a chance. None of the Priestesses liked her. Under normal circumstances, they would never consider selecting her.

Circumstances were not normal, however. Draya had named no successor. Even if she had, once the Kai discovered she had murdered Horg, robbed Torval of his judgment, the Kai would renounce her. It would be as if she had never been.

Treia’s suspicions had been aroused by the fact that Horg had behaved strangely during the fight. She couldn’t see all that well, but she had been able to recognize a sick man when she saw one. Horg had acted sick—clutching his belly, staggering about, retching. He had not taken any serious wounds, she was certain of that. People standing around her even commented on the fact. Treia thought it over and came to suspect that Horg had been poisoned. Her suspicions were confirmed when Draya had swiftly covered up the corpse, so that no one should see it, and then ordered the Dragon Kahg to get rid of the body.

Treia had considered voicing her suspicions, and she would have if anyone else had come forward. No one did, and she was forced to keep her doubts to herself. The people were satisfied with the decision of the gods. They had not liked Horg, and they did like Skylan. All that would change, though, once Treia had proof.

She slipped unnoticed out of the hall. Taking down a torch to light her way, she hastened through the empty streets, heading for the shore. She needed proof that Skylan was lying. No one would believe her otherwise.

The
Venjekar
rested on its keel on the beach. The wind had risen and shredded the fog. The moon was thin and pale; the stars seemed cold and distant. The sea was dark and stirred sullenly. As Treia boarded the dragonship, she felt the eyes of the Dragon Kahg on her.

Treia took down the spiritbone from where it hung on the figurehead, clasped it tightly in her hand, and boldly confronted the dragon.

Wulfe crouched in the hold, afraid to come out. The fierce warriors with their terrible swords and tree-killing axes had frightened him half out of his wits. He had run away to hide and stumbled over a stool, sending it crashing, which had brought the warriors down on top of him.

He found some small comfort in the fact that Skylan had been glad to see these men. They were his friends, not enemies. Skylan had called him to come out, but Wulfe was still too afraid. He remained hiding behind some barrels, relaxing only after they all left the ship.

He was now more hungry than afraid, but he feared if he went ashore alone, the warriors would find him and kill him. Skylan had told him lurid tales of what the Torgun had done to the ogres who had dared set foot on
their land. Wulfe hoped Skylan would come back to fetch him, but the night wore on with no sign of his friend.

Wulfe decided to sleep on board the ship until the return of daylight, figuring that Skylan would certainly come for him then. He was almost ready to come out from behind the barrels when he heard the sound of someone walking on the deck, and that sent him scurrying back to his hiding place.

He heard someone talking to the dragon. It sounded like a woman—a real, live woman, not the draugr. The woman’s voice was low, and Wulfe couldn’t understand what she was saying. He could tell by her tone that she was addressing the dragon with reverence and respect.

The dragon did not respond.

The woman’s tone changed, became sharper.

The dragon’s silence continued.

The woman stomped her foot in frustration. Her tone was commanding.

Wulfe could sense the dragon’s rising anger, and the boy shivered and wished the woman would take heed and leave. Perhaps she did notice after all, for she fell silent. She did not leave, however. Wulfe saw torchlight shining down into the hatch, and he realized in dismay that she was going to descend into the hold.

The woman climbed slowly down the ladder, moving hesitantly, holding the skirts of her robes in one hand and the torch in the other.

Wulfe recognized her by the robes.

It
was
the draugr. Coming for him.

He gave a piercing shriek and jumped out from behind the barrels, startling the draugr, who nearly dropped the torch. He dashed past the draugr, giving her a shove that sent her staggering backwards. He climbed two rungs of the ladder, then felt a hand seize him around the ankle.

Wulfe screamed and kept screaming, shrill and piercing, like the rabbit when the fox sank his teeth in its neck. He kicked frantically to free himself from the draugr’s clutches. The draugr gave a yank, and he lost his grip on the ladder and tumbled down to lie on his back at the draugr’s feet.

Except it wasn’t a draugr. He could see that now. She was a living, breathing woman, and she stared down at him in astonishment.

“Stop shrieking,” she snapped, and Wulfe stopped.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?” the woman asked.

Wulfe didn’t like her. The elder said Wulfe had an animal’s sense about people, perhaps because of the way they smelled. This woman did not carryiron, but she smelled of iron, as though her soul were made of iron.

No wonder the dragon had refused to answer her questions. Wulfe decided to do likewise. He kept his lips clamped tight and did not move.

“Are you dumb, boy?” The woman peered down at him through squinting eyes.

Wulfe shook his head.

“Not deaf, are you? Can you hear me? Do you speak our language?”

Wulfe nodded.

“Are you a friend of Skylan’s?”

Again Wulfe nodded.

The woman’s voice softened; her tone became soothing, as though she were trying to placate a snarling dog. “You don’t need to be afraid. I am Skylan’s friend, too.”

She held out her hand. “I can take you to him, if you want. No one will hurt you. Not if you’re with me.”

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Wulfe scrambled to his feet, keeping his distance. “Can I have something to eat?”

The woman gave a tight, stiff smile. “So you
can
talk, after all. My name is Treia. What is your name?”

Names were powerful. Wulfe kept quiet.

The woman named Treia gave an exasperated sigh and motioned with her hand. “Wait for me up on deck. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Wulfe hesitated, then did as he was told. He stood on the deck, feeling oddly unsteady now that the ship was no longer moving. He could hear her rummaging about down below. He had no idea what she was looking for, and he didn’t think she did either. He wished she would hurry.

Treia came back up the ladder. Her face was rigid. She seemed annoyed. When she saw Wulfe, she tried another smile, but didn’t quite manage it.

“Come with me,” she ordered.

She offered Wulfe her hand again. Again he didn’t take it. Shrugging, she walked across the deck, and Wulfe trailed after her. She paused a moment to look up at the dragon.

The dragon had nothing to say, and Treia’s lips compressed.

“How did you and Skylan meet?” she asked as they walked across the sand dunes. She had to glance around at him, for he walked several paces behind her, not liking to get too close.

Wulfe pretended he hadn’t heard. He could see the roofs of longhouses silhouetted against the stars. Skylan had told him about the village, about his home, about his friends and his father and about the woman he loved. Wulfe hoped that this was not the woman. He didn’t think it was. Skylan had told him she had hair the color of fire. This woman had hair the color of donkey piss.

The woman kept asking him questions, all of them about Skylan. Wulfe didn’t believe her when she said she was Skylan’s friend. If she was his friend,
she wouldn’t ask so many questions. He wished she would be quiet. Her voice was like being poked with a sharp stick.

They walked the streets. Wulfe’s nose twitched, and his mouth watered. He could smell the meat and vegetables simmering in the stewpots.

“I’m really hungry,” he said. “And I want to see Skylan.”

Now it was Treia who did not answer him. She was peering down the street at a large building, the largest Wulfe had ever seen. The door to the building stood open—light poured out, and with it a hubbub of voices, lots of people talking all at once.

“Something has happened,” said Treia.

She reached out and grabbed his arm, startling Wulfe, who hadn’t been expecting that. His instinct was to pull away, but she was moving at a run toward the large building, dragging Wulfe behind. He thought maybe this was where he would find Skylan and maybe there would be something to eat, and so he let the woman keep hold of his arm, wondering why she felt the need to hang on to him. If she feared he would have trouble keeping up with her, she was wrong. He could run far faster than she could, especially on all fours.

Someday he would show her.

The Torgun crowded around Raegar, exclaiming and rejoicing, clapping him on the back, offering him drink and food, rearranging the benches, giving him a seat of honor.

Raegar embraced Norgaard, calling him “brother,” and then asked, with easy good nature, “Where is my favorite cousin? Where is little Skylan?”

At this, everyone roared with laughter.

Skylan came forward. Raegar made a fine show of being astonished, proclaiming that this fine handsome young man could not be the scrawny little boy he remembered. He marveled to hear not only that this young man truly was Skylan, all grown up, but also that Skylan was now Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi nation.

Raegar embraced his cousin in a bear hug. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe!” Raegar whispered, his breath tickling Skylan’s ear.

Grinning, Raegar slapped Skylan on the back and turned away to speak to Norgaard.

Skylan didn’t find that very reassuring. All Raegar had done was remind Skylan that he had a secret and that Raegar knew it and could reveal it at any time. Skylan longed to go to bed, for the strain was exhausting. He couldn’t.
He had to find a chance to talk to Raegar in private, discover why he had come to Luda.

Everyone wanted to know Raegar’s story, and he was glad to tell it. He related how he had been wounded and near death and how his captors had healed him in order to sell him into slavery and how he had made a new life in the Southland. He was in the middle of the tale, with everyone listening eagerly, when Treia appeared in the doorway, holding Wulfe by the hand.

“Skylan,” she said, interrupting Raegar’s flow of talk, “this boy claims to know you.”

Raegar stopped in the middle of a sentence. His mouth dropped open. He rose to his feet and took a step toward her, as though drawn by some invisible thread.

Treia blinked at him. He stared at her.

“I did not remember the women of the Torgun were so beautiful,” he said. “Or else I would have crawled home on my hands and knees.”

Treia’s cheeks were flushed from running. Her blond hair had come loose from the elaborate braids and cascaded down around her shoulders. Her eyes glistened in the firelight; her breath came fast. None would have called Treia beautiful before this, but seeing her through the eyes of a stranger, they wondered where their own eyes had been all this time.

Treia’s flush deepened. She blinked again at Raegar, trying to bring him into focus, and was about to reply to his compliment when Wulfe broke free of her grasp and made a lunge at the table. He seized a large bowl of stew, clasped it in both arms, and turned and dashed outside.

“What was that?” Norgaard asked, astonished. “An imp from the Nethervold?”

“The boy I told you about,” said Skylan. “The one I found adrift in the sea. I warned you he was a little mad.”

“More than a little, it seems,” said Norgaard dryly. “Well, you had better go catch him before you lose him again.”

“Cousin, I would first have a word with you,” said Raegar, plucking at Skylan’s sleeve. He drew him off into a shadowy corner.

“Yes, Cousin, what can I do for you?” Skylan asked pleasantly. Once they were out of earshot of the others, he glowered at Raegar. “What in the name of Hevis are you doing here? Why have you come?”

“I bring good news. I found a map that gives the location of the ogres’ lands,” Raegar said coolly, and he grinned. “Ah, I thought that would please you. The ogres are not far. A month’s sailing, perhaps.”

“That is good news,” Skylan admitted. “I am grateful.”

“There’s another reason.” Raegar glanced over his shoulder to the people
laughing and talking. “Meeting you made me start thinking about my kin. I realized I had been away too long. It was time to come home.”

As if he’d heard his nephew’s words, Norgaard rose and called for silence. “We are all glad our clansman has returned home,” he said. “I trust he will not soon leave us. This night has been long, starting in sorrow and ending in joy.” He raised his drinking horn. “A toast to Raegar, who has come back from the dead.”