Rage of the Dragon (5 page)

“I pity you,” said Aylaen softly.

Treia stared into the darkness of the hold. “You should have died. If you had, all would be well now…”

Aylaen turned away, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and went to search for the flour.

“Aylaen,” Skylan called tensely down into the hold. “Are you all right?”

“He must think Treia’s going to murder me,” Aylaen muttered. Remembering Treia’s burning eyes, Aylaen was suddenly glad she was wearing armor.

She called back that she was fine as she made her way to the stern where the jars containing the supplies were stored. The jars were well secured. Only one had broken in the tumultuous trip downriver and that jar had not, thank the gods, contained the flour. Aylaen groped about until she found a piece of the broken jar to use as a crude bowl. She mixed some of the flour with the water to form a whitish paste.

“Give me the spiritbone of the Vektia,” said Treia. “If you don’t give it to me, Skylan will die.”

Aylaen tried to shove past. Treia blocked her way.

“I’ve seen the way you look at Skylan,” Treia sneered. “You little whore. First you jump into Garn’s bed, and now that he’s dead you leap into Skylan’s.”

Aylaen gasped as though Treia had punched her. “I’m not—”

“Be quiet and listen to me. If you keep that spiritbone, Skylan is marked for death. The god, Sund, looked into the future and saw Skylan with the Five bones and the Old Gods defeated. That’s why the gods want Skylan dead.”

“That makes no sense! I don’t believe you,” said Aylaen scornfully. “And I won’t give you the spiritbone.”

Treia shrugged. “Then Skylan is doomed.”

Aylaen swept past her sister and, carrying the paste, she doused the light and climbed the ladder and went up on deck.

CHAPTER

4

The Torgun gathered around Keeper in solemn reverence. Death comes to all, ogre and human, and must be respected. Each of them said something to honor the dead, sharing a story that spoke to Keeper’s bravery and courage. Aylaen spoke a prayer to speed his soul.

“His gods are not our gods,” she said. “I do not know their names, except that they are called the Gods of Raj. If they are listening, let them hear that Keeper was a good man, a brave warrior, and that I counted him as my friend.”

“If Keeper had died at home, his family would paint his face to honor him,” Acronis explained. “If he had died on the field of battle, his friends and comrades-in-arms would honor him in this way.”

“I do this as his friend and comrade,” said Skylan.

“And I do this as Keeper’s family,” said Acronis. “For he
was
part of my family. Chloe loved him.”

The two dabbed the flour on the skin that was now cold. Acronis smeared the white paste over the bald skull. Skylan drew a black stripe from Keeper’s neck to the chin and another black stripe across his nose and cheekbones.

“You must help me one last time, my friend. In return, I will take you back to your people,” said Skylan. He kissed the silver amulet around his neck. “Torval be my witness.”

Bjorn placed the giant two-handed sword in the ogre’s hands, then they covered his body with one of the spare sails to keep the dampness from smearing the paint. And then they stood staring at each other.

“Now what do we do?” Sigurd asked, subdued.

Erdmun’s stomach growled loudly and the men all laughed.

“I think we had better eat something,” said Skylan. “Before Erdmun’s belly brings the ogres down on us.”

Aylaen and Farinn carried up food—dried meat, bread, and olives, a Sinarian fruit for which the Vindrasi had developed a taste. The men sat on their sea chests, eating ravenously. Wulfe, who had been quietly munching on some soggy bread, shoved the last bit under the sail near Keeper’s cold hand.

“He might be hungry,” said Wulfe, and he gave the body a little pat.

And then there was nothing more they could do. Darkness was falling. The night was thick around them, muffling sound. Erdmun’s head fell forward, resting on his chest, and he began to snore. His brother, Bjorn, started to wake him.

“Let him sleep,” said Skylan, who felt as if he would drop from fatigue himself. He tried to remember back to when he had last slept, but too much had happened, events were blurred. Yesterday was distant, today was shrouded in mist. Tomorrow might not exist.

“We should all get some sleep while we can,” Skylan added. “I will take first watch.”

“I’ll stand with you,” said Sigurd.

No one argued. They slumped down on the deck.

Skylan leaned over the rail near the dragonhead prow, staring into the fog. When he found himself dozing off, he shook his head and went back to talk to Sigurd, who had been pacing the deck, to keep himself awake.

He found Sigurd leaning against the mast. His eyes were closed. He had fallen asleep standing up. Skylan shook him.

“I’m awake!” Sigurd protested.

“Lie down,” said Skylan. “Before you fall and break something. The Dragon Kahg and I will keep watch.”

Sigurd continued to swear that he wasn’t the least bit tired, even as his eyes closed and his head lolled.

Skylan walked about, checking on his people. Aylaen had taken off her armor, complaining that it was too heavy. Dressed in the leather tunic worn by the Sinarian soldiers underneath their armor, she had wrapped herself in a relatively dry blanket she’d found in the hold. Wulfe was curled up at her side, pressing against her for warmth. The rest lay sprawled on the deck. Grimuir had his hand on his sword. Farinn was mumbling in his sleep, perhaps the words to his song. Erdmun snored. Acronis, an old campaigner, had made his cloak into a pillow. Not far from the rest, Keeper lay beneath the sail in eternal slumber.

Skylan walked forward, stationed himself beside the dragonhead prow, and stood gazing out on a dark and silent world. He felt a deep love for these people. They had been through so much. They were all dear to him, even Sigurd.

Skylan’s eyes burned. He was so tired. He would sit for just a moment. He blinked and closed his eyes, to ease the burning …

*   *   *

Night. Black and cold. The stars small with sharp, bright edges. The moon pale and wan. Skylan walked across the frost-hard ground. He had been walking a long time. He was tired and cold and yet he kept walking, a sense of purpose driving him. He did not recognize his surroundings, and yet he knew he was in his homeland, in Vindraholm. He wore chain mail and a helm and carried his sword and shield.

He crested a hill and looked down. Spread out before him was a battlefield. Grass was trampled, churned, wet with blood. The pale moonlight gleamed on the armor of the dead. Skylan stared, sick with dread and dismay. The armor was Vindrasi; the dead were his people.

An ugly red-orange glow flared on the horizon. A city in flames. Homes, temples, halls—like black skeletons, writhing in the fire. Skylan listened for cries or screams. He realized suddenly that there was no one left alive to scream.

He ran down the hill and onto the battlefield, stumbling over bodies, slipping in the blood, coughing in the smoke, hoping to find someone still alive. He ran for a long time until, on the verge of collapse, he came to his village. He stopped running. Nothing was left. Here and there flame flickered amid the wreckage, but that was all.

Bodies of women lay in the street. Their men dead, they had fought to defend their homes with axes or scythes or even, pitifully, brooms. Their children had died, too; the older ones fighting, the little ones speared as they sat wailing in the blood of their dead mothers.

The thought came to him that some of his people might have been able to escape and were now hiding in the caves in the hills. He hurried into the woods, calling out names, but no one answered. He froze when he saw fire in the night until he realized that the glow was small—a hearth fire. He hurried toward the warming glow and he recognized the house.

It belonged to Owl Mother.

Skylan stopped in his tracks. He had always been afraid of Owl Mother.

The door to the house swung open and a woman emerged. But it was not Owl Mother. The woman was dressed in armor that had once shone with a radiant light. Now it was dented and bloody and grimed with ash and soot. She was still beautiful, though her face was aged with sorrow; she stood tall, unbowed, undefeated.

Skylan recognized Vindrash, the dragon goddess.

“You can stop searching,” she told him. “The Torgun are all dead.”

Skylan looked behind her and saw the body of the old woman, Owl Mother, lying on the floor. Her white hair was matted with blood. Her wolf lay dead at her side, his throat slashed. He had died defending her.

“Vindrash, what happened?” Skylan asked.

“The enemy came upon them in the night.” The words of the goddess floated out of her mouth and hung, ghostly white, in the frigid air. “Your people woke to a sea filled with strange-looking ships. They heard the blare of trumpets and the beating of drums. They saw bright, shining armor and cruel swords. The sky was black with winged serpents.”

“Aelon’s serpents,” Skylan said. “Soldiers from the land of Oran. Are all…” His throat closed, he coughed and continued raggedly, “Are all the Vindrasi dead?”

“Some still live,” said Vindrash. She gave a sad smile. “I know because we gods live.”

Skylan was confused. “Has this battle already happened? Will it happen in the future? Can I prevent it from happening?”

Vindrash shook her head. “I cannot tell you. We gods are as blind as mortals now. Perhaps this is the future. Perhaps not.”

“Then why bring me here? Why show me this terrible sight?” Skylan demanded angrily.

“Ask yourself that question, Skylan Ivorson,” said Vindrash. “This is
your
dream…”

CHAPTER

5

A hand touched Skylan’s forehead. The touch was icy cold and he shivered in remembrance and woke with a start.

“Vindrash, answer me!” he cried, sitting bolt upright.

He saw mists swirling in gray light and felt a drop of cold water hitting him on the head. He looked up to see the Dragon Kahg glaring down, red eyes shimmering in the fog. Another drop hit Skylan, this time on the nose.

Night’s darkness was gone. The sun had risen, seemingly, though the Sun Goddess, Aylis, remained hidden beneath a blanket of fog. Angry at himself for having fallen asleep on watch, Skylan was about to push himself to his feet when he felt something hit the
Venjekar
and saw the prow of an ogre ship loom out of the fog and bump gently into the
Venjekar
’s hull.

Skylan froze. His first impulse was to shout the alarm. He hesitated, waiting to see what happened.

Nothing happened. No ogre watchman shouted a warning. No ogre godlord came running to see what was going on. The ogre ship rubbed up against the
Venjekar
like an affectionate cat.

Thinking that perhaps the ogres had all fallen asleep, just as he and his men had fallen asleep, Skylan slowly stood up, trying to move as silently as possible. The segmented, metal Sinarian armor rattled and clashed. Gritting his teeth at the noise that was as loud as a thunder strike in his ears, he tried to steal quietly across the deck to wake his men one by one.

Sigurd and Grimuir and Bjorn woke instantly, needing only a few words to understand the situation. Erdmun shrugged him off and tried to go back to sleep. His brother kicked him. Farinn jumped and stared at him in confusion. Acronis had awakened at the sound of Skylan moving about and had already drawn his sword. Wulfe, panic-stricken at the sight of the weapons, was shaking Aylaen. She rubbed her eyes and gazed blearily at him.

Skylan put his lips to her ear to whisper, “Ogre ship. Off the bow.”

Aylaen could see for herself. She tried to stand. Skylan took hold of her hands to help her. Her fingers were cold and he clasped her hands fast, trying to warm them. Their eyes met and held for a moment until she lowered her eyes in confusion and drew back.

“You should go into the hold,” said Skylan softly without thinking. He couldn’t think, not when he could still feel her touch. “Take Wulfe with you.”

“And get us murdered!” the boy cried shrilly. “Treia’s down there!”

The men rounded angrily, glaring at Wulfe for talking so loudly. Aylaen swiftly muzzled him, clapping her hand over his mouth.

“I won’t hide in the hold!” Aylaen whispered stiffly, not looking at Skylan. “You said I was a warrior, like the others.”

He hesitated, trying to think of something to say to make up for his blunder.

“Skylan!” Sigurd hissed. “Get your butt over here!”

“You better go,” said Aylaen in hushed frozen tones.

Skylan left, cursing his clumsy tongue, wondering why he always managed to say the wrong thing when he spoke to her.

“Any sign of ogres?” he asked.

Sigurd shook his head. “Damn strange, if you ask me. And take a look at this ship.”

The ogre ship was larger than the
Venjekar,
more massive. Vindrasi dragonships were sleek, lightweight, designed for speed. Ogres ships were designed to carry ogres, a single one of whom weighed as much as two or three full grown human men. Ogres were not known for their seamanship, nor for their shipbuilding. Looking at the hull of the huge ship wallowing sluggishly in the water, Skylan wondered how it had managed to survive the long voyage from the ogre kingdom to Sinaria. The hull was covered with what looked like runes that had been burned into the wood. Perhaps the Gods of Raj had used their magic to keep it afloat.

The ship was much taller than the
Venjekar,
which sat low in the water. Skylan could not see the deck from this vantage point. He caught a glimpse of the tip of the boom in the swirling fog and then it vanished.

“I don’t think anyone’s on board,” said Bjorn.

“Anyone
alive,
” Wulfe said ominously.

The Torgun were nervous. Given a choice, they would be much happier fighting for their lives against an army of ogres. None of them wanted anything to do with a ship sailing the seas without a crew.

Skylan didn’t like this any better than his men. He could still feel the touch of the goddess, hear her voice. He remembered walking across that cold battlefield, the smell of smoke in his nose, the bodies of the little children …