Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Although ogres disliked water, they were strong if clumsy swimmers, and they reached the shore without too much difficulty. The first to arrive took up positions along the beach in order to protect the rest of the army. They brought with them a small boat piled high with their weapons, armor, and shields, and while some ogres stood guard, others armed themselves for battle.

  Also in the boat was the shaman. Akaria’s breath ruffled the black feathers of his cape. He was holding a large gourd, painted and decorated with feathers, which he would shake at the ogre warriors as they came ashore. Some of the ogres glanced askance at the shaman and rolled their eyes or glared at him in disgust. Ogre shamans did not fight, and some ogres, who followed the old religion, considered them cowards who hid behind the skirts of their gods. Many of the ogres bowed their heads, however, and reached out to reverently touch the gourd.

  Skylan laughed and made a crude comment about the gourd and what it resembled. The warriors chuckled at Skylan’s lewd jest, all except Erdmun.

  “There are a lot of them,” he observed gloomily. “They outnumber us four to one.”

  “Not so,” said Skylan. “We outnumber them. One Torgun warrior is worth five ogres. The fight seems so one-sided, I am considering reducing our army by half.”

  Erdmun looked alarmed and opened his mouth to protest.

  “He’s joking,” his brother told him, and added, “We could attack them now, Skylan, while they’re disorganized.”

  Skylan had been considering that idea, then rejected it. One Torgun might equal five ogres, but his scouting party was too small to do much damage. They would waste their strength and their spears with little to show for it. Better to meet the enemy on the battlefield, standing shoulder to shoulder in the shield-wall.

  “Norgaard said the shaman doesn’t fight, but what if he comes onto the battlefield?” Erdmun asked. “He could cast his holy magic on us, strike us blind or wither our arms—”

  Skylan laughed and nudged Bjorn with his elbow. “Your brother has been spending too much time with Owl Mother. He’s starting to believe her wild tales! Best be careful, Erdmun. The black stork might shake his ‘gourd’ at you!”

  Skylan grabbed his crotch to make his meaning clear. The men sniggered, and Erdmun flushed, chagrined and angry.

  Skylan led the way to the strip of ground he had chosen for the battle. Like him, the other young men were in high spirits, looking forward to the fight. Death was a possibility, of course, and none of them wanted to leave this world, but every man must die sometime, and each wanted to stand proudly before Torval and join the other warriors in the Heroes’ Hall.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Bjorn scolded his brother. “You shame us both!”

  “Skylan isn’t a goddamn god,” Erdmun muttered, but he said it below his breath.

  CHAPTER

  13

  The warriors gathered on the battlefield—a ridge of grassland not far from the village. Below the ridge, the ground rolled down into a slight depression, curved upward to form a smaller ridge before tumbling in a rocky torrent down to the sea. Skylan chose this ground because it was deceptive. An enemy standing on the opposite ridgeline could not readily see the slight depression. Their godlords would think they could send their warriors racing across a level field. Only when the ogres had run into the depression would they realize they had to fight while charging uphill.

  The Torgun greeted Skylan with cheers. Skylan acknowledged them with a grin and raised his sword in salute; then he went to greet his father. Though Norgaard had to rely on a crutch to walk, he insisted on being present at the battle.

  “Better to die standing with an axe in my hand than having my throat slit while hiding in a cave.”

  Norgaard embraced his son, and Skylan was touched to see tears of pride in his father’s eyes. The Torgun cheered the two of them and then lifted their voices in a rhythmic war chant. Their blood was up, their spirits roused.

  The Torgun were angry at the ogres, but they were furious at Horg and the Heudjun. The Torgun meant to fight the battle Horg had basely fled, and they meant to win it. Until the day he died, each man would remember the shame he felt witnessing the ogre godlord standing in their Chief’s Hall, smirking at them, his filthy fingers toying with the sacred Vektan Torque.

  Under Skylan’s direction, the Torgun warriors formed the shield-wall.

  Somewhere in this world of Ilyrion, generals spent hours studying maps, devising devious strategies. Somewhere in the world, but not in the land of the Vindrasi.

  Battle was a simple affair. The Torgun warriors drew together to form two lines. Veteran warriors stood in the back row, prepared to take up the fight should the enemy break through the front ranks of the shield-wall. Men such as Sigurd and Alfric the One-Eyed carried spears, several at a time, and huge battle axes requiring two hands to wield them. These men could not hold shields and their weapons at the same time, so they took shelter behind the front line, made up of younger warriors eager for blood. These men stood close together, shield overlapping shield, protecting the men in the row behind them.

  The men in the second line hurled their spears at the enemy and then waited for the chance to rush out from behind the shields, wielding their axes, hacking at legs, chopping off arms, and cleaving open skulls.

  The veterans in the second rank were also there in order to “encourage” those in the front who might suddenly lose their nerve. The veterans behind made sure those in front of them did not break and run, but kept on fighting. Some men had been known to do their “persuading” by jabbing reluctant warriors in the backs with their spears.

  Norgaard, Chief of the Clan, stood on a rise some distance behind the shield-wall, surrounded by his bodyguards. The goal of the battle for both sides was simple: Capture or slay the Chief.

  The Bone Priestess usually stood with the Chief, whose guards protected both of them. Treia had not yet arrived, and the Torgun were starting to wonder nervously if something was amiss.

  As the Torgun warriors were forming their shield-wall on the hillside, they jested with each other, making the nervous jokes of men trying to bolster their own courage and show their comrades they were not afraid. The veterans recalled deeds of bravery from previous battles. The green youngsters vowed in their trembling hearts that they would find such glory for themselves this day.

  The warriors good-naturedly jostled and shoved each other in an effort to find the best place. Skylan walked up and down in front of them, haranguing the young warriors, yelling at them to keep their shields up and not let them drop down around their knees. He was facing his men, had his back to the sea. All laughter and jesting suddenly ceased. Skylan turned to see what was the cause.

  The ogre army had arrived.

  The Torgun had not realized quite how many ogres there were. As more and more ogres came straggling up from the sea, some of the appalled Torgun thought the entire ogre nation had come to do battle.

  Skylan was considerably daunted by the sight of nearly two hundred ogres forming a shield-wall. The ogres in the front rank were enormous. Their shields alone were as big as a Torgun man, and they were armed with war hammers, battle axes, and swords. Those in the second rank were even larger than those in front. Each ogre held fistfuls of spears. The line bristled like a quill-pig. The ogre shield-wall spread out along the ridgeline, extending far beyond the smaller Torgun shield-wall. Skylan saw the godlords’ plan of attack, and his heart sank. The ogres would charge forward in a sweeping arc, like a crescent moon, outflanking Skylan’s men, hitting them from the front and the sides at the same time.

  The only thing that would save them was the Dragon Kahg.

  “Where is that damn Bone Priestess?” Skylan shouted angrily, turning away from the sickening sight. “Why isn’t she here?”

  He was immediately annoyed at himself for giving vent to his feelings. Several of the young warriors were pale with fear, and even some of the veterans were looking nervous.

  Skylan glanced at
the ogre lines and said loudly, “Yes, they are big brutes. That only makes them a better target! Even you, Alfric, cannot miss hitting one of them!”

  That drew a laugh. Alfric had lost an eye in battle, and he was notorious for bumping into trees and posts. A close friend of Norgaard, Alfric was proud to stand as one of the Chief’s bodyguards. The truth was that no one wanted him in the shield-wall, where his wild swings with his battle axe made him more dangerous to friend than to foe.

  The ogres were taking their time. The godlords charged into the ranks, ranting and raving, bullying and shoving, and sometimes even kicking their warriors until they had shuffled into proper position.

  This is part of their strategy, Skylan realized dourly. The longer the bastards take to form their shield-wall, the more time my men have to think about dying.

  His warriors needed something to give them hope, and Skylan whispered his thanks to Torval when the call rang out that the Bone Priestess had arrived.

  The warriors craned their heads to see her. Skylan went to meet Treia himself. He smiled at Garn and frowned at Aylaen, who was standing beside her sister.

  “You should go home,” Skylan said.

  “And you should go soak your head in the slop bucket,” Aylaen returned.

  Skylan could not help but smile. He was secretly proud of her courage and her loyalty to her sister. She must have been terrified, but she did not show it.

  Treia carried with her the spiritbone Skylan had risked his life to obtain. She lifted it into the air, and the warriors, taking heart, cheered loudly. Skylan cast a triumphant glance at the ogres, who had no idea what was coming.

  Skylan ordered the two women to take up positions alongside Norgaard, well behind the shield-wall, out of range of enemy spears yet still within sight of the enemy. Being in such close proximity to the battle was dangerous, but necessary. The warriors needed to see the Bone Priestess, needed to know that their Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, was with them.

  Treia stood staring at the ogres or what she could see of them with her weak eyes, which was a large, dark, homogeneous mass—a gigantic worm undulating on the green grass. Her face was coldly pale, expressionless. She made no response when Skylan spoke to her. He had no idea what she was thinking or even if she was thinking. She might have been a doll carved out of bone.

  Aylaen’s eyes widened at the sight of the ogres, and she gave a little gasp.

  “There are so many! We are too close,” she said, rounding on Skylan. “My sister will not be safe!”

  “Of course she will,” said Skylan dismissively. “My father is here and his bodyguards.” He shrugged. “Besides, the Bone Priestess is under the protection of Vindrash. The goddess will protect her servant.”

  Aylaen went white at the lips and glanced fearfully at Garn, who looked troubled.

  “What is it?” Skylan demanded, glancing from one to the other. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Treia, casting a chill glance at her sister. “Nothing at all.”

  Relieved, Skylan turned to look back at the ogre lines. The godlords were finally taking up their positions, each going to stand with his bodyguards behind the shield-wall. Skylan focused on the godlord who had been sporting the Vektan Torque. He knew him by his tiger-skin cape. It was hard to see him. Aylis rose from the east, shedding her morning light on the bay, which meant Skylan was staring directly into the sunlight. Even so, he could not see the torque, and he gnashed his teeth in bitter disappointment. He had been counting on decapitating the godlord and snatching the torque from his bloody neck. It had not occurred to him until now that the whoreson might have stowed it away for safekeeping during battle.

  “I will pry their ships apart board by board until I find it,” Skylan vowed, and he put his hand to the small silver axe.

  He ran his gaze over his men and was proud to see them standing shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, straining forward, yelling insults at the enemy. He was about to tell Treia it was time, when he saw the shaman, preening his black feathers, go striding up to stand beside the godlord. The shaman held the feathered gourd in his hand and he stood at his ease, gazing about with interest, a cunning look on the childlike face. Norgaard had said the shamans did not use their dark magicks in battle. Skylan wondered if that was true. He was amused to see the godlord move away from the shaman, leaving him to stand alone.

  Skylan made a mental note to tell his spear-thrower to take special aim at the shaman, and then he turned to Treia.

  “It is time to summon the dragon.”

  “I need seawater,” said Treia composedly. “Kahg is a water dragon. I need seawater to summon him.”

  Skylan gaped at her and extended his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Two hundred ogres stand between us and the sea!”

  Treia blinked at him. “No one told me where we would be fighting. I assumed we would be by the sea.”

  “Skoval’s balls!” Skylan swore furiously.

  “Don’t yell at her, Skylan!” Aylaen cried. “She’s nervous and frightened. This is her first battle.”

  “And probably her last,” Skylan returned grimly. “The last for all of us unless she can summon Kahg!”

  “Sister,” said Aylaen suddenly, “can’t you use earth—?”

  Treia flashed her a furious glance, and Aylaen stammered and fell silent.

  “Your sister’s suggestion is a good one, Priestess,” said Norgaard, limping over to join the conversation. “You can use earth to form the dragon. I’ve seen it done. Possibly, this being your first battle, you did not think of that.”

  Treia’s lips pressed together tightly. Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps.”

  “I will take the Dragon Kahg in any form, Priestess,” Skylan said through gritted teeth. “I don’t care if he’s made from mother’s milk! Just summon the dragon, and be quick about it! The sun is risen.”

  Sunrise was the traditional time for the Vindras to commence battle. No one fought at night. The warriors wanted Torval to be witness to their courage and bravery.

  “I have to go—,” Skylan said.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Garn.

  Skylan stopped him. “No, my brother. You stay here to guard Treia and Aylaen. If the ogres break through, you must help them escape.”

  Garn frowned. “Let one of Norgaard’s men do that. I will take my place with you in the shield-wall as always.”

  Skylan shook his head. “The bodyguards’ duty is to my father.”

  He lowered his voice, drew Garn to one side. “You are the only man I trust with Aylaen’s life, my brother. Promise me. Swear by Torval, you will keep her safe. And her sister,” he added as an afterthought.

  Skylan knew he was asking his friend to make a sacrifice. If the ogres broke through the lines, Garn would have to flee with the women. He would not be there to avenge his friends. He would not have the honor of dying in battle.

  “I swear,” Garn said at last.

  Skylan gripped his friend by the arm, then went to take his place in the shield-wall, in the second row with the veteran warriors. He would gain glory this day, smashing headlong into the enemy’s ranks, driving through to do single combat with the godlord who had taken the sacred torque.

  “Hand me a spear,” said Skylan. Several men thrust their spears forward. He clasped one, hefted it.

  “For Torval!” he roared, and he hurled the spear at the ogre lines, throwing it as far as he could. The spear sailed over the heads of the ogres in an arc, thudding into the ground behind them. Thus he dedicated his enemy to the god.

  “For Torval!” the Torgun warriors cried.

  The ogres responded, hurling their spears and chanting something that sounded like, “Raja Raj, Raja Raj!”

  The ogres launched what seemed a veritable forest of spears.

  Skylan drew his sword. The warriors in the front ranks lifted their shields and braced themselves for the onslaught. Some landed short. Some flew long. Some found their targets. Near Skylan, a warrior named Gregor
screamed horribly. He lay on the ground, twisting about on a spear that had gone through his belly and pinned him, like a pig on a spit. Skylan turned away. No one could do anything for Gregor, not even take time to end his suffering with a merciful sword thrust. The fallen had to take care of themselves. No man dared break the shield-wall.

  “Hold firm!” Skylan cried, seeing some of the excited young warriors starting to lurch forward. “Make them come to us!”

  Under most circumstances, his army would have rushed at the enemy. The ogres would have rushed at them, both armies meeting with a bone-crushing crash in the middle. Garn had suggested this alternative strategy during the Council meeting. The Vindrasi would utilize the dip in the ground, forcing the ogres to run across the expanse and then fight uphill.

  “Won’t they just wait for us to charge them?” Skylan had argued.

  “The ogres are arrogant, overconfident,” Garn had replied. “They will throw everything at us at once without thinking, counting on ending the battle swiftly.”

  “The brutes are massive, but they have no stamina,” Norgaard had added. “They wear heavy armor and carry heavy weapons, and they count on smashing an enemy into the ground with a single blow. If they fail to do this, if they are forced to keep fighting, they soon grow tired and lose heart. The longer we can make the battle last, the more we stand a chance of winning.”

  Skylan had reluctantly agreed to Garn’s plan, keeping his doubts to himself. He could always order the shield-wall to advance, which is what he expected to do.

  Erdmun, who stood in front of Skylan, lifted his shield to block a spear. It bounced off and fell to the ground. Sigurd plucked a thrown spear out of midair and hurled it back at the enemy. Sigurd was an expert with spears. He could throw two at once, one in each hand. He fought with a wide grin on his face; the only time anyone ever saw the dour man smile was during battle.