Bones of the Dragon (36 page)

Skylan swung himself down off his horse. He looked with curious puzzlement at the man, who did seem vaguely familiar.

“Don’t you know me? Have I changed so much? Ah, I suppose I have. It is Raegar Gustafson!” The blond man thumped himself on the chest. “I am the son of your mother’s brother. We are cousins, little Skylan!”

Raegar shook his head. “Imagine us meeting like this in the middle of nowhere. Some god must have arranged it!”

S
kylan gaped at his cousin in astonishment.

“Raegar! We mourned you for dead!”

Skylan had been only five, but he still remembered that sad time, for it had been his first true awareness of death. As a small boy, Skylan had worshipped his cousin Raegar. A bold warrior—big, jovial, handsome, liked by everyone—Raegar had been lost in a raid. The last anyone saw of him, he had gone down while battling three warriors. They searched for his body the next day, but the men had not been able to find him, and they assumed the corpse had been devoured by wolves. Raegar had been around twenty then, Skylan reckoned, which would make him about thirty-three now.

Skylan had grieved his favorite cousin’s loss to such an extent that Norgaard had smacked him, saying sternly that Skylan dishonored his cousin’s memory by sniveling over him.

“What happened to you?” Skylan asked. “Obviously you did not die.”

Raegar grimaced and shook his head. “I should have died, Cousin. There were times—many times—I wished I had died. I was badly wounded, and when I could not fight, I pleaded with the sons of whores to kill me, to send me to Torval with honor. They said I was too valuable to waste—a big strong man like myself. They took me captive, nursed me back to health, and carried me to Oran in shackles.”

Raegar jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “See those poor bastards? Like them, I was a slave. I was sold in the slave market, and I might well have been sent to the iron mines, which means I would have been dead in a year, but a god was watching over me. A man of wealth and influence purchased me, and he put me to work in his house hold. His secretary taught me to read and write the language of the Southland. He had to teach me in secret, for it is forbidden that slaves should be educated.

“My master found out, and I feared I would be whipped or perhaps even killed. Instead, he furthered my education. Eventually I became head of his house hold. I earned enough to buy my freedom, and now I am a merchant trader. These men”—Raegar gestured to those who were supervising the work of the slaves on the boat—“are my partners.”

Skylan regarded his cousin in bafflement. “I don’t understand, Cousin. If you were a free man, why didn’t you return to us, to your homeland? First avenging yourself on those who had enslaved you, of course.”

Raegar scratched his bearded chin. “I considered coming back to Luda. But a man finds his happiness where he can, Cousin. I had a good life. I owned my own house. I had a wife, children. All gone now, sadly.” Raegar looked downcast. “They perished in a fire.”

“Freilis give them peace,” said Skylan, naming the Goddess of the Dead, who took care of women and children.

Raegar nodded; then he shrugged and smiled again. “I like Oran, Cousin. I like the people, I like the climate.” He grinned expansively. “Always plenty to eat and no more freezing off your balls in the winter. And the women are beautiful. As you can see.”

Skylan had been looking at the women. They were much different from Vindrasi women, who were mostly blond and blue-eyed. One of the prettiest smiled at him. Skylan smiled back.

“I had a longing to see my homeland,” Raegar was saying, “and when my partners proposed this voyage, I decided to go with them. We have been visiting the clans in the south. It was there that I heard the remarkable news that my cousin, little Skylan, was now Chief of Chiefs! I was on my way to wish you joy when this motherless boat struck a rock and started taking on water.”

Skylan did not understand how a man could turn his back upon his kin and make a new life in a strange land, especially a land whose people had made him a slave.

“Torval must have wrecked our boat on purpose, for here you are. The god has dropped you into my arms, so to speak.”

Skylan shifted uncomfortably at the naming of the god, though, on second thought, it was a good sign that Torval had relented toward him enough to give him back his favorite cousin, return him from the dead.

Raegar stood regarding Skylan with undisguised admiration. “Chief of Chiefs. I am not surprised. The day you were born, an eagle fought an adder outside your house. The eagle won, slaying the snake. An omen of greatness, for all know the eagle is favored of Torval.”

“I never knew that,” Skylan said.

“Norgaard never told you? Ah, well, that is like him. He probably feared it would give you a swelled head. How is your father? I hear he was badly wounded and he finds it difficult to get around, yet he is still Chief of the Clan.”

Skylan was about to answer when Raegar suddenly struck himself on the forehead. “Where are my manners? You have ridden far. You must be thirsty and hungry. Come, I will introduce you to my partners, and you will share our evening meal. The wine of Oran is excellent. And”—Raegar smiled—“I have a gift for you. I will show you after dinner. When I knew I was sailing north, I had this present made especially for my favorite cousin. I had no idea then that I would find little Skylan Chief of Chiefs and married to the Kai Priestess!”

Skylan frowned, not liking the reminder.

“Speaking of which,” Raegar added teasingly, “what are you doing riding around the countryside when you should be enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed?”

Skylan’s frown deepened to a scowl.

“Have I said something wrong, Cousin?” Raegar asked in some confusion.

“It is nothing,” said Skylan. “I will explain later.” He glanced again at the pretty girl who had smiled at him. She was still keeping her eyes on him. “First I would like to bathe and make myself presentable.”

Raegar grinned. “Go ahead. I will take care of this fine beast for you.”

Skylan walked back down the beach to a sheltered cove. Stripping off his clothes, he plunged into the water and swam for a long time. He emerged from the water and let the sun warm and dry his wet skin. He combed his hair and was shaving off the stubble on his chin when he was aware that he was not alone. The pretty girl had come up on him silently. She was regarding him with unabashed admiration. Pointing at his clothes
that he’d left in a heap on the sand, she made a motion as of washing and then wringing.

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Skylan said, wondering if she understood him.

The girl gathered his clothes in her arms and, with a smile, carried them away.

Skylan had brought a change of clothes with him. He dressed himself and felt better, much better. He made certain that Blade had been cared for, and found the animal contentedly munching on grain.

Raegar led Skylan to the group of men gathered around the damaged boat.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce my cousin Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” Raegar said. He explained the relationship and then glanced at Skylan. “Did you understand what I said?”

“It was all so fast,” said Skylan.

“The language is similar to ours, except that the words flow more rapidly, like a babbling brook. It is hard at first to tell where one word ends and another begins. You will get the hang of it eventually.”

The men greeted Skylan with respect, which pleased him.

“Who are the women?” Skylan asked. “Are they your wives?”

Raegar laughed. “They are slaves. They do the cooking and washing and keep us warm at night. I see one has caught your fancy.”

Skylan was watching the pretty girl, who had gone off to do his laundry. She had scrubbed his shirt in seawater and was now spreading it out on a boulder to dry. It had been two years since he’d lain with a woman. He had pledged himself to Aylaen, but then had come Draya. He could still feel her horrid hands groping him. He thought of that, and he watched the pretty girl.

The men sat down to a meal of fish stew, bread, and cheese, washed down by a truly remarkable wine. At a word from Raegar, who was clearly their leader, the Southlanders left him and his cousin to themselves. The two sat together on the beach before a fire of driftwood, watching the flames change color and drinking wine from cups made of polished wood.

“This wood comes from the olive tree,” Raegar said. “Here, try some of the fruit.” He held out a bowl filled with green and black olives.

“You’re supposed to spit out the seed,” he advised Skylan, who had swallowed the pit and nearly choked.

Skylan found the olives delicious. The wine warmed his blood, made his cares and worries seem small and insignificant, meant to be spit out, like the pits of the olives. Raegar told stories of his life in Oran. As Skylan listened, fascinated, his boyish admiration and affection for his cousin came back to
him. He enjoyed Raegar’s outlandish tales, though he privately suspected his cousin had made most of them up.

He told about huge ships with three banks of oars that could each carry two hundred warriors and a single city whose population was larger than that of the entire Vindrasi nation. He spoke of a thousand or more warriors who did not fight in shield-walls, but marched about the field of battle, wheeling and turning in complex formations.

“Come, Cousin, what do you take me for—a yokel?” Skylan said, laughing. “Warriors who do not fight in a shield-wall? A child would believe such a thing!”

“It is the truth, I swear by Torval,” Raegar stated. “Ah, but that reminds me! Your gift!”

He summoned the pretty girl and sent her running to one of the boats. She rummaged around in it for a short time, then returned bearing a large bundle wrapped in coarse cloth. She handed the bundle to Raegar, who dismissed her, sent her scurrying away.

“I wish you joy of your bride, Cousin,” said Raegar, and he presented his gift.

Skylan unwrapped the layers of cloth to find a sword in a leather sheath. He grasped the hilt, drew out the blade, and gave an audible gasp.

The sword was pattern-welded, which meant that the blade was made of different types of iron twisted together while the metal was hot, forming intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer and change color in the firelight. The blade’s edge gleamed; it was made of hard steel. The center groove, made of softer steel, was decorated with whorls and swirls, all twining together in an intricate dance.

“And that is what I will name it,” said Skylan softly, turning the blade to catch the light. “Blood Dancer.”

“Hard yet flexible,” said Raegar. “Do you like it?”

Skylan could only nod. The clans in the north forged pattern-welded swords, but nothing of this quality. And their swords were dear.

He regarded Raegar in wonder. “This must have cost you a fortune, Cousin.”

“The smith is a friend of mine. He owed me a favor,” Raegar said lightly, passing it off. “There is no finer sword in all Oran. Except my own,” he added with a laugh.

Skylan had never held such a weapon. The wine made him a little unsteady on his feet, but he had to test the blade. The weight, the balance, was perfect.

“I thank you, Cousin,” Skylan said.

He removed his old sword from its sheath and replaced it with the new. He would honor the old sword, which had been his father’s, keep it with him always. But Blood Dancer would never leave his side.

Raegar lifted the leather skin containing the wine.

“Let us drink to your wedding,” he said, starting to pour.

Skylan placed his hand over the cup. Wine sloshed onto his fingers before Raegar could stop.

“I would rather drink to something else,” Skylan said.

Raegar hesitated, uncertain how to react. “Well, then, we will drink to the memory of your mother, my aunt.”

Skylan conceded that they could drink to this, and he allowed Raegar to pour a generous portion into the olive-wood cup. They drank to Skylan’s mother and spoke of her spirit being safe with Freilis.

“I fear you are unhappy, Cousin,” said Raegar quietly. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Skylan was silent, did not answer.

“Do you mind if I talk about it, then?” Raegar said. “I have heard rumors—”

Skylan cast him a sharp glance. “What? What have you heard?”

“Your wife is the Kai Priestess,” Raegar said. “Her name is Draya.”

Skylan gave a brooding nod.

Raegar looked grave. He sighed deeply and leaned forward to poke at the fire with a stick, sending a shower of sparks into the night.

Skylan eyed his cousin intently. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“I know Draya, Cousin,” Raegar said. “I knew Horg, as well. Horg was a brave man before he married her. He was a bold warrior. No man better.”

Skylan snorted in disgust. “Horg was a coward. You heard what he did? He bartered away the sacred Vektan Torque to the ogres to save his own skin! He admitted to it before the people. I myself killed the ogre godlord who wore the torque around his neck.”

“I heard all that,” Raegar said. He cast Skylan a troubled glance. “You must be careful of her, Cousin. The Horg I knew would never have done such a thing. When he married her, he changed. But I am not surprised. As I said, I knew Draya. I almost married her.” Raegar seemed vexed with himself. “What am I doing? It is the wine making me talk like this. Forgive me, Cousin. Draya is your wife. I should say nothing against her.”

“Except that I should be careful!” Skylan exclaimed. “You have already said too much, Cousin. You cannot put the spilled ale back in the pitcher. Why didn’t you marry her?”

Raegar shook his head. “I wish you wouldn’t ask me.”

“And I wish you would speak plainly,” said Skylan.

Raegar was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was in a low tone. “I caught Draya trying to bewitch me.”

Skylan regarded him skeptically. “Bewitch you? How can that be? She is Kai Priestess! Dedicated to Vindrash.”

“So she claims. I see I must tell you the whole story. This happened back before she was made Kai Priestess. Our families had arranged our marriage when we were little. The Heudjun and the Torgun were at war, and they thought it would establish peace between the clans. But when we came of age, her parents were dead and so were mine. The clans were no longer at war. We could choose for ourselves whether or not we wanted to wed. She was eager, but I was beginning to have doubts. I had heard strange whispers about her. How she consorted with that crone known as Owl Mother—”