Bones of the Dragon (15 page)

The ogre reached for his axe, opening his mouth to shout the alarm. Skylan had to shut him up, and he flung the adz at his foe as he would have thrown an axe in battle. Unfortunately, the adz was lighter than a battle axe. It struck the ogre a glancing blow on the forehead. The ogre stumbled a little and blinked his eyes as blood poured down his face, but he did not fall.

Skylan broke into a run, racing across the deck, bounding over what tools he could avoid, treading barefoot on others. The ogre was dazed from the blow, and Skylan barreled into him. He slammed his right shoulder into the ogre’s gut, driving the breath from the ogre’s body. The two crashed against the hull.

Though he was gulping for breath, the ogre continued to struggle and, what was worse, to make noise. Skylan plunged his knife into the ogre’s side, not caring where he hit. The ogre grunted in pain, and Skylan stabbed again and again and at last the ogre quit moving and bleating. Skylan sank back on his heels, sucking in air and looking around to see if anyone on the ogre ships had heard the commotion. He waited tensely for flaring lights and voices shouting in alarm.

Nothing happened, and Skylan heaved a sigh. He groaned as he rose to his feet. He limped like his father across the deck, his injured leg throbbing, his feet cut and bruised from treading on the tools. Skylan was elated, however, and he laughed to himself to think how easily he had defeated his enemies. He touched Torval’s silver axe in thanks.

The sacred spiritbone—a fingerbone from Kahg’s front claw—hung on a wooden peg that had been driven into the ship’s curved prow. Unlike the Vektan Torque, the spiritbone was not decorated with gold nor was it adorned with jewels. A pewter band wrapped around the knuckle portion of the fingerbone held it suspended from a plain leather thong.

As a child, Skylan had been bothered by the fact that their spiritbone was not so magnificent as the gold-and-sapphire Vektan Torque. He felt that the
Torgun were being disrespectful of their dragon, and he had vowed to his father than when he was Chief, he would set Kahg’s bone in the finest gold and surround it with jewels.

Norgaard had explained why Skylan would do no such thing. Skylan took hold of the leather thong and gently and reverently removed the spiritbone from the peg. He remembered his father’s words, and now he saw the old man’s wisdom.

“An enemy who seizes our ship and sees a bone hanging from a peg will not look at it twice. An enemy who sees a bone decorated with gold and jewels will do what with it, Skylan?”

“He would steal it,” Skylan had said then, and he said the same softly now.

Ogres did not worship the Dragon Goddess. Their shamans had no way to summon dragons, and even if they did, the dragons would not stoop to serve ogres, or at least so Skylan liked to think. Seeing a bone decorated in gold and jewels, the ogres would have taken it for the wealth alone. As it was, they had probably not even noticed it.

He removed the leather thong and was hanging it over his head when he heard the sound: a booted foot, trying to move quietly, had stepped on an auger lying on the deck. The tool had rolled out from underneath, causing the foot to slip and scrape on the deck.

A third guard. Right behind him.

The ogre let out an immense roar, sounding the alarm. Enormous arms wrapped around Skylan’s body. Clamping both arms to Skylan’s rib cage, the ogre hoisted Skylan off his feet and began to squeeze the life out of him.

Warned by a split second of the coming attack, Skylan had his knife in hand, but with his arms pinned, he couldn’t use it. He flexed his arm muscles, pushing against the ogre’s arms, hoping to break the brute’s grip. Feeling Skylan wriggle, the ogre gave a grunt and tightened his grasp.

Skylan was finding it hard to breathe. His head pressed against the ogre’s massive chest, he could hear him grunting and smell the stink of unwashed flesh.

Skylan flailed about with his feet, trying to find the deck in order to gain purchase. The deck was nowhere near, but the prow was. Skylan lifted his knees and, with a desperate lunge, thrust out his legs. Hitting the prow with his feet, he pushed himself backwards straight into the ogre, whose feet went out from under him. The ogre landed heavily on the deck with Skylan floundering about on top of the immense belly. The stupid brute refused to let loose.

Skylan jammed his foot into the ogre’s crotch. The ogre groaned in pain
and let go of Skylan to grab himself. Skylan scrambled to his feet and cast a quick glance around at the ogre ships.

Lantern light flared. Ogres milled about on the decks, trying to see who had raised the alarm, determine the threat. Several of them caught sight of Skylan and began yelling and pointing at him. A spear thudded into the prow not a hand’s span from his head.

Skylan grasped the spiritbone. Feeling it secure around his neck, he ran to the ship’s hull, swung himself over the side, and dropped into the water. He would have to swim between two ogre ships to reach the shore. Looking up, he saw an ogre holding a trident and peering down. Skylan made a desperate dive. The trident splashed into the water beside him, a narrow miss.

Skylan swam underwater as long as he could hold his breath, until at last he was forced to surface. The ogres had been watching for him. Sighting his head, they raised a shout. Spears plunked into the water all around him. Skylan had to search for the shoreline; he’d grown confused in the darkness. A spear struck him in the leg, but its flight was slowed by the water, and it did little damage. Akaria, his blessing on her, held her lantern high. The beach gleamed white silver in the moonlight, and Skylan sucked in a breath and dived down once more.

He thought he heard more spears strike the water, but he couldn’t be sure, and by now he no longer cared. His strength was flagging. The waves carried him forward, and at last his feet struck the sandy bottom. He lurched up out of the water and staggered toward the shore and heard the ogres yell. Spears thunked around him, and he fell to his knees and began to crawl. He was about finished. He could not make it much farther.

Two men rose up out of the dunes. Bjorn and Erdmun, braving the spears, dashed across the sand. Each grabbed hold of Skylan by his shoulders and, lifting him up, hauled him bodily across the beach and into the shadows of the dunes.

Skylan shook with the cold. Bjorn flung a cloak around him, began rubbing him down.

“Did you get the spiritbone?” Erdmun asked worriedly.

“I would not . . . have come back . . . without it,” Skylan said through chattering teeth.

S
kylan sank into a deep sleep, his hand clasped around the spiritbone, while Bjorn and Erdmun worked unsuccessfully to warm him. They tried to wake him, but he remained unconscious. They tried to pry Skylan’s fingers from the spiritbone, but even in his sleep, he refused to let it go. Eventually, not knowing what else to do, they picked him up and carried him back to the village, where they were met by a contingent of armed men.

Having heard the ogres’ shouts, they thought the battle had started. They cheered when they saw Skylan and heard he had the spiritbone. When he did not rouse at the cheering or at the sound of his father’s voice, they grew concerned. They loaded him onto a wooden plank and carried him to the dwelling of the Bone Priestess.

Garn waited with Aylaen and Treia in the small longhouse. Hearing the shouts, Garn picked up his axe.

“Is it ogres?” Treia asked calmly.

Garn listened carefully. “I don’t think so. But something’s happened. I’ll go see.” He ducked out the door. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder. “Wait here!”

Aylaen looked at her sister. Treia did not appear at all frightened. She remained seated on a stool, her hands folded in her lap. If anything, Treia sounded almost relieved.

“It’s Skylan!” Garn cried exultantly.

Aylaen met him in the doorway.

“He has the spiritbone!” Garn told her. “Norgaard says your sister should make preparations for the ceremony to summon the dragon.”

“Is Skylan all right?” Aylaen asked, noting Garn looked worried.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Something is wrong. He has fallen into a strange sleep, and he won’t wake up. I’m going to him.”

Before Aylaen could say a word, Garn dashed off. She turned to her sister. “Did you hear?”

Treia nodded. “Shut the door.”

Aylaen stared at her. “But they will be coming—”

“I said shut the door.” Treia’s voice grated.

Aylaen did as her sister asked and pulled the heavy door shut.

The only light in the dwelling came from the fire, and that had been allowed
to burn low. Treia’s face was a pale glimmer in the shadows. Aylaen sat down beside her sister. She reached out, clasped Treia’s hand.

“Treia,” Aylaen said softly. “What’s the matter?”

Treia did not look at her. She sat gazing into the darkness.

“The last time I tried to summon the Dragon Kahg, on the raid, the dragon would not come,” said Treia.

“You said he was angry,” Aylaen reminded her. “The warriors had not found any jewels—”

Treia shook her head. “I lied. Vindrash won’t speak to me. How can I summon the dragon if the Dragon Goddess won’t answer my prayers? And then there’s the statue. . . .”

“Treia, it broke—”

“It broke,” said Treia, “when I touched it.”

Aylaen was shocked, but she tried to devise an excuse. “As Garn said, the statue was old—”

Treia made an angry, impatient gesture.

Aylaen loved and admired her sister, but she was also intimidated by her. Treia was so smart, so clever, always thinking deep and serious and complex thoughts. Aylaen wanted life to be simple. She wanted only to love Garn and be loved by him in return. The gods wanted life to be simple, too. Aylaen had always felt close to the gods, perhaps because as a little girl she had liked making up stories about them and telling them to her friends.

An unhappy child—bereft of the father she had adored, mistreated by her stepfather, and generally ignored by her grieving mother—Aylaen found a father in Torval, who would protect her from Sigurd’s thrashings, and a loving mother in Vindrash. The dragon would let Aylaen ride upon her back, between her wings, and carry her off to heaven.

Aylaen could hear voices outside. The men were coming, bringing with them the unconscious Skylan and the sacred spiritbone.

Treia made no move to rise.

Aylaen sighed. She squeezed her sister’s cold hand and said quietly, “Skylan risked his life to recover the spiritbone. You have to try to summon the dragon, Treia.”

“And let them see me fail again?” said Treia bitterly.

“You won’t fail,” said Aylaen. “The gods know we are in trouble. They will come to our aid.”

Treia shifted her bleary-eyed gaze toward her. Aylaen had often tried to imagine what it would be like to see the world through imperfect eyes. Treia had once told her she saw everything a blur, as though someone had wiped a wet rag across the world.

“I was twelve years old when the Kai Priestess took me away,” said Treia, the words pouring from her in an ugly, bitter torrent. “Only twelve. And I was alone in a strange place, living with strange people, none of whom gave a crap about me. Nothing I did was ever good enough for Draya. All she thought and talked about day and night were the gods. Her husband, Horg, is a drunken pig. He was always trying to force himself on me. Once, when I was fourteen years old, he had his filthy hands all over me.

“I worked like a slave, scrubbing and cleaning and cooking. And all the while, I had to listen to stories of the gods. Draya droning on and on until I wanted to scream. And the sick people! I had to help the Priestesses heal them, which meant I did all the horrid work while they prayed. I can still smell the stink of rotting flesh and the puke and the pus oozing from putrid wounds. I wanted them to die. I wanted them all to die—”

“Treia, stop!” Aylaen cried, frightened.

Treia fell silent. Aylaen could hear the men muttering outside. Having found the door closed, they wondered what was amiss.

Garn raised his voice. “Bone Priestess, open the door.” His tone was respectful, but there was an edge to his voice.

“I’ll let them in, shall I, Treia?” Aylaen asked hesitantly.

Treia sat with her hands clenched in her lap. Her face was like granite, her lips tight. Suddenly she rose to her feet. Pushing past Aylaen, Treia walked to the door and flung it open. She stood on the threshold, gazing out at the warriors, at Skylan, unconscious, lying on his cloak on the plank.

“Bring him inside,” Treia ordered.

The warriors lifted Skylan and carried him into the dwelling. They laid him on the bed—a platform made of wood covered with cushions.

“Return to your homes,” Treia told the warriors. “There’s nothing more you can do this night.”

“The Priestess is right,” said Garn. “Go back to your homes. Get what sleep you can before the battle.”

The warriors departed, some to sleep, but most to make ready for the fight.

Treia frowned at Garn, who settled himself in a corner.

“I’m staying,” he said in answer to her look.

Treia shrugged. Kneeling down beside Skylan, she ordered Aylaen to bring a light. Aylaen lit a candle and held it above Skylan. His lips had a bluish cast. Every so often, a tremor shook his body. His hand was still wrapped around the spiritbone. Treia rested her head on his chest.

“His heart is weak. He needs warmth,” she said. “Build up the fire. Cover him with furs and blankets. I will mix a potion to heat his blood.”

Garn cast a troubled glance at Aylaen. She avoided his gaze, pretending to be busy in gathering up blankets. Her sister’s outburst had left a raw, bleeding gash in her soul. Aylaen had always pictured her sister’s life in Vindraholm as one of serene tranquillity. She had imagined Treia being honored, loved, and cherished—for the Bone Priestesses were revered among the Vindrasi. In a few brief and bitter words, Treia had destroyed Aylaen’s illusions, portraying instead a life of loneliness, fear, and deprivation.

Aylaen was consumed with remorse. Her life with her stepfather had not been easy, for Sigurd was a hard man. But Aylaen had been fortunate to have friends, like Garn and Skylan. For Treia, there had been no one.