This was an ambush. The enemy was bearing down on Skylan’s men. Skylan hobbled back to the other side of the hold. He moved too fast, lost his balance, and fell. Cursing, he crawled over and put his eye to the gap.
Smoke covered the beach. He could not see his men, and they would not be able to see the threat bearing down on them from the sea. No man would be armed, out of respect for the dead. Their weapons and their shields were stacked in the sand, along with their helms and armor.
Skylan yelled a warning. The thick air swallowed his shouts. With the crackling of the flames and the popping of sizzling flesh, no one could hear him. He swore again, frustrated, and frantically tried to undo the knots at his ankles. He worked at them until his fingers bled, to no avail. They were tied tight. He shuffled over to the bottom of the ladder and stared at the hatch. He had heard them roll the heavy barrel atop it, but perhaps, if he could get his shoulders under it, he might be able to lift it.
He managed to climb the ladder by hooking his elbows, his arms still bound at the wrists, over the rungs and pulling his feet up a rung at a time. Sweat poured from his face. He gasped for breath from the exertion. He maneuvered himself into position, his head bowed, and pressed his shoulder against the hatch and heaved.
The hatch did not budge. Skylan tried again, straining against the hatch, shoving with his legs. His feet slipped. With his hands bound, he could not hang on, and he fell to the floor.
He started to pray to Torval to help him, and then he remembered the god battling the winged serpents, fighting for his life. Torval had his own problems. Skylan was on his own.
His people were on their own.
The first the Torgun knew they were under attack was when they saw the ranks of the enemy coming at them out of the smoke. The Torgun ran to grab their weapons, but they were intercepted by soldiers. The Vindrasi fought with their bare hands, but the soldiers struck them with the flat of their blades or bashed them with their shields until they fell unconscious.
Skylan, watching in agony, heard the officers shout repeatedly, “Take them alive! We want prisoners, not corpses!”
Skylan tried to see Aylaen. She would fight. He knew she would. He pressed his face against the gap, cursing the smoke that obliterated his view.
Suddenly, he realized he had his own problems. The sound of heavy boots thudded on the deck above him. The enemy had boarded the dragonship. He heard men running across the deck, taking up positions.
“You men, move that barrel,” a commanding voice ordered, a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “The hold is below. We’ll stow the brat down there.”
Skylan stood at the bottom of the ladder. He would not be taken alive. He heard the barrel scrape as the men hauled it off the hatch.
The trapdoor opened. Sunlight tinged with smoke streamed down on Skylan. He looked up to see an unusually tall man with broad shoulders and powerful arms clad in the shining segmented armor. The man wore a helm, as did the other warriors Skylan had seen. His helm was decorated with red feathers, perhaps denoting him as an officer.
Skylan stood with fists clenched, ready to fight. The officer gazed down at him.
“Well, well, well,” the man said with a chuckle. “If it isn’t little Skylan.”
Skylan’s fists uncurled; his hands went limp. He stared, squinting into the sunlight, trying to see clearly. “Raegar?”
“The same.” Raegar chuckled. “Once more, Cousin, I have returned from the dead.”
Raegar removed the feather-crested helm. He had shaved off his beard and his long blond hair. His bald scalp was white, a contrast to the sun-tanned skin of his face. The tattoo of a winged serpent ran across the crown of his head from front to back. The serpent’s red tongue flicked down almost to the center of the forehead. Raegar regarded Skylan with amusement.
“I hear Treia told your men about you,” he remarked. “They were planning to take you back to Vindraholm, force you to fight the Vutmana.” Raegar squatted down on his haunches. “I’ve done you a favor, Cousin. Where you are going, you won’t have to fight.”
“Treacherous coward!” Skylan swore at him. “You betrayed your own people!”
Raegar shook his head. “The Torgun are not my people anymore, Cousin. These are my people.” He gestured to the warriors around him. “They have been for a long time.”
Skylan clenched his fists. “I challenge you! Fight me!”
Raegar threw back his head and gave a loud roar of laughter, as did the men who had gathered around the hold.
Skylan burned with fury. “All of you!” he shouted. “I will take on all of you. Your swords. My bare hands!”
The soldiers thought this funny, and they laughed louder, saying something about “caged beasts.”
“While that might prove amusing, especially to my men, the Tribune would not like it,” said Raegar. “You see, Cousin, you’re his property. A valuable commodity. The Tribune would be most displeased if you were damaged.”
Skylan began to understand. It was like peering through the slits in the planks. He could only see a part of the truth, but for the moment, that was enough. His gut shriveled. Death did not frighten him. This did.
“What do you mean?”
“By Aelon, you are dense, Cousin,” said Raegar. “Fortunately no one in Oran is in the market for brains, these days. Only brawn. How shall I put it? Instead of calling you Chief of Chiefs, Skylan Ivorson, from now on, men will call you Slave of Slaves!”
The soldiers grinned appreciatively at their commander’s jest.
Raegar glanced around at them and frowned. “Are the other warriors secure? Was anyone slain?”
“No, Revered One. The men were taken without a fight. A few had to be knocked unconscious, but they will recover.”
“What of the two sisters?”
The blood pounded in Skylan’s ears. He had to calm himself to hear the answer.
The soldier grinned. “One fought like a catamount. It took three of us to subdue her, and we have the scratches to prove it! We finally threw a sack over her head, half-stifling her, and eventually she calmed down. The other female did not fight us. She is half-blind, it seems. Still, I do not trust her. There’s something strange about her. She’s more dangerous than her wildcat sister, or so I would guess.”
“What of the spiritbone?” Raegar demanded. “Did you recover it?”
“We found no bones except those of the dead men, Revered One. The woman claimed it was lost.”
Raegar scowled, displeased. “She is lying. She must be hiding it somewhere.”
“What do we do with the prisoners, Revered One?”
“The women are to be conveyed to the Tribune’s ship. Bring the men on board the dragonship. Chain them to the oars. How long will repairs take?”
“Not long, Revered One. We should be able to sail when the tide returns.”
“Good. Get to work.”
“What about the brat? What do we do with him?”
Raegar glanced down into the hold. “Toss him down there with little Skylan.”
The soldier shouted, and two men came forward, bearing Wulfe between them. One side of his face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. The soldiers flung him into the hold. Wulfe landed sprawled on the deck, and he blinked up at Skylan groggily.
“I’m sorry,” Wulfe said. “I was going to warn you.”
“It’s all right,” said Skylan quietly. He looked up at Raegar, who was shutting the trapdoor. “You have come back from the dead two times, Raegar. When you and I meet, that will be the end. There won’t be a third.”
“When you and I meet, Cousin, you will be on the auction block, and I will be collecting my share of your selling price,” Raegar replied.
He dropped the trapdoor shut. Skylan heard the barrel being rolled over it.
He closed his eyes and slumped down on the deck. He gazed into the darkness, trying to see a way out, but there was only darkness. He put his hand to the amulet, Torval’s axe, he wore around his neck. T
he silver was cold to the touch. He let his hand fall. He wondered suddenly what had become of his sword, Blood Dancer. The last he had seen, the sword was spiraling down through the heavens. Much like himself.
“Someone’s here,” Wulfe said tensely.
Skylan opened his eyes, bracing for a fight.
Garn, dressed in his armor and carrying his sword and shield, stood before him.
Skylan was not surprised to see his friend, his brother. Nothing surprised him anymore.
“Can you forgive me?” Skylan asked.
Garn smiled. “There is nothing to forgive. Our wyrds were bound together, but the thread of my days ran out.”
“It is not fair! You cannot leave me now,” said Skylan wearily. “Not when I most need you. What will become of our people?”
“I see a long journey, Skylan. I see death and despair. I see hope. I see a dark end and a bright beginning.”
“Why can’t you ever just give me a straight answer?” Skylan asked, and he smiled.
Garn’s spirit began to fade. “Farewell, Skylan. We will meet in Torval’s Hall, and you will tell me of your exploits.”
Skylan held up his bound hands. “I do not think I will get past his door, my friend.”
“Do not be so certain,” Garn said, his voice dwindling. “The thread of your wyrd is strong. You alone can break it.”
Skylan sank back. He could hear the sounds of his men being herded onto the deck, hear the rattle of chains and the shuffling of feet.
“Warriors of the Vindrasi!” Raegar shouted. “Your gods are dead. I am going to tell you of a new god. A powerful god, Aelon, Lord of the New Dawn.”
Wulfe shook his head. “He’s lying. Your gods aren’t dead. Vindrash was badly wounded, but she survived. Torval fought his way back to his Hall. He summoned the souls of the dead warriors, and they drove back the serpents.”
Skylan stared at him, mystified. “How could you possibly know all that?”
“The oceanaids told me,” said Wulfe. He yawned. “I’m bored. Do you want to play dragonbone? I’ll move your pieces for you, since your hands are tied.”
I am in chains. My warriors are prisoners. Aylaen has been taken from me. The spiritbone is lost, the Dragon Kahg wounded, perhaps dead. All because of me, because of my own arrogance and stupidity, my lies and oath-breaking.
Skylan slumped in despair. He did not want to play the game. He wanted to throw the board and pieces and himself in the sea. Let the dark water close over his head. He sank back against the timber and felt something jab him painfully in the buttocks. Skylan swore and shifted about to see what had poked him.
Sunlight gleamed on the blade of a small knife, the type used to gut fish.
Skylan picked up the knife, slender and brittle as hope, and secreted it in his boot. Making sure it was hidden, he turned to Wulfe.
“Roll five bones,” said Skylan.
POSTSCRIPT
Sent by fire, water, and oil, to the Watcher in the Temple of the New Dawn with orders to deliver to Acronis, Tribune.
To Acronis, Honored Tribune of the Twenty-four, Commander of the Navy of his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Dunumadi. Greetings!
I have momentous news. Our glorious god, Aelon, has blessed us far beyond my expectations. My men and I, disguised as traders, had landed on the shores of my homeland. We had made camp and were going to commence our mission to capture one of the Bone Priestesses when the god gave to me a great gift. Aelon dropped into my lap my arrogant and foolish young pup of a cousin, Skylan Ivorson, who, it turns out, is now married to Draya, Kai Priestess, the most powerful priestess of the Vindrasi.
And, by Aelon’s blessing, my stupid young cousin happens to loathe his new bride!
Praise be to Aelon. He has heard our prayers and answered them. I hope that I may soon present the Bringer with the Kai Priestess of the Vindrasi and that we will be able to “persuade” Draya to tell us what she knows of the dragonbone that Aelon, in his wisdom, caused us to find when we attacked the Hall of Vektia.
I will write again when I have firmed up the details of my plan.
I remain as always your servant in the blessed service of Aelon, Lord of Light, etc., and so forth, Raegar, Warrior Priest of Battle’s Glory.
Sent by fire, water, and oil, to the Watcher in the Temple of the New Dawn the next night.
To Acronis, Honored Tribune of the Twenty-four, Commander of the Navy of his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Dunumadi. Greetings!
All is arranged. I have devised a plan to abduct the Kai Priestess. My stupid young cousin will deliver her into our hands, at which time I can slay him if you command it, Master. I venture to suggest, however, we keep him alive. He is a godsend to us—a young hothead who will happily lead the Vindrasi people to ruination. If we kill him, the Vindrasi will merely choose another Chief of Chiefs, and this time they might select a wise old fox, not a yapping young kit.
My cousin is to bring the Kai Priestess to the Isle of Apensia. I chose this place because it will also give us the opportunity to strike a blow at the pagans who rule that island, reveal to them the awful power of the God of the New Dawn, and bring these heathens into the fold. (Either that or, as Aelon commands, slay the corrupt lest they corrupt others!)
I remain as always your servant in the blessed service of Aelon, Lord of Light, etc. and so forth, Raegar, Priest of Battle’s Glory.
Sent by fire, water, and oil, to the Watcher in the Temple of the New Dawn some time later.
To Acronis, Honored Tribune of the Twenty-four, Commander of the Navy of his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Dunumadi. Greetings!
Again, I humbly apologize to your lordship for the disaster that befell my men and me on the Isle of Apensia. Clearly, these druids are very dangerous people and must be eradicated. However, all that for another time.
I have, as you commanded, returned to the Torgun. My kinsmen were overjoyed to see me, and they have welcomed me back with open arms, with the possible exception of my young cousin, who fears that at any moment I will betray him.
Through Aelon’s blessing, the Torgun’s Bone Priestess is a spinster named Treia, who is hungry for a man. She is not ill-favored and she is near my age, so none of my kinsmen were surprised to see me take an interest in her.
In truth, I find her to be an intriguing woman. She and I have much in common, and it is no punishment to me to spend time with her. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I have no doubt that I can make her do anything I want.
My cousin, the so-called Chief of Chiefs, is preparing to undertake a voyage to the ogre nation to retrieve the dragonbone. I will send you notice of our departure that you may be ready to intercept their ships. We can then recover the Vektan Torque ourselves, which will give us two of these valuable dragonbones.
I remain as always your servant in the blessed service of Aelon, Lord of Light, etc. and so forth, Raegar, Priest of Battle’s Glory.
Sent by fire, water, and oil, to the Watcher in the Temple of the New Dawn, done in haste, slightly garbled.
Acronis! Praise Aelon that you came safely through that terrible storm and that you managed to keep track of us! I have escaped the dragonship, faking my own death by drowning. I am in the Hall of their dead goddess. Send men to meet me. I have a plan.
Raegar
AFTERWORD
Brian Thomsen
In Memoriam
As Bones of the Dragon was going to press, Tracy and I were shocked to learn that our friend and the editor of this book, Brian Thomsen, had died unexpectedly of heart failure. Brian was only fifty-four, far too young to be taken from us.
Tracy and I first met Brian back in the mid-1990s when he came to work for TSR, Inc., the publisher of Dungeons & Dragons, in Lake Geneva. He became head of the book department. We soon learned that Brian was an editor who loved his authors and who wanted to see them be successful. Editing wasn’t just a job to Brian, it was a passion.
At one point in time, back in the late 1990s, TSR, Inc., was going through financial
problems. I was writing a book for the Dragonlance series, called The Soulforge, the tale of the early years of one of the series’ most pop u lar characters, the wizard Raistlin Majere.
Since I lived close to the company headquarters, I called Brian to tell him I had finished the book and would bring the manuscript into his office. He suggested instead that I meet him for lunch in a local café and bring the manuscript with me.
Over lunch, he confided that he was worried about the company’s finances. He was afraid they might declare bankruptcy and, in that case, if the manuscript was in his office, it might be seized as an asset of the company. He didn’t want that to happen. He said he would keep it with him until the situation improved. I later found out he carried it around in his car!
The company did manage to carry on and The Soulforge was published. Brian would later joke that he was probably the only person ever to keep Raistlin Majere locked up in the trunk!
Brian remained my friend and mentor for years after he left TSR, Inc., to return to New York. He became a freelance editor for Tor Books, where he delighted in developing plans for his authors. One day he called me to say that he had an idea for me. He suggested I write a series of novels about dragons and that the first book be titled Mistress of Dragons. He said he thought that Tor would be interested in this series.
I was thrilled to have the opportunity. I asked him if he had any ideas on what the series should be about.
“No,” said Brian airily. “I’ll leave that up to you. I know you’ll come up with something great. Oh, and by the way, I’ll need a synopsis for three books in two weeks.”
Generally it takes me months to come up with a plot for a series, but I was excited about this and I worked furiously. In two weeks I had developed the outline for what would become one of my favorite series about dragons, Dragonvarld, published by Tor Books. The first book was titled, as Brian suggested, Mistress of Dragons.
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