Bones of the Dragon (62 page)

“I can’t remember!” Aylaen clutched the bone, shaking it in frustration.

“Take your time,” Garn counseled.

The ground shook, as when thunder fell from heaven and rolled across the land. Or when huge stones thumped the ground.

“Just don’t take too much time,” Skylan said.

Aylaen bit her lip and began to recite the ritual again.

Skylan watched Aylaen a moment longer, then glanced at Garn. “Stay with her.”

Garn nodded. Skylan turned to find his men, under Sigurd’s direction, forming a shield-wall. He glared at them in exasperation.

“Are you mad? All bunched together like that, a giant could take you all out with one blow! We have to spread out! We’re not going to win this battle with swords and shields. Fetch the spears, as many as you can carry. I don’t care if you can’t throw. The targets are big enough so that even you, Alfric, can’t very well miss.”

Alfric the One-Eyed grinned. During a spear-chucking contest, he was renowned for having missed the mark by such a wide margin that he’d wounded one of the judges.

“Take cover in the pine trees,” Skylan continued. “Just make sure you keep within shouting distance of each other.”

“What do we aim for?” Erdmun asked, bewildered. “Their eyes?”

“Their balls,” said Skylan.

Erdmun gave a nervous snicker.

“I’m not kidding,” said Skylan grimly.

The men scattered, running to grab the spears that had been salvaged from the dragonship. Skylan realized suddenly that someone else besides Treia was missing.

“Where’s Wulfe?” Skylan turned to Garn. “You said you saw him.”

“He ran off before I could grab him,” said Garn. “I think he was more frightened of me than of the dragon.”

Ugly Ones armed with swords and axes, stinking of iron.

Skylan shouted Wulfe’s name, but there was no answer, and eventually he
gave up. The ground was shaking from the thudding of the stones almost continually now. Men cried out that they could see the giants coming.

Skylan took up four spears, two in each hand. He walked back to where Aylaen knelt in the sand, holding the spiritbone in her hands, turning it round and round in unhappy confusion.

Skylan thrust the spears into the ground between himself and Garn.

“You and I will guard Aylaen.”

The gods are afraid.

Their wyrd is bound up in ours.

The gods had once believed they were all-powerful, all-knowing. The gods had once believed they were immortal.

Nothing lives forever. Not even the gods.

Creation destroys. Destruction creates.

Fire burns down the pine tree, but the heat of the flames causes a cone bearing the seeds of new life to burst, scattering the seeds on the blackened ground where they put down roots and become the pine tree, which burns in the fire. . . .

Holding the spiritbone in her hands, Aylaen held the wyrds of them all: gods, men, dragons. Their threads woven together, the fabric stronger than a single thread. Her thread as strong as Torval’s thread. His thread as fragile as hers.

“The dragonbone game!” Aylaen murmured.

“What about it?” Skylan turned from watching for the enemy to stare at her intently. “What about the dragonbone game?”

Aylaen looked up, startled by his tone.

“I remembered something Treia told me! The ritual to summon the dragon is based on the dragonbone game. That’s how the priestesses remember it.”

The ground trembled, shuddered. Men were running for cover.

“The dragonbone game,” Skylan repeated. An odd, exultant light shone in his blue eyes. “The ritual . . . I wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?” Aylaen asked, puzzled.

He shook his head.

“We need the dragon,” he said curtly.

Aylaen did not know the ritual, but she knew the dragonbone game. She oftentimes won big. When she lost, she lost spectacularly, her pieces swept clean off the board. Though she was not reckless like Skylan, she was a risk-taker, not afraid to make bold moves.

Aylaen thrust the spiritbone into the sand and shut her eyes so that she
would not see the giants and lose her concentration. Skylan and Garn, the two people she loved best in the world, were with her, guarding her, protecting her.

And the gods are with all of us. Our wyrds are woven together. . . .

T
reia felt the ground shake, but she paid little heed to it. If she had turned around and looked behind her, even her weak eyes would have seen the giants, striding with terrible purpose toward the beach. She did not look around. She did not look ahead. What was the use? It was all a blur anyway. She stared down at her feet to see the ground on which she walked, and even then she didn’t see that much for the bitter, burning tears.

Treia could not have said where she was going. She had left the camp for one reason and that was to escape: to escape her sister, of whom Treia had always been jealous; to escape Skylan, whom she loathed and despised; to escape the pitying stares of the rest of the Torgun, pitying the spinster who had lost her last chance for a husband.

Raegar was lost, drowned, dead. The only man she had ever loved. The only man who had ever loved her or was likely to love her.

Treia’s grief tore at her, shredded her. She could not bear the pain of her loss. She could not bear her sister’s attempts to offer comfort or Skylan’s triumph.

Pity for the spinster. Pity for the Bone Priestess of an impoverished clan, a Bone Priestess who must spend her days in lonely solitude, lancing boils on people’s asses.

Raegar had given her love and something more: hope for a better life. He had fanned the flames of her ambition, given her reason to dare think she might rise to heights she had never before imagined. And now he was dead and her dreams had drowned with him.

It was only when Treia at last raised her head to cast a dreary look about that she saw the Hall of Vektia, a large wooden blur for her at this distance. She thought wearily she might as well go to the Hall as anywhere else, and she kept walking.

She was to have been Kai Priestess. Raegar would have been Chief of Chiefs.

“I know a secret about Skylan,” Raegar had told Treia. “A secret that when I reveal it will cause the Vindrasi to clamor for his death.”

Treia had urged him to tell her this terrible secret. Raegar had refused.

“The time is not right. I will wait until the raid on the ogres, after Skylan has recovered the Vektan Torque.”

Raegar had been particular about the torque’s recovery.

“For all his faults,” Raegar had said, “Skylan is a valiant and courageous warrior. The men like and admire him. They will follow him through fire and blood. Let him lead us to victory, let him think he has won the gods’ favor, let him think he stands on top of the world. His fall from such heights will hurt all the more.”

Treia had agreed. She would have agreed to anything Raegar had suggested. Well, almost anything. She had not agreed to let him become her lover, though he had tried his best to convince her to lie with him.

She wanted to. At night, she dreamed of Raegar’s touch, his kisses. But in the bright, cold light of day, she remembered Horg and his hands groping her, pulling up her skirts, thrusting his fat fingers inside her, grunting and sweating like a hog. She remembered her shame when Draya had walked in on them and her ardor would turn to revulsion. She could not bear for any man, not even Raegar, to touch her like that.

And now, no man would. Her eyes blurred with tears, she tripped and fell. She did not get up, but lay on the ground outside the Hall, sobbing uncontrollably, more in rage than with grief. Rage against the gods for having given her hope with one hand and snatched it back with the other. Finally, too exhausted to cry anymore, she dragged herself on toward the Hall of Vektia.

She did not know why she was going there, for she did not believe Vindrash could help her. Treia did not, at times, believe in Vindrash.

The flagstone path came to an end. Treia stared down at it and then lifted her eyes. The Hall swam before her. She stared dully at the stairs leading up to the main entrance and, not knowing what else to do, she began to climb them.

She had been to the Hall once before this. When Draya had made her yearly pilgrimage, she had brought several Bone Priestesses and acolytes with her. One year Treia had been chosen. She had been sixteen, and, for a change, she had been excited and pleased at the idea of the adventure.

Unfortunately, the voyage had proved boring and tedious. She had been cooped up in the cabin, forced to attend to Draya, who had been seasick at the start of the voyage and, when she was well, spent the rest of the voyage
praying with the Bone Priestesses. When the women were not praying, they spent their time talking about what they were going to pray for.

Treia had been looking forward to the Hall, for she had heard stories of its grandeur. When she saw it, she was impressed, taken with the beauty and intricacies of the wood carvings of dragons that decorated the outside and awed by the immense statue of Vindrash and the dragons who served her. But after spending hours on her knees, she came to loathe the Hall, the statue, even the dragons. She had been glad when she was finally able to leave, even though that meant tending again to a seasick Draya.

Treia remembered that there would likely be the spirits of guardian dragons inside the Hall, and she almost turned and fled, rather than have to face them. But she was too tired to go anywhere else and, besides, for her there was nowhere else to go.

“If a dragon says so much as a word to me, I’ll scratch its eyes out,” Treia muttered.

The great double doors, adorned with carvings of Vindrash and the World Tree, were generally kept closed. Treia would have to seek admittance from the dragons. She was about to do so when she noticed that the doors were slightly ajar.

That was odd, but Treia was thankful. She hoped she could sneak in unnoticed, avoid, for at least a time, being accosted by a dragon.

The Sun Goddess entered the Hall with Treia, casting a slanting band of light across the Hall’s wooden floor. The light spread like rising water to the feet of the statue of Vindrash and there it stopped, as though in awe, leaving the statue in darkness.

The Hall appeared, at first glance, to be empty. The dragons were not around, apparently. Treia was uneasy. Due to her poor eyesight and the play of light and shadow, she could not see much, but she had the sense that all was not right.

“Hello?” Treia called out sternly. “Is anyone here?”

To her amazement, she heard someone groan.

The sound came from the direction of the statue of Vindrash. Treia advanced slowly and cautiously, following the path of the slanting sunlight. Then she saw why Aylis, the Sun Goddess, had been loath to advance. The ancient statue of Vindrash, said to have been been made of wood taken from the World Tree, lay on the floor. This statue of the Dragon Goddess was unique, in that it did not portray Vindrash in her warlike attitude, as did all other statues, with spread wings and striking claws. This statue showed Vindrash in repose, lying prone, with one eye closed and one eye open, to show that even in sleep, Vindrash kept watch over her people.

Except that her watch had failed. The head of the statue had been struck from the body. The statue’s trunk had been hacked to pieces.

The groan sounded again, louder. She squinted her eyes and saw a huddled form lying beside what was left of the statue of Vindrash. Treia was no coward. The blood of generations of Vindrasi warriors ran in her veins. Spotting a jewel-encrusted urn lying on the floor, Treia picked it up and, holding it in her hands like a club, she drew nearer. A man lay on his side on the floor, his back to her.

“Don’t move!” Treia warned. “I would just as soon bash in your skull as not.”

The groaning stopped. The man raised his head, turned to stare at her in astonishment. “Treia?”

Treia dropped the urn. Clapping her hands over her mouth, she sank to her knees.

The man sat up and held out his hands. “Treia, it’s me! Raegar.”

She flung herself into his arms, kissing him and crying and babbling incoherently. He held her and soothed her, stroking her hair, kissing her gently, then more passionately.

“Treia!” Raegar groaned again, this time with the pain of desire. “You are mine. You are meant to be mine. The gods saved me from death to bring us together!”

Treia asked no questions. She didn’t care how he came to be in the Hall of Vektia or why.

Overwhelmed with joy at the miracle of his return, Treia clung to him, kissed him fiercely, clasped him, held him. His hands hiked up her skirts. He lowered himself on top of her, fumbling at the fastening of his trousers. She opened herself to him. He was gentle, at first, mindful of her virginity. She urged him with broken words to take her and he did so, thrusting hard, almost savagely. She reveled in the pain and only a small moan escaped her when he withdrew and lay limply on top of her.

She smiled at him tremulously. Raegar seemed to become suddenly aware of what he had done. He sat up, hastily lacing his pants.

“Treia, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I was so happy to see you. I never thought . . .”

Raegar covered his face with his hands, hiding his tears. Treia gathered him close. The two clung to each other.

“I feared you had drowned,” she whispered.

Raegar wiped his tears with his hand, drew his sleeve across his nose. His eyes, red with weeping, were wide with awe and wonder.

“I did drown, Treia,” he said, and he shuddered at the memory. “I could
not hold my breath. I opened my mouth and water flowed in and . . . and the next thing I knew I was here in this great Hall.”

He looked around, bewildered, then focused on her. “And you are with me, my love, my own. It is a miracle!”

“Vindrash brought you here,” said Treia. “She brought you back to me.”

Raegar looked at her strangely. “No, my dear. I do not think it was Vindrash.”

Treia gave a little laugh. “Well, of course it was Vindrash. Who else could it have been who brought you to her Hall?”