Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Skylan followed the road and came across the trail, just as the farmer had said. He turned Blade’s head and rode along the trail a short distance. Reaching the summit of a hill, he reined in the horse. The steep rock walls of the crater jutted up from the grassland, like sharp teeth eager to take a bite out of the blue sky.

  The trail on which he was riding cut through the grasslands, led straight to those gray walls. He looked down on the trail with a feeling of awe. Warriors had walked this trail since time’s beginning. Perhaps the great Thorgunnd had walked this path. Devout warriors all, going to honor Torval with noble hearts and unstained souls.

  Whereas Skylan was an oath-breaker and a murderer—or as near to being a murderer as did not matter. He was a cheat and a liar, and he had invoked Torval’s name in his lies.

  I try to do right. It’s just that things keep going wrong. Torval understands. Skylan tried to reassure himself. The god sees into my heart.

  He guided his horse to the top of the ridge and was about to ride down the hill, when he heard a raucous caw. A shadow swept over him, causing him to duck involuntarily. An unusually large raven landed with a flurry of black wings on the trail directly in front of Skylan, spooking Blade, who snorted nervously and did a little sideways dance. Skylan pulled on the reins, dragging his startled horse to a halt.

  A dead hare lay on the trail. The raven glared at Skylan, warning him away from the prize. Calmly, unafraid, the raven hopped onto the carcass, dug its claws into the brown fur, and just as calmly began to peck out the rabbit’s eyes.

  Skylan shuddered. The raven was sacred to Hevis, God of Fire, Deceit, Hidden Acts, and Treachery. No omen could be clearer or more terrible.

  Skylan shouted, hoping the bird would take fright and fly away. The raven continued to feast on the rabbit. Skylan urged Blade forward. The raven glanced at him and then, to his horror, the bird spread enormous black wings, leaped off the corpse, and flew straight at Skylan’s head.

  Skylan ducked, yanking on the reins so hard that Blade spun around and nearly lost his footing. Terrified, Skylan rode at a gallop back down the trail, retracing his steps.

  Behind him, the raven gave a raucous, cawing laugh.

  Skylan rode for days with no clear notion of where he was or where he was going. He wanted only to put as much distance between himself and Hammerfall as possible. When Blade grew tired, Skylan dismounted and continued on foot, leading the horse. He fell asleep on his feet, only to wake with a start from dreams that ravens were pecking out his eyes.

  Skylan, who never dreamed, now dreamed all the time.

  Torval was clearly furious with Skylan. The god had turned his back on him. Not content with that, Torval had sent the treacherous Hevis to bar Skylan from the sacred site. Skylan had to find a way to propitiate Torval, appease the angry god. He had no idea how to go about this. As a child, whenever Skylan had made Norgaard angry, the boy had simply kept out of his father’s way until Norgaard cooled off. Skylan had hoped such a tactic would work with the god, but obviously it did not. He did not know what more he could do. He needed advice, and Garn was not around.

  The road on which Skylan traveled led inland for a long distance. Stopped by the foothills of the Kairnholm Mountains, the road turned toward the coast, dipped down to the Hesvolm Sea.

  Days had passed since he’d fled Hammerfall. The afternoon was waning. Skylan had to start thinking wearily about finding somewhere to make camp. He stood gazing at the vast expanse of water that spread gleaming before him and noted several boats drawn up along a barren strandline.

  Skylan first thought this was a raiding party, but then he realized that didn’t make much sense. There were no villages anywhere near. The boats were only five in number, and they were not swift-sailing, sleek warships. They were short, squat merchant vessels, designed to carry goods, not warriors.

  The boats were far from any town, and he wondered if they were lost. Moving closer, he could see that one boat had been turned upside down. Men swarmed over it. That was the explanation. A boat had been damaged, and the traders had put ashore to repair it.

  Skylan longed to hear a human voice after listening so long to his own confused, dark thoughts, and he urged his horse to a gallop. Traders went everywhere, saw everything. They tended to remain neutral, and even if their countries were at war, they still plied their routes, selling goods to friend and foe alike. Anything to make a living.

  Traders traveled far, as well. The thought was in Skylan’s mind that they might know how to find the ogres’ lands.

  One of the traders caught sight of Skylan, as he came galloping across the sands, and he gave a warning shout. Seeing a warrior clad in armor, armed, and bearing a shield, the men left the work on the damaged boat to form a line across the road. They were armed with swords and axes and looked like they knew what they were about. Skylan removed his helm and kept his sword sheathed, showing he had no hostile intent.

  The men had the black hair and beards and swarthy complexions of those who lived in lands far, far to the south. All except one. This man had blond hair and a bushy blond beard. He was taller than the others, broad-shouldered, and big-boned. Skylan regarded this man with interest. He had to be Vindrasi.

  Skylan’s first thought was that he was a guide hired by the Southlanders. Then he saw that the blond man was dressed in the same type of clothing as the Southlanders—long, flowing robes belted at the waist with loose-fitting sleeves. He gestured at Skylan, then shouted something at his companions. The men put away their weapons and returned to their work—or rather, to supervising the work. Skylan saw now that the men repairing the ship were slaves, wearing leg irons and shackles.

  Skylan noted that there were women among the group; short, dark women with long black curling hair, black eyes, and smooth brown skin. He saw the women eyeing him, and he regretted the fact that he had not shaved in several days or combed his hair or bathed.

  “I am Skylan Ivorson,” Skylan called out when he was within hailing distance. He was the stranger, and it was up to him to proclaim himself. “I am the son of Norgaard of the Torgun.”

  He almost added proudly, “Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” but at the last moment, he thought better of it. He did not know these men or why they were here. A Chief of Chiefs would be worth his weight in ransom.

  The blond man stared at Skylan in amazement, and then he gave a great roar. “I do not believe it! It is little Skylan!”

  Now it was Skylan’s turn to stare. Who was this man?

  The blond-bearded face split in a wide grin. “The last time I saw you was thirteen winters ago,” the man proclaimed. “You were five then, and nearly sliced off my thumb with your father’s sword. I have the scar to prove it!”

  Skylan swung himself down off his horse. He looked with curious puzzlement at the man, who did seem vaguely familiar.

  “Don’t you know me? Have I changed so much? Ah, I suppose I have. It is Raegar Gustafson!” The blond man thumped himself on the chest. “I am the son of your mother’s brother. We are cousins, little Skylan!”

  Raegar shook his head. “Imagine us meeting like this in the middle of nowhere. Some god must have arranged it!”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Skylan gaped at his cousin in astonishment.

  “Raegar! We mourned you for dead!”

  Skylan had been only five, but he still remembered that sad time, for it had been his first true awareness of death. As a small boy, Skylan had worshipped his cousin Raegar. A bold warrior—big, jovial, handsome, liked by everyone—Raegar had been lost in a raid. The last anyone saw of him, he had gone down while battling three warriors. They searched for his body the next day, but the men had not been able to find him, and they assumed the corpse had been devoured by wolves. Raegar had been around twenty then, Skylan reckoned, which would make him about thirty-three now.

  Skylan had grieved his favorite cousin’s loss to such an extent that Norgaard had smacked him, saying sternly that Skylan d
ishonored his cousin’s memory by sniveling over him.

  “What happened to you?” Skylan asked. “Obviously you did not die.”

  Raegar grimaced and shook his head. “I should have died, Cousin. There were times—many times—I wished I had died. I was badly wounded, and when I could not fight, I pleaded with the sons of whores to kill me, to send me to Torval with honor. They said I was too valuable to waste—a big strong man like myself. They took me captive, nursed me back to health, and carried me to Oran in shackles.”

  Raegar jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “See those poor bastards? Like them, I was a slave. I was sold in the slave market, and I might well have been sent to the iron mines, which means I would have been dead in a year, but a god was watching over me. A man of wealth and influence purchased me, and he put me to work in his house hold. His secretary taught me to read and write the language of the Southland. He had to teach me in secret, for it is forbidden that slaves should be educated.

  “My master found out, and I feared I would be whipped or perhaps even killed. Instead, he furthered my education. Eventually I became head of his house hold. I earned enough to buy my freedom, and now I am a merchant trader. These men”—Raegar gestured to those who were supervising the work of the slaves on the boat—“are my partners.”

  Skylan regarded his cousin in bafflement. “I don’t understand, Cousin. If you were a free man, why didn’t you return to us, to your homeland? First avenging yourself on those who had enslaved you, of course.”

  Raegar scratched his bearded chin. “I considered coming back to Luda. But a man finds his happiness where he can, Cousin. I had a good life. I owned my own house. I had a wife, children. All gone now, sadly.” Raegar looked downcast. “They perished in a fire.”

  “Freilis give them peace,” said Skylan, naming the Goddess of the Dead, who took care of women and children.

  Raegar nodded; then he shrugged and smiled again. “I like Oran, Cousin. I like the people, I like the climate.” He grinned expansively. “Always plenty to eat and no more freezing off your balls in the winter. And the women are beautiful. As you can see.”

  Skylan had been looking at the women. They were much different from Vindrasi women, who were mostly blond and blue-eyed. One of the prettiest smiled at him. Skylan smiled back.

  “I had a longing to see my homeland,” Raegar was saying, “and when my partners proposed this voyage, I decided to go with them. We have been visiting the clans in the south. It was there that I heard the remarkable news that my cousin, little Skylan, was now Chief of Chiefs! I was on my way to wish you joy when this motherless boat struck a rock and started taking on water.”

  Skylan did not understand how a man could turn his back upon his kin and make a new life in a strange land, especially a land whose people had made him a slave.

  “Torval must have wrecked our boat on purpose, for here you are. The god has dropped you into my arms, so to speak.”

  Skylan shifted uncomfortably at the naming of the god, though, on second thought, it was a good sign that Torval had relented toward him enough to give him back his favorite cousin, return him from the dead.

  Raegar stood regarding Skylan with undisguised admiration. “Chief of Chiefs. I am not surprised. The day you were born, an eagle fought an adder outside your house. The eagle won, slaying the snake. An omen of greatness, for all know the eagle is favored of Torval.”

  “I never knew that,” Skylan said.

  “Norgaard never told you? Ah, well, that is like him. He probably feared it would give you a swelled head. How is your father? I hear he was badly wounded and he finds it difficult to get around, yet he is still Chief of the Clan.”

  Skylan was about to answer when Raegar suddenly struck himself on the forehead. “Where are my manners? You have ridden far. You must be thirsty and hungry. Come, I will introduce you to my partners, and you will share our evening meal. The wine of Oran is excellent. And”—Raegar smiled—“I have a gift for you. I will show you after dinner. When I knew I was sailing north, I had this present made especially for my favorite cousin. I had no idea then that I would find little Skylan Chief of Chiefs and married to the Kai Priestess!”

  Skylan frowned, not liking the reminder.

  “Speaking of which,” Raegar added teasingly, “what are you doing riding around the countryside when you should be enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed?”

  Skylan’s frown deepened to a scowl.

  “Have I said something wrong, Cousin?” Raegar asked in some confusion.

  “It is nothing,” said Skylan. “I will explain later.” He glanced again at the pretty girl who had smiled at him. She was still keeping her eyes on him. “First I would like to bathe and make myself presentable.”

  Raegar grinned. “Go ahead. I will take care of this fine beast for you.”

  Skylan walked back down the beach to a sheltered cove. Stripping off his clothes, he plunged into the water and swam for a long time. He emerged from the water and let the sun warm and dry his wet skin. He combed his hair and was shaving off the stubble on his chin when he was aware that he was not alone. The pretty girl had come up on him silently. She was regarding him with unabashed admiration. Pointing at his clothes that he’d left in a heap on the sand, she made a motion as of washing and then wringing.

  “Ah, yes, thank you,” Skylan said, wondering if she understood him.

  The girl gathered his clothes in her arms and, with a smile, carried them away.

  Skylan had brought a change of clothes with him. He dressed himself and felt better, much better. He made certain that Blade had been cared for, and found the animal contentedly munching on grain.

  Raegar led Skylan to the group of men gathered around the damaged boat.

  “Gentlemen, let me introduce my cousin Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi,” Raegar said. He explained the relationship and then glanced at Skylan. “Did you understand what I said?”

  “It was all so fast,” said Skylan.

  “The language is similar to ours, except that the words flow more rapidly, like a babbling brook. It is hard at first to tell where one word ends and another begins. You will get the hang of it eventually.”

  The men greeted Skylan with respect, which pleased him.

  “Who are the women?” Skylan asked. “Are they your wives?”

  Raegar laughed. “They are slaves. They do the cooking and washing and keep us warm at night. I see one has caught your fancy.”

  Skylan was watching the pretty girl, who had gone off to do his laundry. She had scrubbed his shirt in seawater and was now spreading it out on a boulder to dry. It had been two years since he’d lain with a woman. He had pledged himself to Aylaen, but then had come Draya. He could still feel her horrid hands groping him. He thought of that, and he watched the pretty girl.

  The men sat down to a meal of fish stew, bread, and cheese, washed down by a truly remarkable wine. At a word from Raegar, who was clearly their leader, the Southlanders left him and his cousin to themselves. The two sat together on the beach before a fire of driftwood, watching the flames change color and drinking wine from cups made of polished wood.

  “This wood comes from the olive tree,” Raegar said. “Here, try some of the fruit.” He held out a bowl filled with green and black olives.

  “You’re supposed to spit out the seed,” he advised Skylan, who had swallowed the pit and nearly choked.

  Skylan found the olives delicious. The wine warmed his blood, made his cares and worries seem small and insignificant, meant to be spit out, like the pits of the olives. Raegar told stories of his life in Oran. As Skylan listened, fascinated, his boyish admiration and affection for his cousin came back to him. He enjoyed Raegar’s outlandish tales, though he privately suspected his cousin had made most of them up.

  He told about huge ships with three banks of oars that could each carry two hundred warriors and a single city whose population was larger than that of the entire Vindrasi nation. He spo
ke of a thousand or more warriors who did not fight in shield-walls, but marched about the field of battle, wheeling and turning in complex formations.

  “Come, Cousin, what do you take me for—a yokel?” Skylan said, laughing. “Warriors who do not fight in a shield-wall? A child would believe such a thing!”

  “It is the truth, I swear by Torval,” Raegar stated. “Ah, but that reminds me! Your gift!”

  He summoned the pretty girl and sent her running to one of the boats. She rummaged around in it for a short time, then returned bearing a large bundle wrapped in coarse cloth. She handed the bundle to Raegar, who dismissed her, sent her scurrying away.

  “I wish you joy of your bride, Cousin,” said Raegar, and he presented his gift.

  Skylan unwrapped the layers of cloth to find a sword in a leather sheath. He grasped the hilt, drew out the blade, and gave an audible gasp.

  The sword was pattern-welded, which meant that the blade was made of different types of iron twisted together while the metal was hot, forming intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer and change color in the firelight. The blade’s edge gleamed; it was made of hard steel. The center groove, made of softer steel, was decorated with whorls and swirls, all twining together in an intricate dance.

  “And that is what I will name it,” said Skylan softly, turning the blade to catch the light. “Blood Dancer.”

  “Hard yet flexible,” said Raegar. “Do you like it?”

  Skylan could only nod. The clans in the north forged pattern-welded swords, but nothing of this quality. And their swords were dear.

  He regarded Raegar in wonder. “This must have cost you a fortune, Cousin.”

  “The smith is a friend of mine. He owed me a favor,” Raegar said lightly, passing it off. “There is no finer sword in all Oran. Except my own,” he added with a laugh.