Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Trudging along the dusty forest trail now, dry twigs and leaves snapping underfoot, Skylan remembered vividly how he had lain awake at night, gripping his knife in his hand as he listened to the squawks and squeaks, the screams and groans and snarls, picturing the fae folk gathering around him, eager to drag him down below the earth to their dark kingdom forever.

  Hearing something—not a faery—Skylan came to a sudden halt. He raised his free hand, a gesture that brought Garn to a stop, as well. The sound was an odd one—a rumbling grunting and snorting. They listened intently. Something incredibly large was crashing about in the dry brush.

  The two glanced at each other. The noises came from up ahead and to their left. Skylan was still thinking of fae folk, and he gripped his spear more tightly. He was afraid of nothing born of mortal man, but the thought of encountering a hairy troll made his blood run cold.

  Neither young man had been particularly quiet or stealthy in his movements. So near to home, there was no need. But they grew quiet now, moving silently toward the thing making the noise. Skylan motioned for Garn to go off to his right as both left the trail, plunging into the forest, planning to converge on whatever it was from different sides.

  Skylan was the first to spot the creature, and he stood in amazement laced with relief.

  A wild boar.

  Skylan had heard tales of these enormous beasts. Wild pigs with huge tusks, they could weigh as much as five stout men. He had never seen one, for boars did not live around here. The boar had likely been driven from its accustomed hunting grounds in the mountains by the drought, but Skylan believed Torval had sent it in answer to his prayers. The gods might be angered at the Torgun, but Torval loved Skylan still.

  The boar had either heard or sniffed trouble, for it lifted its massive head, glaring about as though aware it was being outflanked. The boar’s fur stood up in alarm, and it snarled a warning to keep away. The boar was a fearsome-looking beast. Its jutting, heavy head hung down from massive humped shoulders. It had two sets of tusks. One, the upper set, called honors, sharpened the lower, larger set, known as rippers for good reason. The lower tusks were designed to slash apart the flesh of a victim. Short, sturdy legs supported the heavy body.

  Watching the boar, Skylan recalled the tales he had heard of hunters trying to bring one down. By all accounts, boars were fierce, vicious animals who would fight savagely to the death. His father had hunted boar in his youth. During one such hunt, a boar had slain a Torgun warrior, goring him in the stomach with its tusks. No one ever hunted boar alone. The warriors went out in parties, bringing nets to entangle the boar and dogs to attack and distract the beast, while the hunters closed in for the kill.

  All this flashed through Skylan’s mind, even as he determined that he would bring down Torval’s boar by himself and haul it back to camp in triumph. The Torgun people would feast on boar meat this night and for many nights to come, and they would sing Skylan’s praises. Aylaen would at last look at him with love light in her green eyes—not with the fond, tolerant, sisterly glint of amusement he had come to loathe.

  Skylan eyed the boar and considered his strategy. Garn appeared in the shadows of the trees opposite. Guessing Skylan’s intent, Garn waved his hands, urging Skylan to run away.

  Skylan paid no heed. Spear raised, he advanced on the boar, motioning in turn for Garn to stay where he was. Skylan recalled his father saying that the boar carried a shield of cartilage atop its shoulders hard enough to stop a spear. He also remembered his father saying that one needed to make the first blow the killing blow.

  Aim for the chest, the heart.

  The boar smelled Skylan and fixed its eyes on him and lowered its head. He had been afraid it would flee, for boars had no honor to trouble them, and were content to run off and live to fight another day. This boar was hungry, however, and meat was meat, be it walking on two feet or four. With a savage snarl, the boar charged at Skylan.

  Skylan had planned on charging the boar, and he was startled that the boar had taken the initiative and was charging him. The boar was the size of a boulder, and it seemed to grow as it thundered toward him. Skylan began to think he’d made an error in judgment. Garn was yelling for him to climb into the trees. Skylan briefly considered taking his friend’s advice; then he thought of Torval watching from where the god sat at his feast table in the Hall of Heroes, roaring with laughter to see the young man scramble for his life up a tree, clinging to the branches while the boar rooted and snorted beneath.

  Skylan ran to the tree, but he did not climb it. He set his back against it, along with the butt end of his spear. He had to withstand the force of the charge, or else the boar would slam into him and knock him to the ground, then gore him with its tusks.

  Seeing that Skylan was determined to fight, Garn dashed out of the woods and hurled his spear at the boar, hoping to at least wound and weaken it. Garn was not so strong as Skylan, but he had a good eye and a steady hand, and he often beat Skylan in contests where accuracy counted more than strength.

  Garn’s spear struck the boar in the neck. Blood spurted, and the beast roared in pain, but it kept on going straight for Skylan.

  “Torval, strengthen my arm and let my aim be true!” Skylan prayed.

  A feeling of calm descended on Skylan. He had known such calm during battle, knew it to be a gift of Torval. Time slowed. Skylan focused on what he had to do, paying no heed to the crashing hooves and the horrible roarings and snortings or to Garn’s shouts. Skylan heard the beating of his own heart, the rush of his own blood, like the crashing waves of the sea that filled his sleep at night. He dug his feet into the ground, braced himself against the tree trunk, and leveled his spear.

  The boar’s small red eyes burned with fury. Spittle flew from its mouth. Yellow tusks jutted upward from the outthrust lower jaw. Intent upon its prey, the boar rushed at Skylan. He drove the spear into the boar’s neck.

  Blood flowed. The boar gave a grunt—more of surprise than of pain. The shock of the blow slammed Skylan back against the tree, jarring his spear arm and almost hurling him off his feet. He fought to remain standing, fought to drive the spear deeper into the boar, for he had not killed the beast. To his shock and astonishment, the boar kept on coming. Roaring, thrusting at him with its tusks, the boar pushed its body along the spear’s haft in a furious effort to destroy Skylan.

  The boar was doing Skylan’s job for him, driving the spear deeper into its body, but it was also closing in on Skylan. Its head thrashed, its yellow tusks slashed at him, and they were wet with his blood.

  Skylan could do nothing except press against the tree and hold fast to the spear and pray to Torval it did not break. Sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes, half-blinding him. He shook his head to see. His muscles were weakening, starting to shake from the tremendous exertion. He had the dim impression that Garn had joined the fight, striking at the boar with his knife.

  Blood flew; tusks slashed. Skylan held fast.

  The boar, spitted on the spear, twisted and turned, more than once nearly yanking the weapon out of Skylan’s hands. Gasping for breath, he threw the waning strength of his body into a last desperate spear thrust, driving as deep as he could.

  With a slash of its tusks, the boar gave a gurgling grunt and crashed sideways onto the ground. It lay in a pool of blood, its flanks heaving and its feet twitching. Skylan held on to the spear until he saw the life gradually fade from the boar’s eyes. The boar gave a shudder and lay still. Its hatred remained in the staring eyes even after death.

  Skylan let go of the spear and collapsed beside the warm, bloody corpse. He lay in its blood and his own beneath the tree and dragged air into his burning lungs. He was dizzy, and now he felt the pain. He looked at his body to try to determine the extent of his injuries, but his clothes, ripped to ribbons, were sticking to the wounds, preventing him from judging their severity. His hands and arms were slashed, and blood and pain were everywhere.

  Garn knelt beside him, his own arms
bloodied to the elbow. He did a swift battlefield assessment, cutting away the cloth of Skylan’s tight-fitting linen breeches and the long belted linen shirt.

  “You have a deep gash in your thigh,” Garn reported after examining Skylan from top to bottom. “But the blood is oozing, not pulsing.”

  That was good. Blood pulsing from a wound would have meant Skylan would bleed to death.

  “You have lots of other wounds, but the thigh wound is the worst,” Garn announced. He rocked back on his heels. “You are damn lucky,” he added with a smile and a shake of his head.

  Skylan smiled, too, through the haze of pain. He was not lucky. He was blessed. His wyrd, his fate, was bound with glory.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Though Garn wanted to carry Skylan back to the village immediately, to have his wounds tended, Skylan refused to leave the boar, fearing it would be devoured by wolves.

  “Bjorn and Erdmun will not be far away,” he said, sitting up, propping himself against the tree. “Summon them with your horn.”

  Skylan drank water from his waterskin and pressed the remnants of his shirt over the wound in his thigh to stop the bleeding.

  He was a quick healer—another blessing from Torval. The wound burned and throbbed, but he did his best to ignore the pain. He was helped by the golden haze of triumph that acted as sweet medicine and eased his hurts. He rested his hand possessively on the boar’s hairy, bloody flank.

  Garn brought his ram’s horn to his lips and gave three blasts, two long and one short, indicating that he needed help. He paced about restlessly, not so confident as Skylan that their two friends would be in the vicinity.

  Bjorn and Erdmun arrived far sooner than even Skylan had expected, bounding out of the woods with their spears raised. Both skidded to a halt and stared in astonishment to see their friends covered in blood, next to the gigantic carcass.

  “That was fast,” said Garn.

  “We heard the crashing and roaring, and it sounded like a battle,” said Bjorn, unable to take his awed gaze from the boar, “and—”

  “—we came to see what was going on,” Erdmun said.

  The brothers often finished each other’s sentences.

  The two moved closer, staring curiously at the boar. Bjorn was Skylan’s age, eighteen. Erdmun was sixteen. Neither had ever seen such a beast before.

  “Did the two of you slay it by yourselves?” Erdmun asked.

  “Skylan killed it by himself,” Garn said, always honest, always quick to give praise.

  “You stabbed it with your knife,” Skylan said, heaving himself to his feet.

  Garn laughed. “I think I only annoyed it.”

  Skylan stood up too quickly, staggered, and nearly went over backwards. He steadied himself against the tree until the dizziness passed, and then he made an attempt to walk. If he didn’t keep moving, his leg would stiffen up. Pain tore through his injured thigh, causing his breath to come fast and sweat to bead his forehead.

  “We have to haul the carcass back to camp,” he announced through gritted teeth.

  “Yours or the boar’s?” Garn asked, grinning at him.

  “We should rename you Joabis the Jester,” Skylan grumbled, referring to the merry God of the Feast. “I am well enough. I just need a moment to rest, that’s all.”

  Movement had caused the wound to bleed again. Garn tore up what was left of his ripped shirt, and Skylan used the strips of linen to further bind the gash.

  Garn and Bjorn and Erdmun went to work. They had brought lengths of stout rope with them, hoping to use the rope to haul back a buck or a couple of fat does. They tied the rope around the boar’s thick neck and front legs, and with Bjorn and Garn pulling and Erdmun pushing from behind, they dragged the carcass across the ground, leaving a bloody trail behind.

  The road from the forest to the seacoast was downhill, but the carcass was heavy and clumsy to haul. The three were exhausted before they had gone very far. Skylan limped after them, his wound paining him more than he would admit. Eventually all the young men conceded defeat and halted.

  Garn suggested that Erdmun run to the village to bring back help, leaving the others to guard the boar. He returned with twenty men and an equal number of small children and dogs, bringing with them a large skid used to haul boulders and stones from the hills down to the village. The men were singing a song of praise as they came, praise for Skylan.

  At the sight of the young hero mantled in the blood of conquest, the men gave a hearty shout, while the children clustered around Skylan, each boy proclaiming an intention to be him someday. Skylan’s heart swelled with pride, and he quickly touched the silver axe on his neck and loudly gave his own praise and thanks to Torval, lest the god feel his role in the battle was being slighted.

  Skylan brushed off the accolades of the warriors, telling them how Garn had attacked the fearsome beast first with spear and then with only his knife. Garn described the battle in gory detail. The men listened in appreciation, nodding and clapping and, at the end, slapping Skylan on the back.

  Skylan’s young stepmother, Sonja, hearing of Skylan’s wounds, had sent along a pot of healing salve, made by boiling and then straining a mixture of tansy, fish oil, the oil of pine known as pitch, wax, resin, and the plant called adder’s tongue. Skylan was grateful to her, and he removed the bloody bandages and smeared the salve over his wounds, easing the pain almost immediately. The salve would also stop the flesh from putrefying.

  While Skylan was treating his wounds, the men set to work wrestling and manhandling the heavy boar carcass onto the skid and lashing it securely so that it would not slide off. This took some time, and the sun was at its zenith, High Morn, before they were finished. Once the carcass was on the skid, the men hoisted Skylan onto the boar’s back. He rode in proud triumph as they hauled the skid along the trail.

  The ride was bumpy, and it jarred his wound painfully. The stench of the dead beast was nauseating, and both he and the bloody carcass were swarmed by flies. Still, Skylan would not have traded places with the Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi people. He was basking in his victory and leading the men in a song of praise to Torval when shrill cries and shouts brought the singing to a sudden, startled halt.

  A group of Torgun women and children came running up the trail. The women carried bundles in their arms, and at the sight of their menfolk, they called out in alarm. Skylan had no idea what was happening. The excited women were all talking at once, making it difficult to understand what was wrong.

  Skylan said a sharp word, and silence fell. He pointed to one of the middle-aged older women, Brynhildr, who had been a friend of his mother’s. She was calm and sensible, about thirty years old, a leader among the Torgun women. He asked her what was happening.

  “Three ships sailed into the bay at High Morn. Each ship has three sails that look like this”—Brynhildr formed a triangle with her fingers—“and hulls that sit on skids. The sails are striped, red and white.”

  “Ogres,” said Bjorn.

  Skylan’s stomach clenched. Triumph turned to wormwood in his mouth, making him physically sick. He would not jump to conclusions, however.

  “It cannot be,” he stated. “We left the ogres far behind. I must see this with my own eyes.”

  He slid down off the boar’s carcass and limped over to a point where the trees thinned and he could see Djvolk Bay. Garn and several of the warriors accompanied him. Standing on the ledge, they stared down in grim silence.

  Three ships, each with striped triple sails and split-hull design, rode at anchor on the glittering waters of the placid bay.

  “They followed us home,” said Garn.

  Skylan glared at the ships in angry bafflement. “They could not have! I made sure of that.”

  But he felt a twinge of unease as he spoke. Skylan believed, as did most Vindrasi, that ogres were loutish brutes, about as smart as your average rabbit. He had watched the triple-sailed ships dwindle to specks on the horizon and, having assumed that
the ogres had given up the chase, had not kept careful watch on the way home or taken precautions against being followed or kept up the swift pace that would have left the slower ships far behind.

  Instead, Skylan had stopped several times along the coast to lead his men in fruitless searches for plunder. They had fires at night, anchored their ship in plain sight by day. It had never occurred to Skylan that the ogres might sail after him.

  “It must be Torval’s will,” Skylan announced, thereby absolving himself of blame. Now that the initial shock had worn off, he was eager to fight this formidable foe. “Our War God is with us. He sent the boar to me as a sign, and now the best and strongest warriors of the Torgun are here in the hills instead of being trapped by the ogres in the village. We will come fresh to the battle—”

  “Fresh to what battle?” Garn asked.

  “What battle?” Skylan stared at his friend and gestured to the three ships. “The battle against these sons of whores who dare—”

  Garn shook his head. “I do not see a battle. I do not hear clashing steel or desperate horn calls or the beating of the war drums. I do not see our long-houses burning. Whereas I do see the smoke of a ceremonial fire rising from the Chief’s Hall.”

  Skylan scowled. Everything his friend said was true, though it made no sense. Why raid a village and not raid it?

  “The ogres have come here to talk,” Garn continued, “not to plunder and kill. I find that odd, don’t you?”

  Skylan did not. Such actions accorded with what he knew of ogres, who were not only stupid, but also lazy and would do anything to avoid a fight.

  “Then we should attack them,” Skylan said.

  “We should find out what is going on first,” Garn advised. “Remember, the parley is sacred to Torval. He would take it ill if we broke faith.”

  “What he says is true,” Brynhildr agreed. “The ogres came bearing laurel leaves.”

  Any enemy who came under truce to talk was protected by the gods. Skylan choked back his rage and tried to reflect calmly on what his friend was saying. Calm reflection was not easy for Skylan, who was impetuous, quick to take action and think later. He was proud of those traits in himself, considering them good qualities in a warrior. Let men such as Garn take time to observe, think over the situation. Garn thought; then he acted. Skylan acted—often recklessly—and only afterwards considered the consequences. He had sense enough to value Garn’s wisdom, however, and sometimes he even allowed himself to be guided by it.