Bones of the Dragon (65 page)

The Torgun warriors were at first astonished and startled by this unexpected help, but then someone called out that the Sea Goddess had sent the birds to fight for them, and the warriors redoubled their efforts, attacking the giants with renewed vigor. His fear forgotten, Wulfe enjoyed the spectacle, and he began to run around and flap his arms and shriek, playing at being one of the birds.

The Flesh-Spinners were not cowards, but they were bullies. The fight had been fun when they were smashing Ugly Ones into globs of jelly. But now all the giants were wounded, one of their number so seriously that he had
very nearly fallen to the ground, which would have been disastrous, for then the evil Ugly Ones would have swarmed him and cut him with their horrid iron. The hordes of squawking, pecking gulls were an added nuisance. The Flesh-Spinners gave up the fight, and wrapping their arms around their injured comrade, they helped him hobble from the field, snapping their fingers angrily at the gulls, who continued to plague them.

Wulfe quit singing and dashing about. Panting for breath, he was pleased with himself and was just thinking he would go find Skylan and tell him what he’d done when someone grabbed hold of him painfully by the hair.

Wulfe thought it was a giant, and he yelped and twisted in a panic. Then he saw that it was Raegar who had hold of him. Raegar and Treia were staring at Wulfe as though he was a snake they’d found coiled up in their path.

“You summoned those birds! You are
fae
!” Treia hissed the word between her teeth and her lips.

Raegar’s grip tangled in Wulfe’s hair, hurting him.

“He is an imp. He is demon spawn,” said Raegar, glowering. “A child of evil.”

“Then so are you!” Wulfe cried, glowering at Raegar from beneath shaggy bangs. “You use magic! The other night at your house, I saw the strange lights. And you didn’t drown. What you said back in the Hall was a lie—”

Raegar gave Wulfe’s hair a brutal yank. Raegar clapped one hand over Wulfe’s mouth. Grabbing Wulfe around the waist, he hoisted the boy off his feet.

“He was in the Hall. He’s been spying on us,” Raegar said to Treia. “Probably on Skylan’s orders.”

Treia was watching the retreating giants. Now she looked back around.

“He saw us in the Hall?”

“He overheard us, at least,” said Raegar. “You can’t let him go back to camp. He’ll warn Skylan, and my cousin will have time to think up even more lies.”

“What do we do with the wretched little beast?” Treia asked, her lip curling.

“I will take him back with me,” said Raegar.

“But we were going back to camp together,” Treia protested.

“We don’t dare let him loose. I’ll take him back and then—” Raegar bent close to Treia and whispered in her ear.

Treia listened intently, then asked, “And where will you be?”

“Waiting for you, my love,” Raegar said, and, keeping hold of the squirming Wulfe, he kissed Treia. “Waiting to make you my wife. Chief of Chiefs and Kai Priestess.”

She slid her arms around him, returned his kiss hungrily. She yearned near
him, wanting more. Raegar gently put her from him. “You had better go. Now that the battle has ended, they will come searching for you. Skylan mustn’t see me. He must have no hint of the doom that is about to befall him.”

Treia gazed at him adoringly, obviously unwilling to leave him. “I will see you soon. . . .”

“You will,” he promised.

Treia gave him one last swift kiss, then turned and, keeping her head lowered, watching where she walked, she headed toward the beach. Raegar stood in the shadows of the scrub trees, holding on to Wulfe and watching Treia.

Wulfe took advantage of the man’s preoccupation to bite him.

“You little bastard!” Raegar swore, and he flung Wulfe onto the ground.

Wulfe was on all fours in an instant, starting to scamper away. Raegar lashed out with his foot, kicked the boy in the midriff, and Wulfe curled up, clutching his stomach and moaning with pain.

“Demon spawn,” Raegar said grimly.

He lashed out with his foot again. Wulfe saw the blow coming, and he flung up his arms to protect his head, but it didn’t help. Light burst behind his eyes, and then all was darkness.

T
he Torgun went about the sad task of honoring their dead. Four men had fallen to the giants, including Garn and Alfric the One-Eyed. A pulverizing blow had caught Alfric on his blind side. He’d never seen it coming. The gruesome remains of the two others lay at the bottom of a large depression that had been punched in the sand by the smashing stones. The sight of the mangled mess that had once been men was so horrible that Sigurd, a hardened warrior of many bloody battles, fell to his knees, puking.

They decided to leave what was left of the two where they were. The tide was rising, and the seawater would soon fill the holes with sand, mercifully covering the ghastly remains.

The warriors made Alfric ready for his journey to Torval. They covered his smashed skull and shattered body with his shield and placed his axe in his hand so that Torval would know he had died valiantly in battle.

The men would have done the same for Garn, but Skylan ordered them
away. Aylaen would tend to Garn, as she would have done if she had been his wife. He could give her that poor comfort at least.

“The dead are at rest,” Skylan said to the others. “We are alive, and we must take thought for ourselves.”

Skylan sent men to cut pine trees for funeral pyres. He ordered men out hunting. He himself led a group to the dragonship. The ship had to be manned and ready to sail when the incoming tide floated it off the sandbar.

The wounded dragon had returned to his realm, either to heal or to die. The warriors would have to sail the ship themselves. Skylan and his men hoisted the sail and fit the oars into the oarlocks, ready to row it into shore when the water lifted the keel and set it free. Since dragons were mortal and could be slain in battle, the Vindrasi carried oars and sails aboard their ships, so that a ship bereft of its dragon would not be stranded on the sea. His plan was to sail the ship to the beach, where they could repair the damage.

Skylan left Aylaen in Treia’s care. The Bone Priestess had walked into camp shortly after the battle. When he asked her where she had been, she said that she had been praying in the Hall of Vektia and lost track of time. He asked her if she had seen Wulfe. Treia said caustically that since Skylan had brought the brat, he should keep better charge of him.

If Skylan had paid more attention to Treia, he would have noticed a smoldering triumph in her weak eyes. But Skylan paid no attention to Treia or to anyone. He was like the warrior who stands alone against his foes, braced for the assault he knows is coming, waiting to be overrun by his anguish, his grief, and his terrible guilt.

Aylaen had been right when she accused Skylan of killing Garn. Skylan had not wielded the weapon, but he was responsible for his friend’s death. Torval had made Skylan’s lie the truth, and Garn had died.

The warriors were shocked at Aylaen’s accusations and tried to convince her she was wrong. Bjorn described how the giant had swung the huge round stone and struck Garn a glancing blow, breaking his back. Erdmun told her how Skylan had saved her life at risk of his own, standing in the path of the swinging stone to slice the rope with his sword.

“If anyone was responsible for Garn’s death, it was you, Aylaen,” Sigurd told his stepdaughter. “If you had remained home as was seemly—”

“—then we would all be dead.” Skylan said. “Aylaen summoned the Dragon Kahg. His intervention bought us time to ready our attack. No man will say a word against her.”

Aylaen had not thanked him for his defense. She had not spoken a word to him or to anyone. Her face pale and set, she went about the task of preparing Garn’s body for the funeral. She closed the staring eyes, washed the blood from his body. She shaved his face and combed and plaited his hair. She
scrubbed his clothes, for he must not go before Torval looking like a beggar. When she was finished, the men built a pyre for Alfric and Garn and laid their bodies on top. Aylaen placed Garn’s axe in his hand. When all was done, Aylaen remained beside the pyre.

Treia came to stand beside her. “I understand you summoned the dragon.”

Aylaen nodded. She did not take her eyes off Garn. “You were not here. . . .”

Treia’s lips pursed. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her fingers drummed in annoyance.

“I am here now,” she said. “You may return the spiritbone to me.”

Aylaen shook her head. “I don’t have it.”

“Then where is it?” Treia asked, alarmed. “I left it with you! Is it lost? What happened to it?”

“I summoned the Dragon Kahg. He was wounded in the battle and went back to the Realm of Fire. He vanished, and his body collapsed into a pile of sand. I saw the spiritbone. . . .” Aylaen spoke in a dull, uncaring monotone. “I saw it shining white in the mound of sand . . . I went to recover it. . . .”

She fell silent. Her hand stroked Garn’s cheek. He lay on the pyre in quiet repose, his lips curved in that last sad smile.

“Where did the spiritbone fall?” Treia demanded. “Where did you last see it?”

Aylaen made no reply. Treia started to ask Aylaen again, then realizing she would not receive an answer, she shook her head in frustration. Treia ordered those on shore to help her search. The men formed a line and waded out into the water, each man walking arm’s distance from his neighbor. They moved slowly, carefully searching the sandy bottom at their feet.

Treia kilted up her skirts and waded into the water herself, peering and poking and feeling about the sand, cursing her weak eyesight.

“The bone is white,” Treia told the men repeatedly, though they knew well what it looked like. “Aylaen said she could see it from the shore! It should not be difficult to find. Look around the mound of sand.”

But the tide had been steadily rising and the wind increasing, blowing from offshore, stirring up rolling waves. The seawater took immense bites out of the large mound of sand that had been Kahg’s physical form. Sand swirled about the feet of the searchers. Whenever a man reached down to grab something, a wave surged around him, washing away whatever it was he thought he had found.

Eventually Treia waded back to shore and shook Aylaen from her grief. Then she marched her to the water’s edge. “Where did you last see it?”

Aylaen stared into the water and then slowly shook her head. “It is not there.” She shrugged and added bitterly, “Maybe it never was.”

She went back to Garn. She lay down on the pyre, rested her head on his chest, and clasped her arms around him. Her eyes burned. She shed no tears.

The searchers came back in defeat. Shivering in her wet clothes, Treia stared out to sea. Her face was pinched, her mouth compressed. She could feel the men staring at her, and she knew what they were thinking. The dragon and the Bone Priestess who summoned the dragon formed a bond that was not easily broken.

A wounded dragon would often retreat back to his own world in order to heal his injuries in the quiet sanctity of his lair, leaving his spiritbone behind in the care of the Bone Priestess. The Priestess used the spiritbone to judge the extent of the dragon’s injuries and could use her prayers to Vindrash to aid in the dragon’s recovery. Thus a spiritbone that was lost would find a way to return to the Bone Priestess unless . . .

The dragon didn’t want to be found.

Treia had to face the bitter knowledge that the Dragon Kahg had answered the summons of her sister, when so many times the dragon had either ignored or refused to heed Treia. And now the spiritbone was lost and would not be found. The men would blame her.

Treia’s thin lips twitched.

Unless they had someone else to blame. . . .

T
he
Venjekar
floated off the sandbar. Skylan and his men sailed the ship to shore, not an easy task, considering they had no rudder. Men ran out to help drag the ship up onto the beach. Lying on the shore on its side, its broken rudder sticking out at an odd angle, the
Venjekar
was an object of pity, a wounded animal waiting to be put out of its misery.

Night had fallen by the time this was done. The hunting party had returned with a deer. The men ate and then slumped down on the deck of the dragonship and slept.

Skylan was bone-tired himself, but he would not rest until Garn’s spirit had been freed to start upon its journey. He took upon himself the task of keeping watch over the dead during the night to keep away any evil spirits
who might disturb them. They would set fire to funeral pyres at dawn, burning the bodies, freeing the spirits of Garn and Alfric and the other two warriors who had died. The spirits would travel with the Sun Goddess. Aylis would light their way to Torval’s Hall.

Treia finally persuaded Aylaen to leave the body.

“You shame Garn with this show of grief,” Treia scolded her sister. “He will take his leave of you in the morning. Do you want him to see you pale and sorrowful like this?”

Aylaen gazed down at Garn, who was lying on the pyre beneath the stars. Skylan stood beside the pyre, prepared to take up his vigil. Aylaen turned her gaze upon him. The piercing blade of her rage sank deep. She allowed Treia to take her to the dragonship.

Skylan went down into the sand on his knees beside the pyre. The long night stretched ahead of him, a night of bitter self-recrimination. He looked at Garn’s ashen face, the lips already darkening, the flesh sinking into the bones, and he remembered the time they had killed the boar and the time they had fought the ogres and the time Skylan had dived into the sea to save his friend, his brother. . . .

Skylan wept, heaving, racking sobs that tore at his chest. Sobs that were silent, stifled, for fear his men should hear. For fear Garn’s spirit would hear.

When Skylan had no more tears to cry, either for himself or his friend, his sobbing ceased. He knelt in the sand. The wind blew off the sea, and the waves crashed to shore endlessly behind him, wetting him with sea spray. He whispered a prayer to Vindrash.