Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Aylaen ignored him, as usual.

  “It’s Aylaen, Owl Mother, and Skylan Ivorson. He was gored by a boar. He needs your help.”

  “Let the gods heal him,” came the scornful reply. “I have work to do.”

  “Perhaps you have not heard, Owl Mother. Ogres came to the village and—”

  “I know about the ogres. The crows told me. What has that to do with anything?”

  Aylaen and Skylan exchanged glances.

  “The ogres said there was a great battle in heaven, Owl Mother,” Aylaen replied. “They claim our gods were defeated—”

  Her words were met by silence.

  “We’re getting out of here,” Skylan said insistently.

  Aylaen shook her head.

  Skylan glared at her, exasperated. “I say we’re leaving.”

  “And I say we’re not,” she flared, her temper as fiery as her flame-colored hair. “You don’t tell me what to do, Skylan Ivorson. No one tells me what to do. And, in case you’ve forgotten, you may have to fight tomorrow. Look at yourself! You can’t even walk without help!”

  Skylan drew in a seething breath. He recalled what he’d said earlier in the day about Torval having difficulty controlling the women in his family.

  “Let the son of Norgaard come forward!” Owl Mother said grudgingly.

  Aylaen started to help him, but he shoved her away.

  “I can manage on my own. Wait for me here.”

  Once again, Aylaen disobeyed. He looked back to see her walking along behind him. He shook his head. Things would be different once they were married.

  Skylan emerged from the forest into a clearing. Here, he halted again, looking warily about, wondering where the old woman was and, more important, what she had done with the wolves. Skylan had never been to Owl Mother’s dwelling. There had been no need. Desiria, Goddess of Life, had always thought well of him and given him her blessing. Skylan felt a flash of annoyance at the goddess for having forced him to resort to fae magic.

  In the center of the clearing was a longhouse that was well constructed, small, and snug. There was a large garden, newly planted. Six deer stood grazing calmly on grass around the cabin. At the sight of Skylan, the deer fled, white tails flashing.

  Six deer! And he and Garn had spent days searching and not seen one. Ducks waddled about the yard. Chickens pecked at the ground. Birds twittered and called.

  Owl Mother was nowhere in sight, but the door to the cabin stood open. Moving closer, he saw animal pens in the rear of the house. A calf with a bandage around its leg, looking very sorry for himself, stood in one. A couple of goats were in another. Owl Mother was known for her skill in treating sick animals. People in the village would either send for her or bring the animals to her. A cat, missing an ear, strolled along one of the fence posts. The cat paused to lick its front paw and stare at Skylan. It didn’t appear impressed.

  Aylaen came to stand beside Skylan.

  “Go home, girl!” Owl Mother yelled from the house. “You’re not needed. This is between me and the son of Norgaard.”

  Aylaen looked uncertainly at Skylan. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course. Go back to your sister,” he said.

  “Don’t be mad, Skylan,” Aylaen said softly.

  She kissed him on the cheek, as a sister might kiss a brother, and then she turned and walked back along the trail.

  Skylan watched her until he lost sight of her among the trees; then he looked at the dwelling. He saw no sign of anyone. He was growing increasingly impatient; his wounds burned and throbbed.

  “Put down the knife,” said Owl Mother. “And then come inside.”

  Skylan did as he was told, dropping his knife onto the grass. The dwelling’s interior was dark and shadowy. After the bright sunlight outside, Skylan was half-blinded, and he almost stepped on a large wolf that was reclining on the floor. The wolf reared to its feet with a snarl, hackles rising. Skylan stumbled backwards.

  From somewhere in the darkness came a chuckle. “The wolf won’t harm you. Not unless I tell him to. Just don’t make any sudden moves or look him in the eye, and you’ll be safe enough.”

  Skylan still could not see the woman.

  “Don’t just stand there like a lump, Son of Norgaard,” Owl Mother said testily. “I have work to do, if you don’t. Come into the kitchen where I can get a look at you.”

  Keeping one eye on the wolf, Skylan followed the sound of the voice. He entered a second room, which was dominated by a large fireplace. Owl Mother stood by the fire, stirring something in an iron pot.

  Owl Mother was old, the oldest person in the village. She claimed to have seen seventy winters, and everyone believed her. Her hair was snow white, twisted in a long braid that extended below her waist. She wore a linen smock with a plain woolen gown over that, tied at her waist with a belt. With her hunched shoulders, beaky nose, and piercing eyes, she looked like a fierce old owl, though that was not how she had come by her name. She was called Owl Mother because of her way with animals.

  “Sit,” she said, and pointed a crooked finger at a three-legged stool.

  Skylan had to first displace the stool’s occupant, a squirrel, who raced across the floor and climbed a post that led to the rafters. He took his seat, looking about the shadowy longhouse, wondering uneasily what other creatures might be present. Owl Mother was known to consort with the fae folk who inhabited the woods.

  Apparently the old woman was alone. He saw no gnomes lurking beneath the table, nor were imps cavorting around the fireplace. He did note that one corner of the room was concealed by a tapestry hanging from the rafters. The tapestry appeared to be very old, for it was worn and frayed in places. He regarded it with interest, for it portrayed a battle with warriors clad in strange-looking armor.

  Owl Mother bent over him, examining the wound, sniffing at it and probing it with her fingers. She was not at all gentle. Skylan gritted his teeth and tried to keep silent, though now and then a grunt escaped him.

  Finally Owl Mother straightened. “You had the good sense to use the salve. The wound will heal cleanly. Bathe in the sea every day, smear on the salve, eat red meat to restore the blood, and keep to your bed for three days. Do all that, and you will suffer no lasting effects.”

  “I thank you, Owl Mother,” said Skylan respectfully. “But I don’t have three days. We are lighting the beacon fire to summon the warriors of the Heudjun to come to our aid. There will be a battle with the ogres tomorrow, and I must lead the Torgun to war.”

  Owl Mother stood with her thin lips pursed, staring down her nose at him. “You want magic,” she said at last.

  Not really, Skylan thought, but he didn’t seem to have much choice.

  “I’m not sure,” he said at last. “What does it involve?”

  “It will cost you,” said Owl Mother, crossing her arms over her breasts.

  Skylan frowned. He had a few silver ingots and coins in his coffer, but he was saving all his wealth to pay the bride-price for Aylaen.

  “I don’t want your silver!” Owl Mother scoffed, seeing the doubt on his face. “You must agree to serve me for one day, do whatever I ask of you. Don’t worry,” she added dryly, “I won’t ask you to dance with me naked in the moonlight.”

  Skylan’s face burned. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be polite, but he couldn’t imagine a more repulsive sight.

  Owl Mother laughed at him. “I need a man for only one thing these days, and that’s to help me with chores. There’s wood to be chopped and pens to be mended and—”

  “I will serve you, Owl Mother,” said Skylan hastily. He wanted to get this over with.

  “Very well. I will do what I can. The magic is chancy, uncertain. I don’t promise anything.”

  Owl Mother walked over to the part of the room concealed by the tapestry. She drew on a large leather glove and reached out her hand to pull the tapestry aside. Pausing, she glanced at Skylan.

  “You must hold perfectly still,”
she warned him. “Do not speak or cry out, no matter what you see. She is a young one and startles easily.”

  Owl Mother disappeared behind the tapestry. He could hear an annoyed-sounding squawk and then Owl Mother’s voice speaking softly, lovingly, clucking and cajoling. Owl Mother came out from behind the tapestry. Perched on her gloved arm was an enormous bird. Skylan thought at first it was the largest hawk he’d ever seen.

  Owl Mother drew closer, bringing the bird into the light.

  Skylan was so astonished, he started to rise off the stool, then remembered, too late, he was not to make any sudden moves. The bird was not a bird. The bird was a beast, and the beast was a wyvern. At Skylan’s involuntary start, the wyvern reared back her head, flapped her wings, and screeched at him.

  “I warned you to keep still, fool!” Owl Mother hissed angrily.

  Skylan froze and forced himself to sit quietly, though his muscles shook with the effort. He liked to think he wasn’t afraid of anything, but magic was different. The bravest, boldest warrior could be excused for fearing the power of those who had been old when the gods themselves were young. His stomach clenched and his bowels gripped.

  The wyvern’s red eyes glared at him. Her reptilian scales glistened orange in the firelight. Her wings, made of membrane stretched between the fine, delicate bones, were so thin he could see the light shine through them. Her long tail curled over Owl Mother’s wrist. Two clawed feet dug into the leather glove.

  The wyvern looked deceptively like a dragon, but there was no relation, as Skylan well knew. He was accustomed to dragons, who had long been allies of the Vindrasi. The spiritbone of the great Dragon Kahg hung from a nail on the mast of the dragonship. The spirit of the dragon sailed with them, and when summoned by the prayers of the Bone Priestess, the dragon would take on physical form to join Skylan and his forces in battle.

  Dragons were thinking, reasoning, intelligent beings, gifted with miraculous powers bestowed on them by their Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, consort of Torval.

  The Vindrasi believed wyverns were made of magic in mockery of dragons. Wyverns belonged to the Nethervold, the twilight world of the fae folk. Most of mankind could not see the Nethervold. But there were some, like Owl Mother, who had learned how to draw aside the curtain of moonbeams and stardust that kept the two worlds apart. She had now opened that curtain for Skylan, and he was sorry he’d ever agreed to come.

  “I think I should go. . . .” He spoke through stiff lips.

  “Don’t move, and keep your mouth shut,” Owl Mother told him. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”

  Holding the nervous wyvern on her arm, Owl Mother dipped her fingers in Skylan’s blood and traced a rune on his forehead and a similar rune on her own forehead. She placed her hand on the rune on Skylan’s head and began to hum.

  Her humming grew louder and louder, a single, jarring, off-key note that spread from her throat throughout her body. At the sound of her humming, the wyvern closed her eyes. She seemed entranced. Her wings folded at her sides. Her clawed feet eased their grip. She began to make a noise of her own, a high-pitched keening wail that was painful to the ears.

  Except for a splitting headache, Skylan felt no different. He was disappointed and angered. All this fear and discomfort for nothing, and now he was bound by his word to do menial labor for this crazy old crone—

  The magic burned him like a cauterizing iron, searing his flesh. He tried to bear the agony like a warrior, but he couldn’t manage. He fell onto the floor, writhing with pain, and finally passed out.

  He woke, choking on something, to find Owl Mother bending over him. Seeing he was conscious, she reached into his mouth to pluck out a wad of cloth.

  “So you wouldn’t swallow your tongue,” she told him.

  Skylan looked nervously about for the wyvern. The beast was gone. He cast a glance at the tapestry and saw it was closed again. Relieved, he sank back on the floor, drawing in welcome breaths, and realized, suddenly, that he was no longer in pain. Sitting up, he examined his wound in the firelight.

  Owl Mother had washed off the blood while he’d been unconscious. The wound had closed, leaving a long jagged weal that was tender to the touch. He no longer felt weak. Elated, he jumped to his feet and immediately regretted the sudden movement. The wound still hurt when he put his weight on his leg. He would in the future continue to rely on Desiria’s blessing. But at least he would be strong enough to slay ogres in the morning.

  “Thank you, Owl Mother,” he said.

  Pleased and grateful, he kissed her weathered cheek.

  Owl Mother chuckled and shook her finger at him. “Don’t try to seduce me now. I don’t have time. You had best be going or you’ll be late.”

  Skylan looked out the dwelling’s single window and was startled to see darkness. Night had fallen. Stars shone brightly.

  “We are having a great feast tonight, Owl Mother,” said Skylan. “I killed a wild boar, and we are roasting it. I would be honored if you came.”

  “I’m not much of a meat eater these days,” Owl Mother said, picking up a basin filled with water. “I can’t digest it.”

  “Let me carry that,” Skylan offered, taking the basin from her and carrying it to the door. He tossed the water, stained red with his blood, out onto the grass.

  “There will be a battle tomorrow,” said Skylan as he prepared to take his leave. “We will win it, of course, but you may not be safe here. You should go into the hills.”

  Owl Mother grinned and jerked a thumb to indicate the corner screened by the tapestry.

  “My friends will take care of me,” she said complacently. “You should concern yourself with yourself, young Skylan.”

  “They are only ogres,” said Skylan.

  “Only ogres.” Owl Mother smiled derisively. “The thread of your wyrd snaps tonight, Skylan.”

  He stared at her, shocked. When a man’s wyrd snapped, he died.

  She poked him in the chest with her finger. “Tomorrow your wyrd is spun anew. Try not to screw it up.”

  She left him, disappearing into the kitchen. He paused a moment, wondering what she had meant. It made no sense.

  “Crazy old crone,” he muttered.

  “I almost forgot,” Owl Mother yelled at him. “You must honor my mysteries, young man. Tell no one what happened here.”

  “I will not, Owl Mother,” said Skylan. He had no intention of ever thinking about it again, let alone telling anyone. He clasped the silver axe. “I swear by Torval.”

  “Torval!” Owl Mother cackled. “He’s got his own problems. Speaking of which, you had better leave now. The wheel turns.”

  Bright orange light flared in the night sky.

  The Torgun had lit the beacon fire.

  CHAPTER

  5

  In the lord city of Vindraholm, across the Gymir Fjord from the Torgun town of Luda, Draya, Kai Priestess of the Vektia, kneeled before the statue of the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, and in a tear-choked voice beseeched the goddess to answer her.

  The Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm embodied the soul of the Vindrasi nation. The Hall had been constructed many, many years ago, during a period of Vindrasi prosperity, and it was considered one of the marvels of the nation. Designed by the famous Chief of Chiefs Beocik Sundgridr, the Great Hall of the Gods was built in the shape of a Vindrasi dragonship; the only difference being that the enormous “ship” had two “prows”—each carved in the shape of the head of a fierce dragon. The Great Hall stood on a high point of land overlooking the sea, and the head of one dragon stared out across the waves while the other gazed back on land. Thus, it was said, no enemy could sneak up on the Vindrasi.

  The outer walls of the Great Hall were decorated with the colorful shields of all the Vindrasi clans, placed as they would be placed on the rack along the sides of a dragonship. The roof was made of wood, not thatch, and the Great Hall had a wooden floor, resembling the deck of a ship.

  The interior of the Great Hall was shadowy and
windowless. A single opening in the ceiling above a fire pit allowed the light of the Sun Goddess, Aylis, to illuminate and bless the Hall. In the winter months, the Kai Priestess lit a small fire to keep her warm as she went about her duties. Such a fire would have been welcome to Draya now. The day had been hot, but the sun had set prematurely, the goddess hiding her bright face behind a scarf of clouds. The air inside the Great Hall was chill, and Draya shivered in her heavy robes.

  She could have summoned one of the young acolytes to light a fire. She knew quite well it would be useless, to say nothing of the fact that the girl would look at her strangely for requesting a fire in the middle of the hottest spring anyone could remember. It was not cold that raised the flesh on Draya’s arms and caused her hands to tremble as she clasped them in supplication. It was fear. Fear caused the tears to well up in her eyes, so that the statue of Vindrash blurred in the waning light. Fear choked Draya’s voice as she begged the goddess to break her silence and once more speak to her devoted servant.

  The statue of Vindrash, the Dragon Goddess, was the Great Hall’s centerpiece. Carved of a rare and exotic stone known as jadeite, the statue was translucent emerald green. Beautifully detailed, down to each individual scale on the dragon’s body, the statue had two large rubies for eyes, and fangs carved of ivory. The statue was prized beyond measure, for neither the stone jadeite nor ivory could be found in this part of the world.

  The statue had been brought to Vindraholm by the same Chief who had designed the Great Hall, the legendary warrior Beocik. After the Hall had been built, Beocik stated that he would sail the world to find the perfect representation of the Dragon Vindrash, the patron goddess of his people. He set out on his dragonship with thirty men. Years passed, and he did not return. Everyone assumed, sorrowfully, that Beocik had perished. And then one morning, his dragonship sailed into the bay. It had no crew. The ship had been guided by the spirit of the dragon, and it bore the body of the Chief wrapped in his cloak and covered with his shield, and the wondrous statue.

  The statue was the length of a man’s arm from elbow to fingertip, extremely heavy and so valuable that a special hiding place had been created for it, a large hole dug out of the ground beneath the floorboards of the Great Hall. When an enemy threatened, the statue could be lowered into the hole, which was then covered by wooden planking. The Great Hall of the Gods was the only building in the city of Vindraholm to have a wooden floor, and this was the reason.