She gave him a soothing pat on the shoulder. “Go to your shield wall, Vindrasi. When it falls apart, you will be glad we are here.”
Skylan glared at her, about to argue, when a shout from Bear Walker caused him to hurry back to take his place in the front row of the shield wall, with Bjorn on his right and Sigurd on his left. Erdmun fidgeted nervously beside his brother and Grimuir stood on the other side of Sigurd. Skylan had removed one of the dust-covered shields from the wall, cleaned it up as best he could, and carried that, along with his sword, God-rage. The other Vindrasi had their favored weapons: battle axes or war hammers or sometimes both. Many, like Sigurd, also carried spears. They would throw the spears first, then use their weapons.
Other Vindrasi warriors stood behind the first row, armed with spears and war hammers and battle axes. Their task was to assist the warriors in the first row, keep pushing those in the first row forward, and attack any of the enemy who broke through.
In forming his strategy, Skylan had borrowed the tactics the ogres had used to attack his people last spring. He could still vividly remember the jarring impact when the ogre shield wall had crashed into his own, smashing through the line, causing it to disintegrate. He had freely admitted that if were not for the Dragon Kahg, who had come to their aid, his people would have lost the battle.
Thinking of Kahg made him think of Aylaen and his friends on the Venejekar. He had been keeping watch for the dragonship, worried that Aylaen would reach the isle in the midst of the battle. His hopes and his fears vied with each other. On one hand, he hoped she would be able to find the isle; on the other, he feared she would be in danger if Aelon found her.
“Here they come,” said Sigurd, gripping his sword.
Skylan looked up and down the line of warriors. Back when they had been alive, warriors in the shield wall boasted of how many foes they would kill, making grim jests about death to ease fear. The dead did not jest about death. The warriors stood in silence, vastly outnumbered, waiting to face an army of the damned.
Aelon flew above his army. At his command, the hellkites began their advance, moving at a walk to keep in formation. The closer they came to the wall of waiting dead men, the more their speed would increase.
Skylan exchanged glances with Bear Walker, standing to his left. The ogre shield wall was close, but not touching the shield wall of the Vindrasi, all part of Skylan’s plan. He and his forces had to survive long enough to put his plan into action. As he watched the advancing forces, he began to think that surviving might be more difficult than he had anticipated.
Skylan did not fear any living foe. He had fought giants; he had once killed an ogre godlord in single-handed combat. But now, as he watched the hellkites draw nearer, he could not repress a shudder. They wore black helms over their skull-like heads. All one could see were the eye sockets and they were empty, their lives, their souls gone. They lived their unholy lives to kill.
“You should leave while you still have the chance, Skylan,” Bjorn told him.
“Do you take me for a coward?” Skylan asked angrily. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because you are still alive,” said Bjorn. “You should quit the field of battle. Let us deal with these fiends.”
Skylan smiled at his friend. “I know you mean well and I thank you. But we are Vindrasi. We stand—or we fall—together.”
Skylan looked at his men and he was proud. For the most part, they were holding firm and steady. Only a few, such as Erdmun, were shuffling their feet or gripping their shields in hands that shook.
He looked to the ranks of the ogres. With their heads that seemed too small for their massive bodies, and their small eyes and chubby cheeks, ogres looked very childlike and, as such, did not tend to inspire fear in a foe. To compensate, ogre warriors painted their faces with stripes of blue or red and brown, both to mark their rank and to appear more intimidating.
Bear Walker had painted his face red with a black stripe running over his head and down his nose and he was holding a spear that looked as big as an oak tree. In the rear, behind the shield wall, Raven’s-foot in his black feather cape was dancing about, waving the gourd and howling something.
“What sort of magic is your shaman working?” Skylan shouted at Bear Walker. “He’s not going to rain down frogs on us, is he?”
Bear Walker gave an explosive laugh.
“Raven’s-foot is calling on our gods to bless our weapons and join us in battle.”
Hearing them talk, Raven’s-foot ran up to Skylan and poked him with the gourd that worked his magic.
Skylan started as though he’d been burned.
“For luck,” Raven’s-foot grunted and then he dashed off with feathers fluttering to continue his dance.
Skylan glanced over his shoulder at the Cyclopes. Dela Eden and her archers had each chosen a patch of ground and were nocking their arrows and raising their bows, some of them calling on the Gods of Raj to guide their aim.
The ground began to shake beneath their feet. Bjorn nudged Skylan, who turned to see the front ranks of hellkites had broken into a run, pounding over the beach, hoping to smash into the shield wall and cause it to collapse. Aelon’s chariot circled in the sky above. The god was laughing, confident of victory.
Seeing the vast numbers of the hideous foe, Skylan couldn’t blame him.
“Stand firm!” Skylan shouted.
“Can we even kill these fiends?” Erdmun asked, his voice quavering. He looked as if he was going to be sick again. “Will they die or just keep coming?”
“A good question,” Skylan admitted. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”
Braced for the shock of the collision of two armies, Skylan heard a strange whistling sound and saw Cyclopes’ arrows arcing over the shield wall to rain down on the foe. The arrows pierced the obsidian armor, decimating the ranks of the hellkites, creating confusion and slowing the advance, as those still on their feet tripped over the bodies or tried to avoid them.
Skylan started to cheer, but his cheer died abruptly as he watched some of the fallen hellkites rise to their feet, pluck the arrows from their chests, pick up their swords or their spears and keep moving. He noticed that other hellkites struck by arrows lay still and unmoving.
Some lived. Some died. He could not see what made the difference and he didn’t have time to puzzle it out, for the hellkites in the front ranks had leveled their spears and were rushing straight at his line.
As Skylan had anticipated, the majority of the hellkites were choosing to hit his side of the shield wall, doubtless figuring that the weaker humans would be easier to kill than the ogres.
“Spear throwers! Now!” Skylan bellowed.
The Vindrasi in the lines behind him hurled their spears. Most hit the hellkites’ shields and either bounced off or stuck there. Others found their targets, striking the hellkites in the head or chest. Some of the hellkites fell to the ground and did not rise. Skylan was frustrated to see others, struck down by the spears, climb to their feet.
The hellkites did not throw their spears, but attempted to drive them into the bodies of their foes. Since the spear had a longer reach than war hammer or axe, the hellkites could inflict damage on Skylan’s warriors before his men could return the favor. The disadvantage was that once they had made use of their spears, the hellkites would have to waste precious time drawing their swords. Not much time, perhaps, but in battle, every second counted.
Another flight of Cyclopes arrows flew overhead, striking the middle ranks of the hellkites and throwing them into disorder. Skylan was baffled to see a dead hellkite with an arrow piercing his skull stand up and keep marching, while another hellkite with an arrow stuck in his chest turned into a rotting corpse.
Skylan gripped his sword, God-rage, and picked out his man—one of the hellkites running slightly ahead of the others. Like all the hellkites, he was armed with a spear in his right hand, a shield in his left, and wore a short sword at his side.
The hellkite ja
bbed at Skylan with the spear. Skylan raised his shield, blocking the blow and knocking the spear aside. He thrust his sword, trying to hit the hellkite’s midriff, only to strike the hellkite’s shield. The two combatants pushed and shoved with their shields and slashed at each other’s legs with their swords, each hoping to strike a blow or at least throw the other off balance.
The hellkites were unbelievably strong and this one struck Skylan a horrific blow that knocked him off his feet and sent his sword flying. A Vindrasi warrior standing behind him straddled Skylan as he lay on the ground and drove his spear into the hellkite’s breast. The hellkite dropped.
Skylan picked himself up and reached for his sword, only to see the hellkite grab the spear sticking out of his breast and use it against the Vindrasi who, thinking his foe was dead, had turned to fight another. Skylan shouted a warning and leaped at hellkite, only to watch him thrust his spear between the warrior’s shoulder blades. The Vindrasi fell without a cry, disintegrated into a pile of dust that was trampled into the dirt, and his soul was gone.
“Die, damn you!’ Skylan cried and thrust God-rage into the hellkite’s throat. The fiend fell to the ground. Skylan watched it, ready to strike again, but the hellkite stayed dead.
The fighting went on around him, the noise and confusion of battle: shouts, curses, the thud of spears slamming into shields, the ring of metal striking armor. Something was missing and at first he could not think why this fight was different. Then he understood. No one cried out in pain. No one bled. The dying died without a sound, simply disappearing.
He glanced swiftly at the ogres and was pleased to see them putting his plan into action.
Having thrown the main body of his force against the humans, hoping to finish them off quickly, Aelon had left his right flank exposed to the ogres. The right flank of a phalanx was, according to Acronis, the weakest side, because the soldiers carried their shields with their right arms. Bear Walker and his ogres were on the move, rushing forward to hit the hellkites on the unprotected flank, hurling their spears, sending them plowing into the enemy. Every hellkite struck by an ogre spear fell to the ground and did not get back up. That moment, Skylan heard a shout and turned to see a hellkite Sigurd had killed seize him by the ankle and drag him off his feet. Skylan drove his sword into the hellkite’s gut. This time, it stayed dead.
“I killed the damn thing!” Sigurd shouted angrily, bounding to his feet.
“I know. I saw you,” said Skylan.
Three hellkites jumped them. Their spears were gone and two had lost their shields, but they had their swords and they were vicious fighters. Sigurd swung his war hammer and Skylan slashed with his sword and the three hellkites went down.
Sigurd kept bashing the foe, screaming, “Stay dead or I swear by Torval—”
The hellkite disintegrated.
“That’s the difference!” Skylan cried.
He looked at the ogre shaman, running behind the advancing shield wall, waving his gourd and howling a prayer to the gods. He recalled seeing some of the Cyclopes archers praying to the gods as they fired.
“What are you raving about?” Sigurd asked, breathing heavily.
“The gods! You called upon Torval!” Skylan exclaimed. “My sword is a gift from a god.”
He filled his lungs and shouted with his battlefield voice, “Strike in the name of the gods!”
Bear Walker and his ogres smashed into the right flank of the hellkites, throwing them into disarray. The Cyclopes warriors had stopped shooting arrows for fear of hitting their own allies. Armed with clubs and spears, they waded into the fray, bashing and stabbing. But, still, the hellkites seemed to flow over Skylan and his warriors in waves, endless as the ocean. Guarded by his serpents, Aelon rode his chariot over the field of battle, exhorting the hellkites to keep fighting.
Skylan destroyed another hellkite, slicing through the neck, severing the head from the body. The hellkite dwindled into dust and Skylan braced himself to fight again, only to find himself without a foe. The tide of battle had swept past him.
He stood alone on the shoreline and wondered if he had been fighting for minutes or if days had passed. He was not tired; nor was he wounded. He could fight on endlessly and the idea filled him with dread. The enemy never stopped coming and it occurred to him that perhaps this was his doom, to spend eternity battling hellish fiends, killing them over and over.
He shuddered and then remembered his boastful words to Keeper about never succumbing to despair. He gave a rueful smile and supposed he had better live up to them. He gripped his sword and was about to wade back into the fray when he heard his name, like a sigh carried by the wind.
He turned to see the Venejekar sailing toward the shore. Aylaen stood at the prow, wearing shining silver armor and carrying the sword blessed by the goddess, Vindrash. She seemed to be searching for him. His name was on her lips and in her heart.
Skylan was about to shout to her, when he stopped himself. Aelon continued to fly above the field of battle, hurling spears, bringing forth more hellkites. Absorbed in directing his army, the god had not yet caught sight of her.
Skylan gave a shout that echoed to the skies and, gripping God-rage, ran back toward the fighting. The only way to return to Aylaen was to win this battle, if he had to kill every fiend in hell to do it.
Watch over her, Torval, Skylan prayed and reached to touch the amulet, forgetting that it was gone, only to feel his hand close over the small hammer on its leather thong.
Skylan smiled. He had no idea where his amulet had been or how or why it had come back to him, but he took its return for a hopeful sign.
Plunging into the midst of the fray, he wielded God-rage and fought, so he might return to Aylaen.
CHAPTER
13
The Dragon Kahg carried the Venejekar swiftly over the sea to the Isle of Revels. Aylaen stood at the prow, her hand on the dragon’s neck, as she had done for so many days after Skylan’s death. Only now, she was filled with hope. Skylan was alive. They had three of the five spiritbones in their possession, and needed only the other two in order to gain the power of creation and stop Aelon, perhaps even drive the god from the world.
Recovering the five spiritbones had been Skylan’s quest, assigned to him by the goddess Vindrash, and when he had fallen, Aylaen had done what Vindrasi women had done for centuries. She had picked up her dead husband’s sword and fought on.
“When Skylan returns, we will continue the quest for the Five,” she told the Dragon Kahg.
“What will you do with the sacred spiritbones once you have them?” the dragon asked.
Aylaen was startled. The dragon rarely spoke to her and never about the spiritbones. Wondering if she had heard correctly, she looked up at the proud head of the dragon to see one of the red eyes glaring down at her.
“I will use the spiritbones as Vindrash intended, to summon the Five Vektia dragons—”
“No, you won’t,” said Kahg. “Vindrash lied.”
“Lied!” Aylaen gasped. “I don’t believe you. What about?”
“The five spiritbones,” said the Dragon Kahg. “Your mate—the warrior who is dead and not dead—knows the truth. You know the truth yourself, or you would if you would think about it. You are the Kai Priestess. The responsibility is yours.”
“I have been thinking of the Five,” Aylaen returned. “At night, when I could not sleep. During the day, when I could find no respite from the pain of Skylan’s death. The mad god, Sund, looked into the future and warned me that if I did not destroy the Five, the destruction of the gods would follow.”
“Yet you have three in your possession and you do not destroy them,” said Kahg. “Why is that?”
“I have told you. Sund saw one future among many,” said Aylaen dismissively. She was silent a moment, remembering, then said softly, “The spiritbones are very beautiful. And I have felt their power.”
“The power of creation,” said Kahg. “I will tell you a story. The story of creati
on.”
Aylaen started to say she knew the story, but Kahg continued and she did not want to interrupt.
“The Great Dragon Ilyrion was the guardian of this world, which she loved. The god Torval was a young god then, searching for a world of his own to rule, when he came upon this one. He demanded that Ilyrion give it him. She refused to let him, and he attacked her. The blood and smoke from the fighting grew so dense that it blotted out the sun. The world turned dark and cold. All life began to die.
“Realizing in sorrow that their battle was going to destroy the world she loved, Ilyrion sacrificed herself. She let Torval’s sword pierce her heart. The five spiritbones sprang from her crest as her blood rained down from the heavens. Each drop of her blood became a gemstone that holds a baby dragon. Thus are our young born of Ilyrion. Her crest holds the power of creation.”
“That is not the story of creation,” said Aylaen.
“Not to you humans.” The Dragon Kahg scowled. “In your version, Torval is the hero. Not in ours.”
Aylaen pondered the tale. “You said Vindrash lied. What does the lie have to do with your story?”
“Vindrash told your people and ours that the five spiritbones embodied the power of creation. She promised that in time of need, a Priestess could summon five dragons who would return to fight for the Vindrasi. You battled the evil being that attacked Sinaria. You fought it. You know it was not a dragon.”
Aylaen was troubled, for Kahg was right. Her sister, Treia, with the help of the god Hevis, had used one of the spiritbones to summon a Vektia dragon, or so Treia believed, in order to help save her city from the ogres. Instead, the evil creature had escaped her control, laid waste to the city, and killed. Years ago, another Kai Priestess had tried to use one of the spiritbones to summon a dragon with equally disastrous results. The Five presumably held the power of creation. Yet up to now, they had brought only death and destruction.
“If it was not a dragon, what was it?” Aylaen asked.
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