He felt, in answer, the touch of a cold hand.
He looked up to see Draya standing over him and behind her, above her, within her, the shining wings and sparkling scaled body and stern-eyed face of the Dragon Goddess.
“You are the draugr,” said Skylan. “The corpse of my wife. You forced me to play the dragonbone game.”
“I did,” said Vindrash. “Do you know why?”
“I think so,” said Skylan slowly. “The Priestesses designed the game to help them remember the ritual to summon the dragons. The five bones you throw at the beginning have something to do with the Five Dragons. But I don’t understand—”
“True,” said the goddess. “You don’t understand. And because of the Curse of Hevis, I am forbidden to tell you.” The dragon’s tongue flickered from between her teeth. “I did enjoy our games, however. Though I doubt you did.”
Skylan smiled bleakly. “Wulfe tells me the druids do not sanction murder. He said the druids did not kill my wife. The boy spoke the truth, didn’t he?”
“Draya vowed to give herself to me, and she kept her vow. She knew she had done wrong by poisoning Horg. She had usurped Torval’s right to judge him, and she accepted her punishment. She drank her death willingly and died at peace. She gave her body to me, so that I could use it to hide from my enemies.”
“As she repented, so do I.” Skylan looked directly into the bright, shining light. “I ask you to forgive me, Vindrash. I ask Torval’s forgiveness.”
“We forgive you.” The dragon sighed. “Can you forgive us?”
“What do you mean? The gods have no need for man’s forgiveness,” Skylan said, bewildered. “The gods do not make mistakes.”
Vindrash fanned her wings. He felt the wind brush his cheek, a harsh, brooding breath.
“You called upon me for a reason, Skylan Ivorson,” the goddess said. “What do you want of me?”
Skylan rested his hands upon his knees. He looked up at the goddess and said, “Take my life, Blessed Vindrash. Let my body rest upon that pyre. Let the fire consume my flesh. Let Garn live, for it is my fault that he died.”
Vindrash smiled gently, then shook her head. “Torval does not want your death, Skylan Ivorson. Torval wants your life. He wants a sword that has passed through fire and water. He wants a sword whose bright, fierce light can be seen throughout heaven.”
“Am I that sword?” Skylan asked in wonder.
Vindrash laughed. The universe rang with her laughter. Her laugh made the stars tremble and silenced the ocean’s roar. She bent her dragon head on her curved neck, darting toward Skylan, the fangs glistening and her reptile tongue dancing. He fell back before her, cringing.
“You? A sword of the gods?” Vindrash said scornfully. “You are a knife to gut fish!”
Skylan flushed at the insult. Lowering his head to avoid the goddess’s mocking eyes, he saw that Garn’s hand had slipped from the handle of his axe. The body was stiffening, the muscles growing rigid. Skylan pressed his hand over Garn’s cold flesh, trying to shape it around the handle of the axe.
Garn’s eyes opened. He gazed up at Skylan.
“Look to the south!” he said urgently.
Skylan dropped the hand, sprang back. Had yet another draugr come to haunt him?
“Look to the south!” Garn insisted.
Skylan turned his head.
Winged serpents, silver and shining, huge as rivers, slid through the night, their bodies masking the stars. The serpents were seven in number, and they came from the south, their bodies rippling like silver ribbon. Their slitted eyes glowed with flame, and the fire of their terrible purpose was aimed at Vindrash.
Skylan recalled Vindrash saying she had been hiding from her foes. Foes who had now found her. His hand reached for his sword.
“Goddess!” Skylan cried, and pointed.
The Dragon Goddess saw her danger. She roared her defiance and shouted for help. The Sea Goddess, nursing her anger, refused to do battle. The Sun Goddess fled to the other side of the world. The moon vanished behind a cloud. The stars disappeared. The waves diminished, dwindled to frightened ripples.
Vindrash faced this terrible foe alone.
The war was not of Skylan’s making. He could say it was none of his concern. He was angry at the gods. Torval had reviled him. Vindrash had mocked him. Akaria had nearly drowned him. Aylis had scorched him. The foe they fought must be terrible, for even the gods had fled. Skylan would do well to follow their example.
Skylan was suddenly ashamed. He was ashamed of the cowardly gods. He was ashamed of himself. He did not know who or what these dread serpents were. He knew only that they meant to destroy Vindrash. And by attacking his goddess, they attacked him.
Vindrash spread her wings and sprang into the air to face her foes that were diving down on her from the clouds. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, thinking only that he would not be left on the ground to watch the battle in the skies, Skylan jumped upon the pyre and seized hold of the dragon’s clawed hind foot.
Vindrash stared down in astonishment to see Skylan clinging desperately to a massive claw with one hand. He held Blood Dancer in the other. She had no time to speak, for her foes were closing on her rapidly. She seemed to smile in grim approval, however, and then she twitched her leg and flung Skylan up amongst the stars.
He hung in the dark sky for a terrifying moment, watching the sea and the shore turning beneath him, and then he landed upon a sandy beach beneath chalk-white cliffs. He recognized this place. He had been here before, though he could not remember when or where it was.
The dragon flew to meet the serpents, breathing fire and lightning and lashing at them with her ripping claws. Skylan heard a shout and turned to see Torval come striding down from the north, roaring in anger and swinging his massive battle axe.
Hearing Torval’s challenge, three of the serpents broke off the fight with the dragon and swarmed down to do battle with the god. Torval was no longer the strong warrior who had fought and bested the Great Dragon Ilyrion. He was an old man, the same old man Skylan had met cooking fish by the shore. His hair was long and gray, his beardless chin grizzled. His face was seamed and creased and wrinkled like the folds of mountains, the crevices of valleys. His eyes burned with fire; his armor outshone the coward sun. His axe gleamed brighter silver than the base moon.
Torval glowered at Skylan. “What do you want?”
“I thought you might need to gut some fish,” Skylan replied coolly.
Torval threw back his head and roared.
“Back to back, then,” said Torval, grinning. “Heel to heel.”
Skylan put his back to the god’s back and braced his heels against the god’s. The immense serpents flew at them. Slitted eyes glowed. Their toothless maws gaped. Their wings seemed small for their bodies and were positioned near the front. And then Skylan saw why, as one of the serpents battling Vindrash twisted his body to lash at her with his tail.
Blood dripped onto Skylan’s upturned face. He watched in rage to see the serpent’s tail slice through the dragon’s scales, opening a gash in her body. Another vicious lash from a tail tore through one of the dragon’s feet, sheering off a claw.
Skylan wrenched his gaze from the embattled dragon and focused on his own danger. The three serpents were circling the two warriors, who held sword and axe raised to meet them, shifting their stances to keep the enemy in sight.
“They will strike in a rush,” Torval told Skylan. “Aim for the—”
A serpent darted at Skylan. The slitted eyes grew large as the serpent drew near. Its maw gaped wide, as though it would swallow him whole. Skylan knew a moment’s sheer, panicked terror, and then he felt the god’s back against his, solid and reassuring. Skylan let the serpent get close, and then he swung his sword, putting all the strength of his body and his soul into the blow.
The sword sliced through the serpent’s neck, cut off the head. Blood spurted. The head went spinning off into the night. Skylan gave a triumphant sh
out that ended in a strangled gargle of horror. Two heads sprouted from the severed neck. Two maws gaped. Four slitted eyes fixed their fiery gaze on him.
“—heart,” Torval finished dryly. “That’s the only way you can kill the slimy worms.”
Skylan wondered where the heart of these slithering monsters was located. He was about to ask, then he saw a serpent streaking down on the god and he called out a warning. “Your left, lord!”
Torval shifted his stance. Shouting defiance, the god swung the blade of his axe in a flaring arc, striking the serpent near the wings, cutting the creature in half. Blood rained down on them. The two halves of the serpents twitched and writhed and then two heads sprouted, two tails lashed. Two serpents sprang into being.
“Bah!” Torval swore and spit blood. “I missed. Look to your right, young dog!”
The heart must be near the wings, Skylan guessed, and he hoped grimly he guessed right, for the two-headed serpent was winging around to attack him again. It dived from the sky. Skylan waited, braced and ready to strike. At the last moment, when it seemed both gaping maws were about to snap off his head, he ducked down into a crouch. The serpent’s forward momentum carried it above his head. Skylan gripped his sword in both hands, and aiming his strike at the body right between the small, rapidly beating wings, he thrust the sword deep.
Blood ran down the groove in the sword that had given Blood Dancer its name. The blood drenched Skylan’s arms and hands, making the sword slippery and difficult to hold. He tightened his grasp and jabbed upward. Impaled upon the sword’s blade, the serpent screamed in pain and fury, twisting its body, trying to free itself, and ended up driving the blade deeper, right into the heart.
The serpent died, but in its death throes, it struck a final blow. Its tail whipped around and caught Skylan across the chest. With a blast like spiked lightning, the tail sliced open flesh and muscle, laying bare the bone. The pain was searing, excruciating. Skylan’s heart, jolted by the shock, pounded erratically. Blood Dancer slipped from his hand. He could not catch his breath, and he fell to the ground, only there was no ground. He fell and kept falling, spiraling downward. He saw Torval continuing to battle his foes. Vindrash had a torn wing and was struggling to remain airborne.
“Retreat, my lady!” Torval shouted. “I will cover you!”
He redoubled his attack, slashing furiously. Several serpents lay dead at his feet, including the one Skylan had slain, and the others were keeping their distance. Vindrash folded her wings around her mauled body and dived headfirst into the sea. Two serpents sped after her, trying to catch her, but at the last moment, the Sea Goddess relented. An enormous wave rose up to receive Vindrash and carry her safely into the depths of the ocean, where, it seemed, the serpents were loath to follow.
Skylan landed on the ground, the soft sand absorbing his fall. The last he saw of Torval, the god was swinging his axe tirelessly, felling serpents who now swarmed him.
The world went black as night for Skylan for a moment, and then it was bright as dawn. He found himself lying on his face in front of Garn’s bier. The warriors were gathered around him. Treia stood over him, gazing down on him. Vindictive, triumphant, she was about to swallow him whole.
“Skylan Ivorson,” Treia said, pointing her finger at him, “you have heard the charges against you. You have heard me denounce you before men and the gods as a liar, a cheat, and a murderer. Because of you, good men are dead and the Dragon Kahg has abandoned us. What do you say to this, Skylan Ivorson?”
Skylan gazed up at her in bewilderment. He had been fighting the battle with Torval, yet he must have been here, as well, for he remembered, dimly, Treia summoning the warriors when they woke that morning. He remembered her telling them of his crimes. How he had conspired with Draya to murder Horg and rob Torval of his judgment. He had then rid himself of Draya, for fear she would expose him. He had plotted with a slaver to abduct Draya and take her to the Southland. His plot had been foiled by the druids, who had murdered Draya and changed Skylan’s men into rabbits. When Bjorn demanded angrily how Treia knew all this, where had she come by her knowledge, she had claimed she had been told by Vindrash.
Skylan knew that was not true. Vindrash had forgiven him. It was Treia who lied. He smiled bitterly. Convicted by a lie. How fitting.
Perhaps the battle had been a dream. He looked down at his chest and saw an angry red weal slashed across his naked breast.
The battle with the gods had been real. He was living the nightmare.
“What do you say, Skylan Ivorson?” Treia cried.
She regarded him smugly, eager to see him twist and wriggle, struggle to try to free himself.
Skylan lifted his head. He drew a deep breath and spoke quietly and calmly. “I say that you have spoken the truth.”
CHAPTER
16
Treia seemed disappointed. His calm confession sucked the air out of her.
“We cannot trust this man. He may yet try to escape justice,” she said. “Bind him and take him on board the dragonship. Lock him in the hold. We will carry him back to Vindraholm for the Vutmana.”
“He is god-cursed!” Sigurd said. He drew his axe. “Let us kill him now!”
The men growled their agreement.
“Skylan is guilty of robbing Torval of his judgment!” Treia cast a flashingeyed, sweeping glance around the circle. “Would you risk angering the god by doing the same?”
Sigurd glowered at his stepdaughter, trying to intimidate her. Treia faced him, unafraid. Sigurd, muttering, flung his axe into the sand and picked up a length of rope.
Skylan held out his hands, wrists together. He was prepared to accept his punishment, yet he could not help but flinch when he saw that Aylaen was among those who came to bind him.
She wrapped the rope around his wrists and leaned over to hiss in his ear, “I saw the battle in heaven. I heard Vindrash speak to you. The gods may forgive you, but I do not. I will always hate you!”
She gave the rope a yank, pulled it tight. The rope bit into his flesh, but it was her words, not the rope, that drew blood. Aylaen walked away and went to stand beside the pyre. Men held flaming torches, ready to set it alight.
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 t
orches 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.
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