Bones of the Dragon (40 page)

She gave him a bleak look and then lowered her eyes.

Skylan could think of nothing more to say, and he made ready to vault over the ship’s side when he was stopped by the touch of Draya’s hand on his. Her fingers were cold as those of a day-old corpse.

The unexpected chill made him flinch, and he turned to her and asked irritably, “Well, what is it?”

“I wronged you, Skylan,” Draya said. “I see that now. I am sorry for that. Deeply sorry. I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

She released his hand and moved to the prow, to the curved neck of the carven dragon’s head. She took down the spiritbone from the nail on which it hung. Skylan thought at first she meant to summon the Dragon Kahg, and that would not fit into his plans. He was about to tell her angrily to put it back.

Draya lifted the spiritbone to her lips and kissed it, then hung the bone back in its place. She remained standing there, leaning her cheek against the dragon’s neck, her hand resting on the spiritbone.

Her words made him uneasy. He looked at the shore and was assailed by doubts. What if she is right? What if our doom awaits us on that isle? Maybe I should leave. . . .

Stop it! Skylan told himself, realizing what he’d been thinking. Raegar is right. Draya is stealing my manhood! I will soon be a cider-swilling coward like Horg if I don’t get rid of her.

Skylan jumped over the side and landed with a splash in water that came to his knees. He and the other warriors seized hold of the
Venjekar
’s hull and with triumphant yells, hauled the dragonship up onto the sandy beach.

The Vindrasi were at last doing what they had been born to do. With a bold chief to lead them, the Vindrasi were going to war.

S
kylan and eighteen eager young Heudjun warriors came across a dirt trail that led from the shore through waist-high grass to a long wooden bridge. Built across a large stretch of freshwater marshland filled with murky brown water, the bridge was made of planks held together with wooden pegs. Cattails, taller than a man, rustled in the breeze. The marsh was thick with plant life, and Skylan could guess that the bottom was sticky, oozing mud.

Skylan approved the defenses, even as he saw his danger. If the druids sighted a foe approaching from the sea, they would set fire to the bridge, forcing their enemies to wade through this miasma of plants and water. Dressed in chain mail and lugging axes, swords, shields, and spears, an enemy would soon find himself in trouble—quite literally bogged down. Skylan could imagine the druids lighting their torches at this moment.

He ordered his men to run.

As they pounded over the wooden bridge, he kept waiting to see tongues of orange flame and the first tendrils of smoke. He saw only the plants, waving in the wind, and small black birds with red patches on their wings clinging to the reeds, guarding their nests with throaty warbles.

The warriors reached the end of the bridge in safety and found themselves in a thick forest. At first glance, Skylan couldn’t see any signs of life, and he wondered if he’d followed a bridge to nowhere. Staring into the shadows, he saw that the dwellings had been built in such a manner that they were part of the forest. Made of logs, the dwellings huddled beneath the large trunks of ancient oak trees. The dwellings were small with shuttered windows and thatched roofs. Narrow dirt lanes wound mazelike among the tree trunks. Rays of sun slanted through the canopy of the leaves whose dappled shadows cooled the air.

Off in the distance, Skylan could see hills of lush green grass dotted with
grazing sheep and cattle. Fields of tall grain lay golden in the sunlight. He contrasted this land of plenty with his own land of parched grass, starving cattle, withered crops—and his resolve hardened. He was glad he’d come.

“Where is everyone? Aren’t they going to challenge us?” asked Tubbi. He was a young man of sixteen, on his first raid. Short and barrel-chested, Tubbi had become one of Skylan’s favorites.

His question was a good one. Smoke from cook fires rose from the dwellings and drifted among the branches. Chickens and ducks roamed about, pecking at scattered grain. Dogs came out to sniff in friendly fashion at the strangers. But there were no people.

Skylan was baffled. He had not really believed Raegar’s tales of a peace-loving people. He had expected armed men prepared to die to defend their homes. Instead, a mongrel dog thrust its nose into Skylan’s crotch. He stood alongside his warriors, every man armed to the teeth, and no one to fight.

“I am Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” he called out loudly. “If the men of Apensia are such cowards that they will not fight us, we will take what we want!”

He waited for a response, and when none came, he was about to order his men to ransack the houses, but then one of his warriors nudged him. A tall spare man in the gray robes of a druid walked with unhurried pace beneath the shadows of the trees. The man had a long beard, black streaked with white. His beard was plaited, as was his white hair. His skin was brown and heavily wrinkled and creased. His gray robes were plain and unadorned. His hazel eyes were mild. He did not appear afraid, or even particularly concerned, at the sight of Skylan’s eighteen armed warriors.

“Greetings, Skylan Ivorson,” said the man. “You are welcome to Apensia. It has been many years since our Vindrasi neighbors have honored us with a visit.”

Skylan was startled. How did the man know his name? The only answer was that Raegar must have mentioned it, and why in the name of Hevis would Raegar do such a thing? He could feel the eyes of his warriors boring into his back. They were growing jittery. Draya’s tales of druidic magicks came back to them. They would not have feared an army. This strange old man, who seemed to have stepped out of a twilight tale, unnerved them.

Skylan had to give them back their courage.

“We are not your neighbors,” he said, his voice grating. “We are your enemies. Our children starve, while even your dogs are fat! We do not want to make war on you. Fill our ship with gold and silver and jewels, and we will leave you in peace.”

The warriors behind him felt better. They growled their agreement and
struck their blades on their shields or thumped the butts of their spears on the ground.

“I am sorry to hear the Vindrasi people are suffering,” said the druid gently. “It is true that the land has been good to us. We will be glad to share our bounty with you. We can fill your ship with grain and cattle, though not, I fear, with precious metals or gems. Of these we have none.”

The warriors jeered. Skylan laughed and said, “You are an old man, sir, and old men are prone to confusion. You have gold and silver and jewels. You have just forgotten that you have them. You will forgive me if I look for myself. You men”—he gestured—“go search those houses.”

The druid said nothing. He made no move to stop them. He stood calmly watching, his hands folded in his long sleeves.

Tubbi led the warriors to several houses. They kicked in the doors and, weapons drawn, barged inside. Skylan heard sounds of breaking furniture. The men tore up beds. They tossed blankets and linens out the doors and flung clay pots and dishes out the windows. They emerged, shaking their heads.

“No silver or gold, lord,” called Tubbi in disgust. “Nothing. Not so much as an iron stewpot!”

“You will find no metal of any kind on Apensia, lord. Precious or otherwise,” said the druid. “We have no use for it.”

Skylan had never heard anything so ridiculous. Raegar had said there was wealth in abundance. The druid was lying.

“They must have buried their gold and silver somewhere, lord,” said Tubbi, coming up to him. “Or maybe it’s hidden in a storehouse.”

Skylan seemed to remember Raegar mentioning a storehouse. He was determined to find it.

“I think you lie,” Skylan said harshly. “Tubbi, you and the men, set fire to the houses.”

“No, wait!” cried the druid, his mild and gentle demeanor shaken. “We can discuss this, lord. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.”

“Perhaps we can,” said Skylan, grinning. He winked at his men. “We are hungry. Give us food and drink. The best you have to offer.”

“Of course, lord. You will be our honored guests,” the druid said humbly.

“Tell them we want to see their women,” said Tubbi in a low voice.

Skylan laughed. “And bring your young women out of hiding to serve us,” he added. “We want to feast our eyes as well as our bellies.”

The young men laughed, well pleased. They liked Skylan, who was proving himself a worthy Chief, and they crowded around him, vying for places of honor at his side.

Skylan was pleased with himself. There were riches to be had here. He did not expect any resistance. These druids were, as Raegar had assured him, a cowardly lot.

Speaking of Raegar, Skylan wondered if his cousin had abducted Draya yet and, if so, how long it would take him to smuggle her off the island. Skylan would wait for evening before he went back to the ship, he decided. When he discovered Draya missing, he would have to institute a search, and he did not want to take the chance of accidentally finding her.

Skylan made no complaint, therefore, when the druid said apologetically that the grove where the feast would be held was some distance away. The walk would be a long one.

The druid led Skylan and his men deep into the forest. The journey through the dark and gloom-ridden forest was not only long, it was also hot and tiresome. The air was damp, hard to breathe, the ground muddy and squishy underfoot. Tree branches creaked; leaves whispered. The path was narrow, forcing the warriors to walk single-file. Insects bit them, raising itchy bumps on their flesh. Their laughter and talk ceased. They could see things moving in the shadows. They were a long way from their dragonship.

Skylan was starting to grow uneasy, and he was about to tell the druid sharply that he should hand over the silver and gold now or find a hole in his belly.

The druid, seeming to read his thoughts, smiled at him. “The walk has been long, as I said, but it has ended now. The festive grove.” He made a sweeping gesture.

The grove was the strangest Skylan had ever seen. At first he thought it was formed of a great many trees. Then he realized to his astonishment that it was only a single tree with an enormous trunk and long, branching limbs. The limbs were so long, extended so far out from the main trunk, that they needed smaller trunks to support them. The leaves were broad and green. It seemed to Skylan that he had entered a vast hall with living support beams holding a green, leafy roof. He stood and gawked at the astounding tree, and the young men with him did the same.

“The tree is called a strangler fig,” said the druid. “The fruit is quite delicious.”

“What magic is at work here?” Skylan demanded, frowning. “Such a tree is not natural.”

He touched the amulet of Torval to keep himself safe.

The druid chuckled. “The tree is as natural as the oak or the walnut, though the strangler fig is not, I admit, native to this part of the world. Strangler figs grow only in those lands where summer is endless. Many hundreds of years ago, however, some of our brethren happened to be visiting those lands. They took a fancy to the strangler figs and brought back a sapling.”

The druid sighed, then smiled. “We have to work very hard to maintain the warm climate to which the tree is accustomed, particularly in the winter. But we find it is worth it.”

Skylan had noticed that the air in the grove was even hotter and more humid than back in the forest. Sweat rolled down his face and neck. His linen shirt stuck to his skin, and he regretted wearing the sky-blue woolen cape. He scoffed at the notion that the druids ruled the weather. All knew the gods commanded the wind and the sun, sent the rain or withheld it, shook the snow out of the clouds, and kept the temperature of a cave the same year-round.

The druid gestured to the inner portion of the grove, where people—the first Skylan had seen since landing, other than the druid—were setting up plank tables. “If you and your men will seat yourselves, lord . . .”

“I will not go anywhere near that fae tree,” Skylan said, and behind him his young warriors were loud in agreement.

The druid raised his eyebrows. A smile played about his lips, but he swiftly hid it by stroking his long mustache. Bowing in acquiescence, he left to instruct the men to move the tables.

The warriors seated themselves. Young women came out from the shadows, bearing platters of roasted meat, bowls of stew, bread, large wheels of cheese, and pitchers of foaming ale. The bowls and plates and cups were carved out of wood, the knives made of deer horn. Skylan drank and ate and eyed the young women, especially one who had red hair and green eyes and reminded him of Aylaen.

The people of Apensia dressed quite plainly. Their clothes were simple, drab in color, yet well made. The people appeared healthy and content and not at all afraid of the fearsome warriors who had come to kill them and steal their wealth. Skylan began to wonder if this was a settlement of simpletons.

He looked hard at the women who waited on him. None of them wore jewelry. No silver bracelets or golden brooches, no jeweled hair combs. Some did wear rings, but they were carved of wood. These people had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to conceal their wealth, which meant it must be vast indeed!

“More ale!” Skylan demanded, motioning to the red-haired girl and holding out his wooden mug.

The ale was the best he’d ever tasted: dark and earthy. He did not drink to excess, thinking that since they were in a “hostile” land, he should remain sober. His young warriors felt no such compunction, however, and were refilling their mugs at regular intervals.

Their faces flushed red, they pounded their fists on the table and boasted and laughed. Skylan joined in the merriment, telling tales of his past triumphs. The young men gazed at him, their eyes warm with admiration and strong drink. Raising their mugs to him, they bawled out their undying devotion.

Tubbi called for yet more ale. As one of the young women started to pour, he jostled her arm, causing her to slosh the ale over his hand. Tubbi cursed in mock anger and, in “punishment,” seized the woman around the waist, dragged her onto his lap, and began to nuzzle her neck. His hand pawed at her breasts.