Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Skylan sucked in an irate breath. “I left the game behind on purpose!” He gave Wulfe a shake. “I didn’t want to bring the draugr aboard this ship!”

  “Owl Mother said you would try to get rid of the draugr,” said Wulfe, wincing, “but that it wouldn’t work. The draugr would come anyway. She said you need to find out what the draugr wants you to do. Only then will she stop coming.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Are you going to throw me overboard?”

  Skylan drew in a seething breath and waited a few moments for his rage to cool.

  “I should,” he said. “But Akaria would probably throw you back. As for the draugr”—he tried to shrug it off—“I have more important matters to worry about.”

  “Not according to Owl Mother you don’t,” Wulfe said.

  “Now that you are aboard,” Skylan continued grimly, ignoring that remark. “You must make yourself useful.”

  He paused, then said, “You will oil my sword.”

  Wulfe stared at him, horrified, and tried to pull away.

  “I mean it!” said Skylan, keeping fast hold of the squirming boy. “You brought this on yourself. You will have duties while you’re aboard, and one of them will be to oil my sword and keep the rust from forming. You will do this every day.”

  “It’s iron!” Wulfe whimpered. “I can’t touch it!”

  “You should have thought of that before you sneaked aboard a warship,” said Skylan coldly. “Now go.”

  He gave Wulfe a shove that sent the boy sprawling onto the deck. Wulfe picked himself up and looked at Skylan with pleading eyes, to see if he really meant it. Skylan glowered, and Wulfe turned away, smearing his nose with the back of his hand. He walked with dragging steps over to the sea chest where Skylan’s armor and weapons were stored.

  Wulfe glanced over his shoulder. He saw Skylan watching to make certain the boy obeyed his order. Treia was right. He’d let Wulfe run wild. The boy needed to be taught a lesson. Wulfe sniveled and gulped on his tears, then, squatting down, he reached out his hand for the beautiful embroidered sheepskin scabbard Skylan had purchased for Blood Dancer. Lanolin from the sheepskin would help keep the sword free from rust. Oiling the sword daily was also requisite. Rust was the bane of a warrior’s existence. As Wulfe’s hand closed over the scabbard, the boy’s thin body gave a shudder so strong that Skylan saw it from across the deck.

  Skylan turned away. He’d been too soft on the boy up until now. Letting him get away with this nonsense about touching iron. Skoval’s balls! The boy claimed he couldn’t even touch a stewpot! This would end here and now.

  Skylan glanced about the ship. The warriors were seated on their sea chests, busy at various tasks, or talking and jesting. The men were in a good mood. Fortunately, by annoying Treia, Wulfe had managed to amuse the men, who were still sharing smothered laughter at the thought of the Bone Priestess finding a boy in her bed.

  The men were also taking a more resigned view of Aylaen. Skylan’s speech about Vindrash had impressed them. The Vindrasi would be dependent on the Dragon Goddess’s goodwill in the upcoming battles, and they did not want to offend her. They were none of them comfortable having Aylaen around, however, treating her like a skunk that had wandered into the feast hall: careful not to make any sudden moves or poke at her or do anything to make her angry.

  Seeing Wulfe hunched over the sword, Aylaen realized he must be feeling as lonely and friendless as herself, and she went to sit down beside him. He did not seem to notice her. He kept his back to her and to everyone. He gave a gulping sob every so often, and his shoulders shook. Aylaen thought nothing about it except perhaps that he was upset because Skylan had yelled at him.

  She longed to talk to Garn, to try to make him understand, but he would not speak to her. To take her mind off their quarrel, she started to clean her new sword, which was sadly rusted. She rubbed the metal with the oiled cloth, working hard, scratching at spots of rust or dirt with her fingernail.

  She noticed, as she worked on the sword, what she had not noticed before. The workmanship was extraordinary. Details began to emerge as she scrubbed away the dirt of years of neglect.

  Although the sword was meant to ornament the altar of Vindrash, the maker had not insulted the goddess by making her sword lovely to look at but impractical. Aylaen pictured that early craftsman designing the sword for Vindrash herself, intending for her to use the weapon in battle. This was why the sword fit a woman’s hand, why it was lighter in weight and delicate in design. As Aylaen worked, she could see runes on the blade, previously hidden by dirt and rust.

  The hilt was made of ivory, and it was now yellow with age. She could see the faint outlines and feel the ridges left by what must have been ornate carvings, now worn smooth so that she could not tell what they had been. The weapon had seen battle. Odd for a weapon that Treia had dismissed as ceremonial.

  Perhaps it was the hand of the goddess that wore down the hilt, Aylaen imagined, glad to lose herself in her daydreams. Vindrash had been pleased with the sword. She herself had used it in battle. And when the enemy gods had been defeated and peace had come to the world, Vindrash had put the sword away and forgotten about it. War had again come to heaven, but this time the gods had lost. Vindrash could not take up the sword herself. She had given it into the hands of one who would fight the battle for her. . . .

  Aylaen’s fanciful imaginings were cut short by a low moan. She looked over to see Skylan’s lovely sheepskin scabbard smattered with blood.

  “Wulfe, did you cut yourself?” she asked.

  He turned away from her, hunching his shoulders, hiding his pain like a wounded animal. She rose to her feet and walked around to face him. His face twisted. His lips quivered, and his body shook.

  Aylaen gently slid her hands beneath his hands and lifted them to the sunlight.

  Wulfe’s fingers were blistered, the flesh blackened and burned as though the sword he had been oiling were white-hot. He snatched his hand away and went back to his work. When he touched the metal, he gave a low moan. The flesh of his fingertips stuck to the blade and Aylaen smelled the stench of burning. She seized hold of his hand, jerking it from the metal.

  “Don’t let anyone see!” she said softly, taking the sword from him.

  She hastily wrapped the boy’s injured hands in the oiled cloth she had been using. Skylan glanced at them and frowned. Aylaen motioned with her head, and Skylan came over.

  Shielding Wulfe with her body, keeping his hands hidden from the men, Aylaen removed the cloth.

  Skylan stared at the boy in astonishment. The boy’s fingers were burned, yet there was no fire on board ship, for fire was the most feared enemy of a dragon-ship. A blaze could consume the wooden planking in a matter of moments, and not even the Dragon Kahg would be able to save it or those on board.

  “How did you burn yourself?” Skylan demanded.

  Wulfe blubbered and refused to answer.

  “It was the sword,” said Aylaen, awed. “I . . . I saw it, Skylan. When he touched the metal, his fingers stuck to it and I could smell his flesh burning! Treia should treat him—”

  “No!” said Skylan and Wulfe together.

  “It was the iron!” The boy looked accusingly at Skylan. “I told you!”

  “Give him to me,” said Skylan. “I’ll deal with him. Where is Treia?”

  He looked around and saw Treia standing near the dragon’s head, talking to Raegar. “Good. I’ll take the boy below and bandage his hands. You keep your sister busy. Don’t let her come down.”

  “Treia’s far more happily occupied by Raegar than she would be with me,” Aylaen said. “The wounds will putrefy if you don’t put something on them. At least you could use some of the unguent Treia made up for burns. I know where it is. I helped her pack it.”

  They hustled Wulfe down the ladder into the cool darkness of the hold. The cabin looked much different from when Skylan had occupied it on the nightmarish journey back from the ill-fated trip to Apensia. Sea chests
were neatly stacked. The bedding was folded, smoothed. All was orderly and smelled of dried lavender.

  “Shut the hatch,” said Skylan.

  Seeing Aylaen hesitate, he added, “We don’t want Treia to come upon us without warning.”

  She didn’t like the way Skylan was looking at her, but Aylaen did as he ordered. She pulled the trapdoor closed, leaving them in semidarkness as the faded light filtered in from between the chinks in the planking. He kept trying to catch her eye, but Aylaen avoided looking at him. She smeared the unguent gently on Wulfe’s fingers. The boy flinched when she touched him, but he did not cry out. The unguent appeared to soothe him and he relaxed, watching in silence as she wound the bandages around his hands.

  “If anyone asks, you cut yourself,” Skylan admonished.

  “It was the iron. It burned me,” Wulfe insisted, staring perplexedly at the thick cloth lumps that were now his hands.

  “No one believes iron could burn you. You cut yourself,” said Skylan.

  “Do you believe?” Wulfe asked, looking at him and Aylaen.

  “I believe you,” said Aylaen quietly. She glanced at Skylan. “I have to. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I believe you, too,” said Skylan, sighing. “Satisfied?”

  “I cut myself,” Wulfe said.

  “Now run along back up on deck.”

  “I’ll go with him,” said Aylaen, rising.

  “Wulfe, go on,” said Skylan. He escorted the boy to the ladder, helped him climb it, and opened the trapdoor.

  “I cut my fingers,” Wulfe announced loudly, climbing on deck.

  Skylan shut the trapdoor and locked it. He hurried back down the ladder.

  “I should go.” Aylaen tried to sidle past him.

  Skylan grabbed her around the waist and drew her close. “I thought I would hate the way you looked without your beautiful hair. At first I did hate it.” He kissed her neck, not seeming to notice that she was pushing against him. “But now I find you are more desirable than ever.”

  He ran his hand over her shorn head and gazed at her tenderly. “No more teasing, Aylaen. I want you, and I know you feel the same. I like you in man’s clothing. It is so much easier to manage than dresses and brooches and smocks. . . .”

  One hand reached inside her shirt, fondling her breasts. He slid his other hand down her trousers.

  “You did this for love of me,” he murmured.

  Aylaen struggled in Skylan’s grip, but he would not let her go. She was exhausted; she had not been able to sleep for days. She was afraid, and she could not let anyone see her doubts, her fear. The men already thought ill of her. She was alone. Treia made no secret of the fact that she thought Aylaen was behaving like a spoiled brat. Aylaen could not turn for comfort to Garn, for he would not speak to her. She could not talk to Skylan, who refused to take her seriously, but kept willfully insisting she must be in love with him.

  Aylaen was suddenly furious at all of them. She tasted the cruel words she was about to say on her lips, and they were sweet. Speaking them would hurt both Skylan and Garn. Good. She wanted to hurt them, as they had hurt her. Aylaen snapped, like the wyrd in the hands of one of the three sisters. She doubled her fists and struck Skylan in the chest. She struck hard, beating the words into him.

  “I do not love you!” she cried angrily. “I love Garn! I did this to be with him!”

  Skylan went livid. She knew, as she looked at him, that this was what his corpse would look like. His hands, cold and lifeless, fell at his side. His eyes were the only living thing in him, and they burned.

  “Oh, Skylan, I’m sorry!” Aylaen reached out, as though the words hung between them and she could snatch them back.

  Skylan stared at her, and now even the flame in his eyes died. He was nothing but deadly pallor and awful shadow.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Skylan!” Aylaen pleaded. “Please. I didn’t mean—”

  “How long?” he asked, his lips barely moving.

  Aylaen could only shake her head.

  “How long?” Skylan cried savagely, and he raised his hand as though he would strike her. “How long have you loved him?”

  Aylaen said softly, “All my life!”

  “Get out!” Skylan said. “Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again! Or Garn, either!”

  Aylaen covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “Skylan, we never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that—”

  “Believe you?” Skylan said, and he gave a terrible laugh. “Get out before I kill you!”

  Foam flecked his lips. He was shaking, shivering with rage. He heard Aylaen stumbling across the deck.

  “When we make landfall,” said Skylan, not turning around, “you and Garn will take your things and leave this ship.”

  Everyone on board ship had heard the altercation. Their raised voices, particularly Skylan’s, carried clearly. Garn was waiting for Aylaen. He helped her up out of the hold. The silence was awful. No one knew where to look or what to say.

  The men moved away from them, gave the two room to pass. Aylaen sagged down onto a sea chest and lowered her face into her hands. Garn sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders. He avoided everyone, stared out across the leaden sea.

  The dragonship was nearing the shore, and the men had work to do. Each went thankfully to his post, glad to be able to look somewhere else.

  Skylan remained below in the darkness until he felt the motion of the ship slowing. His place was topside. He climbed the ladder, set foot on deck. Skylan cast one burning glance about the deck. His eyes warned every man to keep his distance.

  Treia started to go to her sister, but Raegar stopped her. He whispered something to her, and she nodded and went over to speak to Skylan. He glowered at her, warning her to keep her mouth shut.

  Treia paid no heed. “Aylaen must stay on board with me,” she said.

  Skylan’s scowl darkened. He shook his head.

  “You have no say in the matter,” Treia told him. “Aylaen is my acolyte. The Kai commanded me to train her. Therefore, she must remain on board.”

  I have no say in the matter! Skylan’s fury rose from his gut, surging hot and bitter into his mouth, nearly choking him. He snarled something, which Treia took for consent. She went to speak to Aylaen, who shook her head and clung to Garn. Both Garn and Treia talked to her, and at length, her head drooping, Aylaen gave in.

  “Come with me,” said Treia. “You should try to get some sleep.”

  Aylaen stood up. She looked down at Garn, and suddenly, casting a defiant glance at everyone, she put her hands to his face and kissed him on the mouth. “I love you,” she said.

  She refused her sister’s help. Walking to the hold, she disappeared into the darkness below.

  The three dragonships made landfall. The Vindrasi often used this cove as a first stop when setting out on voyages. The land was heavily wooded with streams that provided fresh drinking water. Skylan had stopped here on his last voyage. The charred wood from their fires lay in black lumps amid circles of stones.

  Garn put on his chain mail, which had been a gift to him from Skylan. He took the shield that Norgaard had given him from the rack. He picked up his axe and his sea chest and walked over to where Skylan stood.

  Skylan’s arms were folded across his chest. He looked at Garn as though at a stranger.

  “I am sorry, Skylan,” Garn said. “We never meant to hurt you.”

  The blazing blue eyes burned Garn’s words to ashes. Slowly and deliberately, Skylan turned his back and walked away.

  Garn left the ship. All eyes were on him as he made his way to the dragonship belonging to the Martegnan. Out of the corner of his eye, Skylan watched his friend and brother leave the ship.

  They were dead to him, these two he had loved and trusted. They were dead, and he would have to find a way to go on living without them.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Skylan longed to be able to crawl into sleep and hide there
, licking his wounds. He ordered all the men ashore while he remained on board. Treia and Aylaen also stayed on board, holed up in the cabin. He hoped they knew better than to make an appearance. Night fell. His men doused their cook fires and went to sleep. He lay down on the deck and closed his eyes.

  But it was not sleep who came. It was the draugr.

  Draya stood over him, her pallid flesh drawn tight over her skull. She gazed down at him with sunken eyes. She pointed to the game board, which Wulfe had thoughtfully brought out before Skylan had angrily ordered him off the ship.

  “Leave me alone,” Skylan muttered with a courage born of not caring.

  The draugr stood over him.

  Skylan closed his eyes and tried to pretend the draugr was not there. The cold chill of death seeped around him, causing him to shiver, though the night was warm. He seemed to see her even through his closed eyelids.

  The draugr sat down on a sea chest. She picked up the five bones and threw them on the board. It was his turn, but Skylan made no move to touch them. The draugr grabbed the bones and threw them again. Skylan sat there sullenly, not moving. The draugr again threw the bones.

  Skylan realized that the draugr was prepared to do this all night. He grabbed the five bones and flung them onto the deck. The bones scattered everywhere. One landed on top of the hatch, leading down to the hold where Aylaen and Treia slept. One rolled across the deck to bump up beside Raegar’s helm. One bounded off the carved wooden neck of the Dragon Kahg. One splashed into the sea. One came to rest at the feet of the draugr.

  The draugr seized his shuddering hand and pried open his palm. She dropped five more bones into his hand and squeezed his fingers over the pieces, squeezing hard. He gasped in pain, and she finally released his hand. He saw his flesh had turned whitish blue, as from frostbite.

  “I don’t understand!” Skylan cried raggedly. “I don’t know what you want from me! Five bones! Five Dragons of Vektia. Is that it?”

  The draugr gazed at him and did not answer. Thinking only to get this over with, he threw the five bones.

  He and the draugr played the dragonbone game, and for the first time, Skylan won.