Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  “Yeah, you do that, boy,” said Horg, and as he passed Skylan, he lashed out with his foot, kicking him in the kneecap.

  Skylan gasped in pain at the unexpected blow. Horg had timed it perfectly. No one on the ground had seen him.

  “That is cheating!” Skylan grimaced as he tried to put weight on his sore knee.

  “So go crying to Mama, boy,” Horg retorted, and he laughed as he launched himself over the side.

  He made a show of selecting his place on the cloth. If the battle had been held early in the morning, this might have made some difference, for Horg would have put his back to the sun, forcing Skylan to fight while staring into the glare. But Draya had fussed over her blasted cloth and her stakes and ropes so long that the sun was no longer a factor.

  Horg defiantly faced the crowd of onlookers. Let them see he was not afraid, not ashamed.

  When Horg indicated he was ready, Draya summoned Skylan. Horg looked back at the dragonship and sniggered to see the young man trying to conceal the fact that he was finding it hard to walk on his injured knee.

  Horg had no fear Skylan would accuse him of cheating. The young man was far too proud to admit he’d been such a witling as to fall for that old trick. Horg watched Skylan limp down the gangplank, hoping to see him fall, like his father the cripple. Skylan disappointed him. The pain must have been excruciating, but he kept careful control of his face, gave no sign that he was in pain.

  Skylan looked at Horg with ice-blue eyes, and he looked at no one else as he walked to his place with his very slight but very visible limp. His father asked him if he was all right. Skylan paid him no heed. Skylan looked at Horg. His shield-bearer, Garn, asked him what had happened. Skylan did not respond. He looked at Horg. Skylan did not answer the Kai Priestess, who was bleating about something. Skylan looked at Horg.

  Horg, irritated, looked away. I’ll have Skylan’s body strung up, he decided, and let the crows pick out those damnable blue eyes!

  All was now in readiness. The wind died. The crowd hushed. The waves stilled. The ocean was flat, dead calm. The red eyes of the dragon watched.

  “Horg Thekkson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, come forward,” Draya called. “Skylan Ivorson, son of Norgaard Ivorson, Chief of the Torgun, come forward.”

  Horg sauntered over to her. Skylan limped.

  Draya lifted a jeweled drinking horn from her basket and filled it with wine—a rare delicacy, for wine was costly and drunk only on festive or sacred occasions. She held out the horn to Skylan.

  “By drinking this sacred wine, you pledge yourself to obey the rules of the Vutmana as set down by the gods. You pledge yourself to Torval.”

  Skylan solemnly took the drinking horn in his right hand and clasped the amulet he wore around his neck with his left. He raised the horn to the sky and said, “Torval, be witness to my faith.”

  Skylan drank a sip of wine and handed the horn back to Draya. His blue eyes fixed, once again, on Horg.

  Draya wiped the rim of the horn with a white cloth and gave it to Horg. He took hold of the horn, tilted it to his mouth, and quaffed the remainder of the wine, gulping it down. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and, grinning, handed the horn back to Draya.

  “Let’s get on with this,” he said.

  As Draya took the horn from him, she moved a step nearer, so that she faced him directly. Her back was to the crowd and to the shield-bearers. She spoke to him alone. Her voice was low, and she put a long and deliberate pause between each phrase.

  “There are gods, Horg. The gods are not dead. The Gods of the Vindrasi curse you!”

  Perhaps it was the way Draya said the words—calmly, coldly, and with absolute certainty. Or perhaps it was the terrible light of truth in her eyes.

  Horg wondered suddenly, with a gut-clenching feeling of panic, What if she is right!

  CHAPTER

  7

  Garn reached across the rope barrier to hand Skylan the first of his three shields. Each shield was round in shape, made of planks of wood, and was large enough in diameter so that it protected him from shoulder to knee. The shield was trimmed in leather, which gave it added strength, for when the leather shrank, it bound the wooden planks together. An iron boss in the center protected Skylan’s hand. He grasped the shield’s wooden crosspiece, sliding his hand into the domed underside of the boss.

  “What happened to your leg?” Norgaard asked, seeing Skylan favor it.

  Skylan cast a dark glance at Horg. “The whoreson kicked me in the knee as he was leaving the ship!”

  The kick wouldn’t have been so bad, but Horg had unknowingly struck Skylan’s weak leg. The wound inflicted by the boar had healed cleanly, but the muscles were still sore, and Horg’s kick had aggravated the injury.

  “He called me ‘boy,’ ” Skylan continued furiously. His lips twisted in a snarl. His heart thudded in his chest. A red mist clouded his vision. His hands were wet with sweat, and he tasted blood in his mouth. “He acts as though he’s fighting a child!”

  Norgaard gripped his son by the shoulder.

  “Listen to me, Skylan,” he said fiercely. “Why do you think Horg kicked you and insulted you? Not to hurt you! He could have broken your kneecap, but he didn’t. He’s goading you, hoping you’ll forget all you know and fight stupidly, like a child.”

  Across from Skylan, on the other side of the expanse of white cloth, Horg calmly slid his large fist through the handgrip of his shield. As he did so, Rulf, his shield-bearer, made some jest. Horg was supposed to laugh, but perhaps he didn’t find it funny. He muttered something and turned away. Rulf looked at him, puzzled.

  “This is not the shield-wall. You cannot call upon the Madness of Torval,” Norgaard was saying. “This fight requires patience and cunning and watchfulness and the need to make every blow count. Do you understand, my son?”

  Skylan closed his eyes, blotting Horg from his sight. He drew in a breath of salt-tinged air and let it cool his overheated blood. His vision cleared. He felt empty, light, and pure.

  “I understand, Father,” he said, and he gripped his father’s hand. “I will make you proud of me.”

  Norgaard eyed Horg, who was arming himself.

  “He’s chosen to use a battle axe, not a sword. That means he’ll aim blows at your shield, trying to break it.”

  Skylan nodded. He understood this tactic, for it was one he himself had considered. When a warrior has used up his three shields, he was left with only his weapon.

  “Horg will try to end this fight quickly,” Norgaard said. “For he knows that although he is stronger, you are younger and you have more stamina. He’ll put everything he has into his first blows. You have to grit your teeth and take it.”

  Again, Skylan nodded.

  “Remember, you can defend yourself, but you cannot attack him until it is your turn. And watch where you put your feet. Don’t move a toe off the cloth, and whatever you do, don’t let yourself be pushed outside the ring!”

  Stepping off the cloth was known as “flinching.” Stepping out of the roped-off ring was called “fleeing.” Both were marks of a coward.

  “I know all this, Father,” Skylan said, somewhat impatiently.

  “I know you know it,” Norgaard replied grimly. “Now you must live it.”

  The Kai Priestess took her place outside the roped-off area. It was time to begin.

  “Horg Thekkson of the Heudjun, are you ready?” the Kai Priestess called.

  “I am,” Horg returned sullenly, but he didn’t look it.

  “Something’s happened to him,” Norgaard said, frowning. “Garn, did you see anything?”

  “I saw the Kai Priestess speak to him when she handed him the wine,” Garn returned. “She spoke so softly, I couldn’t hear what she said.”

  All of them could see that a change had come over Horg. On board ship, he had been swaggering, boastful, confident. Now his face was dark, his expression grim, his manner sullen. Though the morning breeze off the sea was cool, a
trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek. Large patches of sweat stained his tunic beneath his arms. He glowered at the Kai Priestess, who paid him no heed.

  “There is no love lost between those two,” Norgaard remarked. “She said something to him that took the wind out of his sails. This bodes well for you, my son.”

  Skylan didn’t care. He was eager to start.

  “Skylan Ivorson, son of Norgaard, are you ready?”

  “I am!” he shouted, exultant.

  Norgaard handed Skylan his sword. “Torval be with you, my son!”

  “He is, Father,” said Skylan, breathing deeply of the sea air. “He fights at my side.”

  Skylan walked to his place on the white cloth. Once there, he took a moment to look up at the cliff top, his gaze sifting rapidly through the people until he spotted Treia. He did not care two straws for her, but he knew the one he sought was certain to be at her side. He found Aylaen, and he raised his sword to her. She smiled and waved her hand.

  Skylan turned to face his opponent. He held his shield in front of his body, his sword ready to knock aside Horg’s axe. Skylan was dressed in tunic and trousers and boots, his silver armbands, and of course, the amulet of Torval. Horg was dressed much the same. Neither man wore armor or a helm. Each was supposed to rely on his wits, his courage, and his skill with weapon and shield to win the contest.

  Skylan braced himself. As the one challenged, Horg had the right to make the first attack. He was a big man, and he moved slowly, conserving his strength.

  Standing unmoving, waiting for Horg to attack him, was the most difficult thing Skylan had ever done in his life. He gripped shield and sword and spread his feet and softened his knees to absorb the shock. He watched Horg’s eyes, hoping for some indication of where Horg would strike. He could not attack with his sword, but he could use his weapon to deflect the blow.

  Horg held his own shield in front of him to ward off just such an attempt by Skylan and raised his battle axe. The blade of the axe trailed fire in the sunlight as it came sweeping down. Horg was clever, his eyes gave away nothing.

  Skylan lifted his shield as Horg’s axe thudded into it. Splinters flew. The powerful blow bruised Skylan’s knuckles and jarred his arm. The axe bit so deeply into the wood that Horg had to expend some effort to yank it free, which gave Skylan an opening. He brought up his sword, only to hear Garn yell out sharply.

  Seething, Skylan lowered his weapon. He could not attack. He could only defend.

  Horg recovered his axe and walked back to his place on the cloth. Skylan investigated his shield. The blow had split two of the planks. The shield would fall apart at the next hit. Skylan walked over to Garn and flung the worthless shield onto the ground.

  “That could have been your skull,” Garn pointed out.

  “Just give me another rutting shield!” Skylan muttered.

  Garn handed it over. “Remember what we practiced.”

  Skylan nodded and went back to take his place on the cloth. Now Horg was on the defensive. His shield was swathed in leather, which would help protect it from splitting. A shield like that was more expensive than the wooden shields Skylan used, which had leather binding only around the rim. Such were the benefits of being Chief of Chiefs.

  Horg was hoping for a quick end before he ran out of strength. Skylan hoped for a quick end before he ran out of shields. He walked forward swiftly, his eyes fixed on the shield, seeming to aim for it. At the last moment, still keeping his gaze fixed on the shield, he aimed his blade at Horg’s unprotected right arm.

  Horg was far too skilled to fall for the feint. His battle axe connected with Skylan’s sword, nearly knocking it from his hand. Horg pivoted, slammed his shield into Skylan’s, and shoved him backwards. Skylan’s feet slipped, and he fell, landing on his rump.

  Horg laughed uproariously, jarringly.

  The blood rushed to Skylan’s face. He had been made to look the fool in front of all the Clan Chiefs and the best warriors of the Vindrasi. Garn and his father were both yelling at him, but he paid no heed. Furious, he scrambled to his feet, raised his sword, and rushed at Horg.

  “Stop!” the Kai Priestess called, adding sternly, “Return to your place, Warrior, or forfeit the contest!”

  “Yeah, go back to your place, boy,” Horg jeered.

  Skylan skidded to a halt. He cast Horg a baleful glance, then turned and walked with what dignity he could muster back across the cloth.

  Ordinarily, the crowd would have found the sight of a warrior falling on his backside hilarious. They would have laughed or groaned, depending on whom they favored, freely expressing their opinion of the fight and shouting out advice. On this occasion, though some men exclaimed and women caught their breaths, the Vindrasi mostly watched in silence. Children, not understanding, yet impressed by the awful solemnity, kept close to their parents and watched with wide eyes.

  Skylan, breathing heavily, wiped sweat from his brow and once more took his place. Horg glowered at Skylan; then he suddenly threw down his shield. At first, Skylan couldn’t understand what was happening. He thought for one wild moment that perhaps Horg was surrendering, conceding defeat.

  Horg gave a smirk, then, grasping his battle axe with both hands, he ran headlong at Skylan. Horg’s intent was obvious. He had just told all the world and the gods he had no need of a shield, not against such an inexperienced boy. His cronies in the crowd were jeering and chortling.

  Skylan was outraged. Behind him, Garn was shouting himself hoarse. Norgaard was screaming at him. Skylan gripped his shield and braced himself for the shattering blow.

  Disaster struck in a blur of motion. One moment Horg was thundering down on Skylan, axe raised to strike his shield. In a split second, Horg deftly shifted his axe from his right hand to his left and swept the blade low. The axe sliced through Skylan’s boot and bit into the calf muscle of his right leg.

  Skylan barely felt the wound. All he saw was that Horg had left himself wide open. Skylan started to lunge with his sword, only to feel strong fingers clamp over his arm.

  “Skylan, stop!” Garn said. “It’s over!”

  Furious, Skylan tried to shake him loose. Garn’s hands tightened their grip.

  Skylan, red-faced, rounded on him. “Let go of me, Garn, or by Torval I’ll—”

  “It’s over, Skylan,” Garn repeated, giving him a shake. “You’ve lost.”

  He pointed. Skylan looked to see blood oozing from the wound, running down his foot, staining the white cloth.

  Skylan could taste defeat in his mouth, and it was sickening. He flung down sword and shield. He could not look at anyone. He could not endure the disappointment in his father’s eyes, the pity in Garn’s. Head bowed, Skylan waited in bitter anguish for the Priestess to call out, “First blood! The gods have declared Horg the victor!”

  The Kai Priestess said nothing.

  Skylan wondered angrily what was taking her so long. Was she determined to prolong his shame? He glowered at her from beneath his lowered brows.

  Draya stood outside the ring, her hands folded one atop the other, her gaze fixed on the gray rock of the cliffs behind him.

  Horg, grinning, raised his axe, waiting expectantly for the Kai Priestess to make her judgment. When she was silent, Horg grew angry.

  “I drew first blood!” he cried, and he gestured with his axe at the cloth beneath Skylan’s feet. “I am the winner!”

  The Kai Priestess regarded him with calm detachment.

  “Return to your place, Horg Thekkson,” she said, her voice cool, “or forfeit the contest.”

  Horg’s jaw dropped. He stared at her and roared, “I drew first blood!”

  “Skylan, pick up your sword!” Garn said urgently.

  Skylan had no need to be told. He grabbed his sword and hefted his shield and stood ready for whatever came next.

  In that moment Horg learned he was facing two foes in this ring, and the most dangerous was not the upstart young man wielding the sword.

  The most d
angerous was his wife.

  His friends had warned Horg that Draya might try something treacherous. Horg had scoffed at them. Draya was a woman of blind, unreasoning faith. He should know. He’d been forced to put up with her pious bleatings for years. She might well cross him, but she would never cross her gods.

  Now he realized she hated him enough to risk even being god-cursed. Looking back, he could see how she had brought him to this place, maneuvered and manipulated him every step of the way, in order to destroy him.

  Well, he would see about that!

  Horg turned to face the crowd.

  “I drew first blood!” he shouted, appealing to them. “By the laws set down by the gods, I am the winner! The Kai Priestess is trying to thwart the will of Torval!”

  No one spoke or called out in support. Then Draya said quietly, “It is late, Horg, for you to be calling on the gods.”

  Horg rounded on her. He walked closer, hulking over her, glaring down at her. “You scheming bitch! You had best pray I lose!”

  He turned back to face the crowd. “If the Kai Priestess can break the rules, so can I! This will not be a fight between children. It will be a fight between men! A fight to the death!”

  He looked over at Norgaard. “Do you agree to this, Chief of the Torgun?”

  Norgaard opened his mouth, but it was Skylan who answered with a resounding and defiant, “I agree!”

  Horg walked back to his place and was bending down to pick up his shield when a sharp pain jabbed him in the belly.

  He grimaced and rubbed his stomach. Damn it, this was not the time for indigestion!

  CHAPTER

  8

  Ages hence, whenever famous battles between champions were mentioned, a Vindrasi elder would say with a smile and a nod, “Ah, you can talk about Thorgunnd and Krega all you want. But I was witness to the fight between Horg and Skylan!”

  At which the youngsters would regard the old man with envy and clamor to hear the tale.

  The fight was later celebrated in song by Balin, Talgogroth and bard, and it became his most famous work. Long, long years after his death, bards still sang it whenever Vindrasi warriors gathered.