Bones of the Dragon (67 page)

They bound Skylan’s legs. He could not move his hands or arms, and they had to drag him to his feet.

“At least let me stay to bid farewell to my friend,” Skylan asked.

The warriors jeered at him.

“Garn’s spirit would curse us all if we allowed you to be present at his funeral,” Bjorn said.

They hauled Skylan off down the beach. With his legs hobbled, he could not walk. He stumbled, fell. The men did not give him a chance to stand, but dragged him through the sand.

The morning was hot and breathless. No air stirred. The sun beat upon the shore. Heat rose in shimmering waves. The sea was flat. The tide had gone out. The shallow water stirred sluggishly beneath an oily film. The men
carried him onto the wounded dragonship. Bjorn and Erdmun picked him up by the arms and legs and threw him down the ladder and into the darkness of the hold. They tossed down a skin containing fresh water and shut the trapdoor.

He heard the scraping sound as the men hauled over something heavy—probably one of the water barrels—and placed it on top of the door to keep him from escaping.

Skylan lay where he fell, too weary and dispirited to rise. The ropes were tight and cut into him. The wound on his chest burned. His body hurt, but the pain in his heart was far greater. Garn was dead, and Aylaen might as well have been. She was dead to him.

And what had become of Wulfe? He should have been back by now. Something had happened to the boy. He was probably dead.

I will be dead before long.

Oddly, the thought of death didn’t frighten Skylan. He almost welcomed it. His heart and soul had died already.

He heard the men begin to sing the death-song, and he caught a whiff of smoke. Skylan crawled across the floor and peered through one of the gaps in the planking.

The men tossed torches onto the pyres. The wood, daubed with pitch, caught fire immediately. Smoke rolled from the pyres. Skylan could smell burning flesh.

The smoke hung in the breathless air, forming a blinding cloud that set men gagging and ended the death-songs. Tendrils of smoke crept in through the slats in the wood. Skylan coughed. The smoke stung his eyes. He blinked his burning eyes and stared out between the gaps in the planks.

The men, their mouths and noses covered against the smoke, stood around the pyres, waiting for the spirits to depart. That would happen only when the pyres collapsed and the bodies were consumed.

The men choked and coughed. Their clothes were drenched with sweat from the intense heat and caked with ashes and soot. The smoke grew too thick for Skylan to see. He was thirsty, his mouth parched and his throat clogged. He hobbled across the deck to the waterskin. He managed to pick it up with his bound hands and lifted it to his lips. He was about to drink when he happened to glance through another gap.

He dropped the waterskin.

A ship rode at anchor in the deep water near the sandbar. The ship was huge, with three decks, three banks of oars, two masts near the center and a smaller foremast near the front. The rowers sat idle, watching men streaming down a gangplank, landing on the sandbar. The men were
warriors. Each man wore a helm with wing flaps that covered his cheeks and armor made of overlapping strips of shining metal. The segmented armor protected each man’s shoulders, his upper arms, his breast and the back. Strips of leather studded with metal formed a skirt that protected the warrior’s groin and thighs. Each man carried a sword and a large rectangular shield.

Skylan lurched toward the gap and stared out. His eyes stung from the smoke, and he blinked and wiped them and stared again. He could not believe what he was seeing.

The shields bore the image of a winged serpent.

The moment each warrior landed on the sandbar, he ran to join the ranks of his fellows. No man spoke. All was done swiftly and in disciplined silence. An officer gave a signal, and the men plunged into the shallow water and began wading toward the shore, holding their swords and their shields above their heads.

This was an ambush. The enemy was bearing down on Skylan’s men. Skylan hobbled back to the other side of the hold. He moved too fast, lost his balance, and fell. Cursing, he crawled over and put his eye to the gap.

Smoke covered the beach. He could not see his men, and they would not be able to see the threat bearing down on them from the sea. No man would be armed, out of respect for the dead. Their weapons and their shields were stacked in the sand, along with their helms and armor.

Skylan yelled a warning. The thick air swallowed his shouts. With the crackling of the flames and the popping of sizzling flesh, no one could hear him. He swore again, frustrated, and frantically tried to undo the knots at his ankles. He worked at them until his fingers bled, to no avail. They were tied tight. He shuffled over to the bottom of the ladder and stared at the hatch. He had heard them roll the heavy barrel atop it, but perhaps, if he could get his shoulders under it, he might be able to lift it.

He managed to climb the ladder by hooking his elbows, his arms still bound at the wrists, over the rungs and pulling his feet up a rung at a time. Sweat poured from his face. He gasped for breath from the exertion. He maneuvered himself into position, his head bowed, and pressed his shoulder against the hatch and heaved.

The hatch did not budge. Skylan tried again, straining against the hatch, shoving with his legs. His feet slipped. With his hands bound, he could not hang on, and he fell to the floor.

He started to pray to Torval to help him, and then he remembered the god battling the winged serpents, fighting for his life. Torval had his own problems. Skylan was on his own.

His people were on their own.

The first the Torgun knew they were under attack was when they saw the ranks of the enemy coming at them out of the smoke. The Torgun ran to grab their weapons, but they were intercepted by soldiers. The Vindrasi fought with their bare hands, but the soldiers struck them with the flat of their blades or bashed them with their shields until they fell unconscious.

Skylan, watching in agony, heard the officers shout repeatedly, “Take them alive! We want prisoners, not corpses!”

Skylan tried to see Aylaen. She would fight. He knew she would. He pressed his face against the gap, cursing the smoke that obliterated his view.

Suddenly, he realized he had his own problems. The sound of heavy boots thudded on the deck above him. The enemy had boarded the dragonship. He heard men running across the deck, taking up positions.

“You men, move that barrel,” a commanding voice ordered, a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “The hold is below. We’ll stow the brat down there.”

Skylan stood at the bottom of the ladder. He would not be taken alive. He heard the barrel scrape as the men hauled it off the hatch.

The trapdoor opened. Sunlight tinged with smoke streamed down on Skylan. He looked up to see an unusually tall man with broad shoulders and powerful arms clad in the shining segmented armor. The man wore a helm, as did the other warriors Skylan had seen. His helm was decorated with red feathers, perhaps denoting him as an officer.

Skylan stood with fists clenched, ready to fight. The officer gazed down at him.

“Well, well, well,” the man said with a chuckle. “If it isn’t little Skylan.”

Skylan’s fists uncurled; his hands went limp. He stared, squinting into the sunlight, trying to see clearly. “Raegar?”

“The same.” Raegar chuckled. “Once more, Cousin, I have returned from the dead.”

Raegar removed the feather-crested helm. He had shaved off his beard and his long blond hair. His bald scalp was white, a contrast to the sun-tanned skin of his face. The tattoo of a winged serpent ran across the crown of his head from front to back. The serpent’s red tongue flicked down almost to the center of the forehead. Raegar regarded Skylan with amusement.

“I hear Treia told your men about you,” he remarked. “They were planning to take you back to Vindraholm, force you to fight the Vutmana.”
Raegar squatted down on his haunches. “I’ve done you a favor, Cousin. Where you are going, you won’t have to fight.”

“Treacherous coward!” Skylan swore at him. “You betrayed your own people!”

Raegar shook his head. “The Torgun are not my people anymore, Cousin. These are my people.” He gestured to the warriors around him. “They have been for a long time.”

Skylan clenched his fists. “I challenge you! Fight me!”

Raegar threw back his head and gave a loud roar of laughter, as did the men who had gathered around the hold.

Skylan burned with fury. “All of you!” he shouted. “I will take on all of you. Your swords. My bare hands!”

The soldiers thought this funny, and they laughed louder, saying something about “caged beasts.”

“While that might prove amusing, especially to my men, the Tribune would not like it,” said Raegar. “You see, Cousin, you’re his property. A valuable commodity. The Tribune would be most displeased if you were damaged.”

Skylan began to understand. It was like peering through the slits in the planks. He could only see a part of the truth, but for the moment, that was enough. His gut shriveled. Death did not frighten him. This did.

“What do you mean?”

“By Aelon, you are dense, Cousin,” said Raegar. “Fortunately no one in Oran is in the market for brains, these days. Only brawn. How shall I put it? Instead of calling you Chief of Chiefs, Skylan Ivorson, from now on, men will call you Slave of Slaves!”

The soldiers grinned appreciatively at their commander’s jest.

Raegar glanced around at them and frowned. “Are the other warriors secure? Was anyone slain?”

“No, Revered One. The men were taken without a fight. A few had to be knocked unconscious, but they will recover.”

“What of the two sisters?”

The blood pounded in Skylan’s ears. He had to calm himself to hear the answer.

The soldier grinned. “One fought like a catamount. It took three of us to subdue her, and we have the scratches to prove it! We finally threw a sack over her head, half-stifling her, and eventually she calmed down. The other female did not fight us. She is half-blind, it seems. Still, I do not trust her. There’s something strange about her. She’s more dangerous than her wildcat sister, or so I would guess.”

“What of the spiritbone?” Raegar demanded. “Did you recover it?”

“We found no bones except those of the dead men, Revered One. The woman claimed it was lost.”

Raegar scowled, displeased. “She is lying. She must be hiding it somewhere.”

“What do we do with the prisoners, Revered One?”

“The women are to be conveyed to the Tribune’s ship. Bring the men on board the dragonship. Chain them to the oars. How long will repairs take?”

“Not long, Revered One. We should be able to sail when the tide returns.”

“Good. Get to work.”

“What about the brat? What do we do with him?”

Raegar glanced down into the hold. “Toss him down there with little Skylan.”

The soldier shouted, and two men came forward, bearing Wulfe between them. One side of his face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. The soldiers flung him into the hold. Wulfe landed sprawled on the deck, and he blinked up at Skylan groggily.

“I’m sorry,” Wulfe said. “I was going to warn you.”

“It’s all right,” said Skylan quietly. He looked up at Raegar, who was shutting the trapdoor. “You have come back from the dead two times, Raegar. When you and I meet, that will be the end. There won’t be a third.”

“When you and I meet, Cousin, you will be on the auction block, and I will be collecting my share of your selling price,” Raegar replied.

He dropped the trapdoor shut. Skylan heard the barrel being rolled over it.

He closed his eyes and slumped down on the deck. He gazed into the darkness, trying to see a way out, but there was only darkness. He put his hand to the amulet, Torval’s axe, he wore around his neck. The silver was cold to the touch. He let his hand fall. He wondered suddenly what had become of his sword, Blood Dancer. The last he had seen, the sword was spiraling down through the heavens. Much like himself.

“Someone’s here,” Wulfe said tensely.

Skylan opened his eyes, bracing for a fight.

Garn, dressed in his armor and carrying his sword and shield, stood before him.

Skylan was not surprised to see his friend, his brother. Nothing surprised him anymore.

“Can you forgive me?” Skylan asked.

Garn smiled. “There is nothing to forgive. Our wyrds were bound together, but the thread of my days ran out.”

“It is not fair! You cannot leave me now,” said Skylan wearily. “Not when I most need you. What will become of our people?”

“I see a long journey, Skylan. I see death and despair. I see hope. I see a dark end and a bright beginning.”

“Why can’t you ever just give me a straight answer?” Skylan asked, and he smiled.

Garn’s spirit began to fade. “Farewell, Skylan. We will meet in Torval’s Hall, and you will tell me of your exploits.”

Skylan held up his bound hands. “I do not think I will get past his door, my friend.”

“Do not be so certain,” Garn said, his voice dwindling. “The thread of your wyrd is strong. You alone can break it.”

Skylan sank back. He could hear the sounds of his men being herded onto the deck, hear the rattle of chains and the shuffling of feet.

“Warriors of the Vindrasi!” Raegar shouted. “Your gods are dead. I am going to tell you of a new god. A powerful god, Aelon, Lord of the New Dawn.”

Wulfe shook his head. “He’s lying. Your gods aren’t dead. Vindrash was badly wounded, but she survived. Torval fought his way back to his Hall. He summoned the souls of the dead warriors, and they drove back the serpents.”

Skylan stared at him, mystified. “How could you possibly know all that?”

“The oceanaids told me,” said Wulfe. He yawned. “I’m bored. Do you want to play dragonbone? I’ll move your pieces for you, since your hands are tied.”

I am in chains. My warriors are prisoners. Aylaen has been taken from me. The spiritbone is lost, the Dragon Kahg wounded, perhaps dead. All because of me, because of my own arrogance and stupidity, my lies and oath-breaking.