Bones of the Dragon (27 page)

Draya clung to the rail and stared down into the gray-green foam-spattered water. The ship edged back and forth, the keel surging forward, striking the rocks, then receding. Draya placed a foot on the gangplank, which was slick with sea spray. She had to find the courage to do this.

“Vindrash, help me!” Draya prayed, and she was about to fling herself forward when she felt strong hands take hold of her.

“The sea is rough, Kai Priestess,” said a voice. “Allow me to assist you.”

Such was Draya’s confusion that she didn’t know which man had spoken. Whoever it was launched himself over the ship’s side. He landed on the rock island, and then, turning around to face her, he extended his hands.

“Take hold of my hand, Priestess,” Skylan told her. “Do not be afraid. I will not let you fall.”

Draya looked down at him, the young man who had chosen to fight the Law of the Challenge in his father’s stead. She had seen Skylan before, but she had not, until this moment, truly seen him.

Sun-gold hair fell to his shoulders. His chest was broad, his back straight, his body strong and muscular. His eyes were sea blue, his skin burnished bronze. Silver bands glinted on his arms. He was the stuff of legend, the hero of girlhood dreams, the embodiment of all the great Vindrasi warriors celebrated in story and song.

“Some god must love him!” Draya breathed.

Skylan looked up at her and smiled. He braced himself and extended his hand.

Draya caught hold of his hand and was walking down the gangplank when her foot slipped and she lurched into him. Skylan caught her, his hands around her rib cage, his fingers brushing her breasts. He lifted her off the gangplank and lowered her gently to the ground.

“Are you all right, Priestess?” he asked solicitously, keeping hold of her until she found her footing.

She could only gasp in answer.

His hands on her were firm and strong, and desire swept over her, its sweet, painful flame melting her heart, burning her blood, consuming her flesh, till there was nothing left of her.

Skylan let go. Inclining his head, he brushed off her confused thanks and left her, running up the gangplank, returning to board the dragonship.

Draya stood on the island alone. No one was allowed on the island until she had prepared for the Vutmana. She was aware of the crowd, tense and hushed, lined up along on the top of the cliff, watching her expectantly.

She was aware of the men in the dragonship, waiting the judgment of Torval.

She was aware of the Dragon Kahg, his red eyes watching.

She was aware of the gods, but only dimly. Whether that was her fault or theirs, she could not say.

She was aware of all of this, yet she was most aware of Skylan’s touch, the sky-blue light in his eyes.

Draya lifted her head and raised her arms, as though she were praying, then turned to the task at hand—preparing for the Vutmana.

“What does she wait for? Why doesn’t she get on with it?” Skylan demanded.

Impatient to start the contest, which he was confident he would win, Skylan was frustrated with all the ritual and ceremony. To him, the Vutmana was simplicity itself: Two champions do battle. Give him a sword and a shield, and let him fight.

Skylan had taken part in three Clanmelds. Three times he had listened to the recitation of the Law of the Challenge, but he had paid scant attention. His mind tended to wander, making plans for a future raid or inwardly chuckling at some jest he’d heard the night before. Thus he had been astonished and appalled to hear the rules of the Vutmana, as related to him by his father.

“You mean I have to stand there and let Horg hit me?” Skylan had asked.

“You can defend yourself,” Norgaard had told him. “You cannot strike back. Not until it is your turn.”

If that is true, then even you could fight! Skylan had thought scornfully. He hadn’t said the words aloud, but Norgaard read his son’s mind.

“Standing alone, waiting, unflinching, for your opponent to aim a deadly blow at you takes courage, requires self-control.” Norgaard eyed Skylan grimly. “Qualities people want in a Chief
and
in a Chief’s son.”

Skylan thought this over. “What you say makes sense, Father,” he had conceded, adding magnanimously, “In that case, I have no objections.”

“I’m sure Torval will be pleased to hear it,” Norgaard had stated dryly.

Skylan had chafed at the fourteen-day delay. He had been ready to fight Horg the day he had challenged him. Though he understood the need for the other Clan Chiefs to be present, he did not see why it should take them a fortnight to assemble. They should drop everything and rush off. And he was highly annoyed at his father, who made him spend the night before the Vutmana in isolation. The other clans had gathered for a feast and a bonfire. Skylan, sitting alone on the beach, could hear the laughter and shouts, and he longed to be among them, listening to the boasts of the other warriors, making his own boasts in turn.

Norgaard had attempted to explain to Skylan how his presence this night would be salt in the wounds of the Heudjun, perhaps end in fighting and
bloodshed, the very outcome they were trying to avoid. Skylan supposed his father had a point, but he had gone to bed in an ill humor.

He had been up before the dawn, rousing everyone and hurrying his father and Garn on board the
Venjekar
. They could have had their sleep after all, for they had been forced to wait for Horg and his shield-bearer, and after that there was another wait for the Kai Priestess.

At last the Kai Priestess had arrived, bringing with her the sacred cloth rolled up and tucked under her arm, as well as a basket containing a wineskin and two drinking mugs made of rams’ horns and decorated in silver. Skylan asked his father what the drinking mugs were for, but Norgaard couldn’t say. The Priestesses always added some touch of their own to the ceremony.

The men had bowed in respect as the Priestess boarded. She had very carefully avoided looking at or speaking to any of them. She made her way forward to take her place near the figurehead, where hung the spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg. She remained there, unmoving, throughout the voyage.

Skylan had found the journey to the island long and tedious. He was not permitted to talk to his opponent, but no one had said anything against making a few cutting remarks, ones Horg would be bound to overhear. Every time Skylan opened his mouth, however, Norgaard frowned fiercely at him. Garn was subdued and had whispered tersely to Skylan that he should take this seriously.

Skylan had been offended. He was taking this seriously. He was the one doing the fighting, after all. Torval was on his side. True, Hevis had been known to play his tricks upon both men and gods, but Skylan was young and strong, courageous and confident. He could overcome anything.

After what seemed an interminable length of time, the dragonship arrived at the island known as Krega’s Bane. Skylan saw the people crowding the cliff, more people gathered in one place than he’d ever seen in his life. He was awed. For the first time, the true import of the Vutmana struck him. Here, on this island, the great Clan Chief Thorgunnd had fought and died. Here Torval had cursed the treacherous Krega. Here countless other men had fought and gone on to glory.

Skylan looked up to see the people—his people—looking down at him, and his heart swelled with pride. He felt himself invincible and he saw himself standing in the center of the sacred cloth, the cheers of the people resounding in his ears. He saw his father, limping into the ring, named Chief of Chiefs.

Chief of Chiefs. Norgaard, the old man, the cripple, Chief of Chiefs.

The
Venjekar
had anchored alongside the island, which was too small to permit the ship to land onshore. Skylan had dashed to the side, prepared to jump off, only to be stopped by Garn.

“The Kai Priestess goes first,” Garn had told him.

Skylan had seethed at yet another delay. Garn and Rulf, Horg’s shield-bearer, lowered the gangplank.

Skylan had waited impatiently for the Priestess to descend, but the woman stood at the rail, staring over the side. She looked faintly green, and Skylan had wondered irritably if she was seasick.

Norgaard had hissed in Skylan’s ear, “Draya is afraid, my son. You should assist her.”

“I thought I wasn’t to set foot on the island until the old woman prayed over it,” Skylan had returned.

Norgaard had glowered at him. “You young fool! Draya holds our fate in her hands. Make haste to help her before Horg thinks of it!”

“Torval holds my fate,” Skylan muttered, but he had understood what his father meant. It would do no harm to be of service to the Kai Priestess.

Skylan had vaulted easily over the side of the ship and extended his hand to assist Draya in walking down the slippery and unsteady gangplank.

He had noted that the woman was of slender build, with pale hair, a pale complexion. A worry line creased her forehead. Her lips were thin and compressed, accustomed to keeping secrets. Her eyes were her best feature, being large and luminous, though they were marred by crow’s-feet.

She must be thirty-five if she is a day, Skylan had reflected. If my mother had lived, she would be about the same age.

Remembering that this woman was old, Skylan had caught Draya as gently as he could, so as not to break any bones. He had taken care to lower her easily and respectfully to the ground. She had stood there for some time, staring at him, as if she were in some sort of trance. She had been about to speak, but he had not lingered to hear her thanks. The sooner he was back on board the ship, the sooner she could set to work, and the sooner he would have his chance to fight.

Now Skylan watched impatiently as the Kai Priestess measured out the Holmhring, a square patch of land roughly fifteen feet by fifteen, on which the Vutmana was fought. Inside this square, the priestess laid down the Vutmana cloth, which was nine feet by nine feet. The cloth was sacred, she said, for it had been blessed by Vindrash.

When this was finally done, the Kai Priestess summoned Garn and Rulf, the shield-bearers, who were now permitted to come ashore. Under her direction, the two men drove stakes into the ground at each corner of the cloth, anchoring it. The shield-bearers then hammered wooden posts into the ground at the corners of the Holmhring and tied ropes around the posts, defining the outer edge of the field of combat.

The shield-bearers, each with three shields, took their assigned places
outside the rope. The shield-bearers were permitted to hand their champions fresh shields as needed, but they were prohibited from taking part in the combat.

At last, Draya indicated that all was in readiness. The snow-white cloth, made of linen, was staked in place. The shield-bearers had taken their positions. Now it was time for Norgaard to come ashore. Proudly refusing help, Norgaard descended the unsteady gangplank. His crutch slipped, his bad leg collapsed, and he fell. His face twisted in pain and anger, he lay floundering in the water at the foot of the gangplank.

Garn and Rulf hastened to assist him, but Norgaard pushed them both away. He managed to stand on his own. Leaning heavily on his crutch, he limped over to take his place alongside Garn. The watching crowd murmured in admiration. Courage of all types was admired.

On board the dragonship, Horg glanced sidelong at Skylan and chuckled. “You really think Torval will make a cripple Chief of Chiefs?”

Skylan flashed Horg a furious look and seemed about to make a scathing retort, when Draya beckoned to both men that it was time to begin. Skylan started to disembark, but Horg roughly shoved him aside.

“The man who is challenged goes first,” Horg stated contemptuously; then he added with a grin, “Or perhaps I should just say the
man
goes first.”

Skylan went pale with fury at the insult. His sword was halfway out of its sheath and he was going for Horg when both Norgaard and the Kai Priestess called sharply for him to stop. Fuming, Skylan sheathed his sword.

“I will slit your fat belly and feed your entrails to the fish!” he said.

“Yeah, you do that,
boy
,” said Horg, and as he passed Skylan, he lashed out with his foot, kicking him in the kneecap.

Skylan gasped in pain at the unexpected blow. Horg had timed it perfectly. No one on the ground had seen him.

“That is cheating!” Skylan grimaced as he tried to put weight on his sore knee.

“So go crying to Mama, boy,” Horg retorted, and he laughed as he launched himself over the side.

He made a show of selecting his place on the cloth. If the battle had been held early in the morning, this might have made some difference, for Horg would have put his back to the sun, forcing Skylan to fight while staring into the glare. But Draya had fussed over her blasted cloth and her stakes and ropes so long that the sun was no longer a factor.

Horg defiantly faced the crowd of onlookers. Let them see he was not afraid, not ashamed.

When Horg indicated he was ready, Draya summoned Skylan. Horg looked
back at the dragonship and sniggered to see the young man trying to conceal the fact that he was finding it hard to walk on his injured knee.

Horg had no fear Skylan would accuse him of cheating. The young man was far too proud to admit he’d been such a witling as to fall for that old trick. Horg watched Skylan limp down the gangplank, hoping to see him fall, like his father the cripple. Skylan disappointed him. The pain must have been excruciating, but he kept careful control of his face, gave no sign that he was in pain.

Skylan looked at Horg with ice-blue eyes, and he looked at no one else as he walked to his place with his very slight but very visible limp. His father asked him if he was all right. Skylan paid him no heed. Skylan looked at Horg. His shield-bearer, Garn, asked him what had happened. Skylan did not respond. He looked at Horg. Skylan did not answer the Kai Priestess, who was bleating about something. Skylan looked at Horg.

Horg, irritated, looked away. I’ll have Skylan’s body strung up, he decided, and let the crows pick out those damnable blue eyes!

All was now in readiness. The wind died. The crowd hushed. The waves stilled. The ocean was flat, dead calm. The red eyes of the dragon watched.