Bones of the Dragon (59 page)

He surfaced again, hauling Garn out of the water with him. Garn had lost consciousness. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. He was dead weight in Skylan’s arms.

Perhaps he was dead in Skylan’s arms.

I should let him go, save myself, Skylan thought. Anger raged inside him. This was a battle with Akaria, and he’d be damned if he was going to let the goddess win. He began, once more, to swim toward the
Venjekar
, though it seemed farther away now than ever.

Then a wave lifted the two men up and, as if in a fit of pique, hurled them toward the ship. Skylan feared for a horrible moment that he and Garn were going to be smashed against the hull. The wave carried them up and over the rail and cast them like immense fish onto the deck. Skylan slammed painfully into the mast and came to rest in the water that was sloshing over the deck. Garn lay beside him. He was not breathing.

The men seized hold of Garn and carried him below. They laid him on his belly and began the task of pounding his back and pumping his arms to force the water out of his lungs.

Skylan crawled across the deck to the rudder, with some idea of trying to steer the ship inland. But the rudder was gone, broken off. Only a stump of jagged wood left behind jutted out.

Skylan wished in that moment that the gray waves had closed over his head. He reminded himself that he was Chief of Chiefs and he was the one who had ordered the ship to sea. He staggered across the deck awash with water up to his ankles. Grabbing hold of the men, he told them to find rope and tie themselves to the mast, the prow, anything they could find. He sent men who were severely injured—and there were many of those—down to the cabin for Treia to treat.

Finally, Skylan went below himself. Water kept running into his eyes, blinding him. He wiped it away and saw that it was blood.

Lightning flared. The ship rocked wildly. Skylan shut the hatch and made sure it was sealed, then descended the ladder and looked around the cabin. It was hard to see in the darkness.

“Garn?” Skylan called out. His mouth was parched from the salt water; his throat hurt.

“Here,” Garn answered weakly. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

“You’re one of my men,” Skylan said shortly. He could make out Aylaen, crouching near him. “Wulfe?”

“I’m here!” Wulfe’s voice quavered. He was terrified.

“Treia?”

“I am safe and well, lord,” Treia replied, cold and calm as always. Skylan could not help but smile, though his smile was grim. At least some things did not change.

Fifteen men were on the deck, tied to anything that would hold them. He took a count of the men down here and discovered, to his relief, that they had not lost anyone.

Skylan was not feeling grateful to the gods, however. He was bitter and resentful, and he wondered if what Aylaen had said was true. The gods should be united against the foe. Why were they wasting time fighting among themselves? He and his men were nothing more than bones tossed down onto some heavenly game board.

The Five Dragons of Vektia. Five pieces thrown onto a game board. A heavenly game. Five dragons. Moving the pieces about the board. It was like . . . it was like . . .

Skylan frowned. He’d had a flash of understanding. If only he could think . . . but the thought slid away from him—or rather, was washed away.

He went back up on deck and lashed himself to the mast. He crouched on the deck and listened to the creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers. He and his people would be safe on board until the planks began to give way under the constant battering. And then not even the dragon could save them.

Skylan had no idea how long the storm lasted. There was no day, only one horrible night that seemed to go on and on. The ship rocked and tossed and swooped up and plunged down and wallowed and foundered, and after a time Skylan came to wish that the ship would simply sink and put an end to the misery.

He was wet and shivering. His head hurt and the old wound in his leg throbbed. Periodically he risked standing up and fought his way down to the cabin. The stench was horrible. Men were seasick, lying in their own vomit. The cabin stank of waste. They were drinking rainwater that poured down between the cracks from the deck above, catching it in drinking horns that were handed around. Skylan checked on those who were injured. Treia reported dourly that they were alive and that was the best they could hope for. He glanced at Aylaen, who sat beside Garn. They were asleep in each other’s arms.

Skylan looked at them for a long time as the ship lurched beneath him. He finally went back up on the deck, tied himself again to the mast. He slept and woke and slept and woke. Once he found Wulfe curled up at his side like a mongrel dog.

And then one day Skylan woke up abruptly. He lay a moment, confused, wondering what had wakened him.

Silence.

No howling wind. No crashing waves. No booming thunder. He looked into the night sky and saw stars.

The storm was over. The
Venjekar
had survived.

S
kylan scrambled to his feet. His limbs were stiff from disuse, his feet numb and cold. Around him, other men were rousing, peering around in the darkness, whispering their heartfelt thanks to Torval. The sun rose, a pale orb, pinkish red, floating in and out of tendrils of mist that writhed about the surface of the sea and made the dragon’s head ghostly.

Skylan was uncomfortably reminded of his voyage back from Apensia, except then the fog had been dark and thick, and these mists were airy, almost ethereal, and tinged with glowing light.

The people emerged from the hold. They stood on the deck and stared out at the mist-covered sea that was smooth and calm.

“The goddess is still angry,” said Aylaen. “She is just worn out.”

Skylan tried to see the other dragonships, but he could not see past the dragon’s head. The mists parted as the ship sailed into them, closed behind.
He ordered the men to call out, and they hallooed across the water and banged their weapons on their shields.

No one answered. Skylan posted a lookout. Raegar quickly volunteered. He stood at the rail most of the day, staring into the mists, trying to penetrate them. Once he offered to climb up the dragon’s carved figurehead to try to obtain a better view. Skylan refused, saying that he doubted it would bear Raegar’s weight, especially after the pounding it had taken during the storm. Wulfe offered to make the climb, but Raegar said that he didn’t want to risk the boy’s life.

Skylan thought no more of this until he happened, a short time later, to see Raegar peering out into the mists. Raegar turned around, a worried expression on his face, and caught Skylan watching him. He shrugged, shook his head, and walked off. Skylan found this concern odd. If his ship had survived, there was a good chance the others had. It was not surprising they had been separated. They would meet again at the rendezvous. Perhaps Raegar was concerned about some friend, though as far as Skylan knew, Raegar had not made friends among the other clans. Skylan doubted Raegar could have named a single man. Why, then, was he taking the loss so hard?

Skylan asked Treia to speak to the Dragon Kahg, ask him what had happened to the other dragonships. He also needed to know if the dragon knew their location and where they were bound, for the ship was sailing on a course that, according to the position of the sun, was taking them to the east.

Treia tried to talk to the dragon with no success. Kahg would not respond. Skylan asked if the Dragon Kahg was angry with him, and Treia replied in wry tones that she considered it quite likely.

The
Venjekar
had survived, but just barely, and Skylan was not sure how much longer the ship could remain afloat. They were taking on water; they had lost the rudder. The men could drink their fill of rainwater, but the food had either washed overboard or was soaked in brine and inedible. Their bellies were empty and cramping. They managed to assuage the worst of their hunger by catching a few fish. The fish were bony, and they had to eat them raw. Warriors could not survive long on such a diet.

Treia begged the Dragon Kahg to take them inland. Again the dragon refused. He did not alter course, but continued sailing in an easterly direction. Kahg was taking them somewhere, and wherever that was, he was making haste. Seawater churned beneath the bow and flowed around the keel in a long creamy wake.

Skylan was frustrated, but there was nothing he could do. He paced the deck or stood by the prow, staring into the mists. His men, who had been
overjoyed to survive the storm, were now grumbling and muttering. Some remembered that it was Skylan who had ordered the dragon out to sea.

“We are in strange waters. The dragon will head for land by nightfall,” Skylan told them. “He will be forced to.”

Dragons could see in darkness, but not even a dragon’s piercing eyes could detect the sharp rocks lying beneath the water that could rip open a ship’s belly or sandbars on which a ship could founder. Only in waters the dragon knew well would he risk sailing after dark or in thick fog, as he had when he’d brought Skylan home.

The sun sank; the mist glowed orange with the dying flame. Darkness fell, and the moon was ghostly in the mists that lay clammy fingers on the skin and writhed about the deck. The dragon continued to sail east.

Of course, Erdmun would remember the
Durtmundor
, the famous ghost ship whose crew had killed a whale, a sea creature sacred to Akaria, and been cursed by the goddess to forever sail the seas, lamenting their fate.

“Maybe we’re a ghost ship,” Erdmun said to his listeners, crouching on their sea chests. “Maybe we’re all dead and we just don’t know it.”

Skylan walked over to Erdmun, yanked him to his feet, and punched him in the face. Erdmun stumbled backwards, fell over the chest, and landed on his rump.

“Did you feel that?” Skylan demanded, standing over him with clenched fists.

Edmund mumbled something and spit blood.

“Good,” said Skylan. “Then you’re not dead.”

He walked off. He saw, in passing, Garn smile and give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Skylan’s steps slowed. All his life, he had turned to Garn for counsel and advice. Skylan never needed that counsel more than he needed it now. He saw Garn watching him, silently asking for Skylan’s forgiveness.

But Skylan couldn’t forgive. How could Aylaen love Garn? She was supposed to love Skylan. She was
meant
to love Skylan. He was Chief of Chiefs. He was a courageous warrior. He possessed land and cattle and a fine horse and a sword worth a chief’s ransom. Garn was nobody, a pauper, living on Norgaard’s charity. Women—other women—loved Skylan. No woman had ever loved Garn.

No woman except Aylaen.

Let Garn choke on his counsel! Skylan thought. I have no need of it. I am, after all, Chief of Chiefs. He walked to the stern, putting the length of the ship between himself and Garn. Skylan set the watch and then flung himself moodily down on the deck, hoping to get some sleep.

Wulfe came pattering over. “I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?”

Skylan scowled at him. The boy had barely a stitch on. “Where are your clothes?”

“They were wet,” said Wulfe. “And they itched.”

“Go put some clothes on,” Skylan said. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m not cold.” Wulfe sat down beside him. “Did you see? Your draugr’s guiding the ship.”

Skylan snorted. “Go tell your ghost tales to Erdmun,” he muttered, clasping his arms around his chest, trying to make himself comfortable. The draugr had not visited him since the night before the storm. He had hoped he was rid of her.

“But she is,” Wulfe insisted. “See for yourself.”

Skylan sighed, and just to shut the boy up, he raised himself onto one elbow and looked to the front of the ship.

The draugr stood beside the spiritbone, her hand on the dragon’s carved neck, just as Skylan remembered seeing Draya on the day of her death.

The dragon’s eyes shone red in the mists. Draya’s face shimmered white. Skylan shuddered.

“Where is she taking us?”

“I don’t know,” Wulfe said. “I asked the oceanaids where we were, but they won’t tell me. They jeer at me and say we’re cursed.”

“We are not cursed,” Skylan said wrathfully, and he raised his voice for all to hear him—all, including his dead wife. “We are not cursed! Torval brought us safely through the storm. He has us in his care. He will bring us home.”

He glared at Wulfe. “Go put some clothes on!”

Skylan threw himself back down on the deck. He shut his eyes, squeezed them tight, so that they would not fly open and stare at the draugr.

“Skylan,” said a gentle voice. “May I talk to you?”

“What do you want?” Skylan asked harshly. He did not have to open his eyes. The voice was like a sword slicing through his gut.

“I know you can never forgive me, Skylan,” Aylaen said. “I understand, though it makes me sad, for you are my friend, my brother—”

Skylan’s eyes flared open. Aylaen flinched at the raw pain she saw there. She reached out her hand.

“Don’t,” he said, his fury burning.

Aylaen let her hand fall. “I know you can never forgive me,” she repeated, “but I hope you can forgive Garn—”

“Why do you love him?” Skylan demanded.

“Why do
you
love him?” Aylaen countered.

“I’m asking you,” he said sullenly.

Aylaen smiled. “I’ll tell you why
you
love Garn. You love him because he is
wise and good and kind. You love him because his courage is not a banner that he waves in your face. His courage gives him the strength to do grubbing work in the fields day after day. His courage is patient and gentle with Norgaard when he is twisted up in pain. His courage led him to dive into the sea during the storm to try to save a man he didn’t even know. You love him for all those reasons, Skylan. And that is why
I
love him.”

Skylan grabbed hold of her, held her tightly. “But I want you to love me!”

“You have always had everything you wanted in life, Skylan,” Aylaen said, gently and sadly. “But not this time.”