SECRET
OF THE
DRAGON
Tor Books by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Bones of the Dragon
Secret of the Dragon
SECRET
OF THE
DRAGON
MARGARET WEIS
AND
TRACY HICKMAN
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
SECRET OF THE DRAGON
Copyright © 2010 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-1974-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-2692-8 (first international trade paperback edition)
First Edition: March 2010
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Brian Thomsen,
with much affection
PROLOGUE
I am Farinn the Talgogroth, the Voice of Gogroth, God of the World Tree. Attend me! For now I will tell the tale of Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, the greatest of the Chiefs.” He paused and then said, with a sigh, “The greatest and the last.”
The pause was for dramatic effect. The sigh was genuine. Farinn the Talgogroth was an old, old man, the oldest in the Vindrasi nation. Being a Talgogroth, he knew the history of the Vindrasi, and he maintained proudly that he was the oldest Torgun who had ever lived, reckoning that he had seen eighty-five years. He was the only living Vindrasi who had actually known and sailed with the fabled Skylan Ivorson on his epic voyage in the dragonship that was now almost as legendary as its master, the Venjekar.
There was some bustle in the hall, as the women poured mugs of ale, then sat down on the long bench beside their men. Children ceased romping and ran to sit on the floor in front of the Talgogroth so as not to miss a word, for the old man’s voice—once a vibrant tenor—now tended to be thin and cracked. The Vindrasi had heard this story many times before, but it was one of their favorites and they never tired of listening. Every child there, boy and girl, dreamed of growing up to be a hero like Skylan or Garn or Aylaen or Bjorn or Erdmun or the others whose names rang through the hall.
All now dead. All except the one who had been the youngest on that voyage. The old man regarded the children with wistful sorrow.
The tale he told could be likened to a tapestry in which bright colored threads were stitched close together to form a stirring and beautiful picture of brave men and women doing battle with fearsome enemies. Viewed from the front, the tapestry appeared flawless. Every stitch was perfectly sewn, each thread blending together in harmony with every other thread to form a wondrous picture.
Seen from the back, the picture was not as pretty. The embroidery that was smooth and beautiful and glowing on the front looked broken and fragmented when viewed from the other side. Threads were knotted, snarled, or tangled. Some of the threads had snapped and had to be tied to other threads. If the strand had frayed, the thread was pulled out and tossed away and another, stronger thread used in its place.
Farinn the Talgogroth told the tale as seen from the front. He knew quite well that if the people saw it from the back, no one would ever want to listen to it. All men need heroes and they need their heroes to be perfect; never mind that it is the knots in the threads on the back of the tapestry that make the work strong and enduring.
The Talgogroth’s grandson, who was now in his forties and would be Talgogroth when his grandfather died (Farinn had outlived both his sons), brought the old man a mug of ale. Farinn took a drink, to ease the dryness in his throat, and began to speak.
“Hear now the tale of Skylan Ivorson, son of Norgaard Ivorson, Chief of the Torgun during the time of what would become known as the Last War, the War of the Gods.
“Skylan Ivorson had seen eighteen winters when the first spark of the raging fire that would eventually consume the world was struck. Ogres, sailing in their ships with the triangle sails, crossed the sea and landed on Torgun shores. The ogres did not come to fight, as you would expect. They came to parley and Norgaard Ivorson, as Chief, had no choice but to make them welcome as his honored guests.
“The ogres brought dire news. They told the Torgun that the gods of the Vindrasi had been defeated in a great battle in heaven. They said the gods of the Vindrasi were now dead. To prove what he said was true, the Torgun godlord came to the feast wearing the sacred Vektan Torque, the spiritbone of one of the Vektia Dragons. The torque had been given to the Vindrasi by the dragon goddess, Vindrash, and was valuable beyond all measure. Horg Thekkson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, of the Heudjun clan, had given the torque to the ogres.”
The children interrupted, hissing and booing at this point. Horg was the villain of the tale, at least at the beginning.
Tangled threads, thought Farinn as he waited for the clamor to die down. So many tangled threads.
“Horg claimed he gave the torque to the ogres to prevent them from attacking the Heudjun, an act of cowardice and dishonor that would bring down on him the wrath of Torval.”
The children clapped at this juncture and leaned forward eagerly. They all knew what was coming.
“The Torgun lit a beacon fire, asking their neighbors, the Heudjun, for help to defeat the ogres in battle. The Heudjun did not come. Skylan was war chief of his people, for his father, Norgaard, was crippled by wounds of honor, taken in battle. Skylan led his warriors against the ogres. The Bone Priestess, who was then Treia Adalbrand, summoned the Dragon Kahg, and the Torgun defeated their foe, though they were outnumbered a hundred to one.”
Farinn smiled to himself. That was not quite true, but it made for a good story.
“Alas, though it seemed the Torgun won, in truth they lost, for the treacherous ogres used foul shamanistic magic to steal the sacred Vektan Torque. The ogres sailed away with the Torque and there was nothing the Torgun could do to stop them.
“The Torgun turned their wrath upon their cousins, the Heudjun, who had failed to come to their aid in a time of desperate need. Norgaard, Chief of the Torgun, determined to challenge Horg Thekkson in the Vutmana, a battle sanctioned by the gods in which one chief may challenge another to determine who has the strongest claim to be Chief of Chiefs.
“Norgaard was a cripple and could not fight, and the law states that a Chief may choose a champion to fight in his stead. Norgaard chose Skylan, his son, to do battle. The Torgun warriors sailed across the Gymir Fjord to confront the Heudjun. Draya, Kai Priestess, revealed to the Heudjun that Horg had given the Vektan Torque to the ogres; the Torque had not been stolen as he had basely claimed. She called upon Torval, god of the Vindrasi, to judge Horg.
“Horg Thekkson and Skylan Ivorson fought the Vutmana—”
“Sing the story of the battle!” cried a little boy.
“Another time,” said Farinn gently.
Long ago, he had composed a lay that told the tale of the epic battle. His song detailed every heroic sword thrust and parry. But Farinn disliked singing the lay and avoided it when possible. He had known when he was composing it that the story he told was a lie. He had kept silent out of respect, and now he was the only one who knew the truth. He would carry the secret of what had truly happened during that battle to his grave.
Farinn went on with the tale. “Skylan Ivorson was victorious. As
winner, he had the right to choose if he would make his father Chief of Chiefs or if he would decide to be Chief himself. Skylan had taken an oath to Torval that he would make his father Chief. Skylan broke that oath and claimed the chiefdom for himself.”
The children were silent, wide-eyed. Oath-breaking was very terrible and they all knew Skylan would be punished.
“Some say that Torval cursed Skylan for his oath-breaking,” Farinn continued, “and the tragedy that befell him afterward was due to Torval’s curse. Others say it was a traitor god who caused all the trouble. Skylan always said it was he himself who brought about his own downfall, for he was an arrogant youth and would listen to no man’s advice.”
Parents frowned at their children, warning them to take heed. The children brushed this lesson aside in anticipation of the rest of the story.
Farinn paused a moment, then said softly, “The wise say it was Skylan’s wyrd.”
The hall was hushed. The men and women silently nodded their heads.
The wyrd is spun by the Norn, three sisters of the god Gogroth, who came at Torval’s summons to plant the World Tree. His three sisters sit beneath the tree, one twisting the wyrd on her distaff, one spinning the wyrd on her wheel, one weaving the wyrds of gods and men on her loom. When the thread that ties a babe to the mother is cut, the thread of that child’s wyrd begins. Every person has his own wyrd, as does every god. The wyrds of men and gods together form the tapestry that is life.
A single thread is fragile. The tapestry itself is strong.
Farinn went on to relate the various adventures and misadventures that befell Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs.* The tale was a long one and when the old man’s voice began to give out and the children were unable to stifle their yawns, he brought the tale for this night to an end.
“The Bone Priestess, Treia Adalbrand, sister to Aylaen, the woman Skylan loved, accused Skylan of having cheated in the Vutmana, claiming he had treacherously murdered Horg Thekkson and thus robbed Torval of his choice.
“Skylan had by this time come to believe that his misfortunes were due to the curse of the god, Torval. Plagued by guilt, Skylan confessed to the crime of having murdered Horg Thekkson—ironically, the one crime among many of which Skylan was truly innocent.
“The Torgun turned on Skylan. They made him a prisoner and threw him into the hold. Justice done, the Torgun warriors prepared the funeral biers for their dead warriors. As the smoke rose, carrying the ashes and the souls of the dead to heaven, the Torgun were ambushed by soldiers of Oran, Empire of Light. The Torgun were captured and made prisoners on their own ship.
“And that is where the tale ends for tonight,” said Farinn.
Even though they were dropping from sleep, the children wailed in protest. Farinn smiled and took a long pull from his mug.
Benches scraped along the floor as people rose. Fathers lifted their sleepy children in their arms and carried them out of the hall. Mothers walked alongside, draping blankets over the smallest children to fend off the night’s chill. The young unmarried men stayed behind in the hall to finish off the cask of ale and tell their own tales of valor. The young women, demurely accompanying their parents, glanced over their shoulders to make sure that the young men were watching.
Farinn rose stiffly from the stool on which he’d been seated. His grandson tried to take his arm, but Farinn irately shook off the assistance.
“I might be old and I might be slow, but I can still walk on my own two feet,” he said testily.
Farinn made his way to his long house. He did not go to bed. He did not require much sleep these days. He fixed himself a honey posset to sooth his throat and, sitting before the fire, he thought back to that time when young Skylan Ivorson, once Chief of Chiefs, had been made a slave. Farinn would resume the telling of the tale tomorrow night. He always liked this part.
This was where Skylan’s story took an unexpected turn.
* * *
*For those who have not been fortunate enough to hear the Talgogroth recite it, the tale of Skylan Ivorson begins in the book Bones of the Dragon, Volume One, Dragonships.
CHAPTER
1
* * *
BOOK ONE
The Vindrasi believe that every person has his own wyrd, as does every god. The wyrds of men and gods are intertwined, often to the detriment of man, for the gods are all-seeing, whereas man is blind. But sometimes the gods discover that foresight is a curse, not a blessing. For though a god may believe he is sure of the future of creation, no god can ever be truly confident that what he sees will come to pass, for no god can dictate the actions of men.
For men are free to choose. And thus men may unwittingly unravel the plans of the gods. . . .
Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi nation, sat in the sand and watched half-naked men with hammers crawl over the side of his ship. He was reminded of flies swarming over a carcass.
The damage the Venjekar had suffered when the ship ran aground on a sandbar was greater than Acronis, the Legate of Oran, had first thought. After capturing the ship, the Legate had ordered his men to make some cursory repairs to the hull and then sail with the tide. The Venjekar had taken on so much water so rapidly that Tribune Zahakis, chosen by the Legate to captain the ship, had barely made it back to shore.
Skylan had felt a grim sort of satisfaction in the failure. It was as if the Venjekar knew she had been taken captive and had chosen to sink to the bottom of the sea rather than submit to her captors. Skylan prayed to Torval that the foul Southlanders would not be able to repair the Venjekar. Let them take away his sword, haul him off in chains; he would find some comfort in the fact that his ship had steadfastly defied her foes.
The Venjekar had not been given the choice. The Legate carried carpenters on board his ship, a war galley which the soldiers called a “trireme” because it had three banks of oars. Acronis sent the carpenters to make repairs. Zahakis ordered the Torgun prisoners to be removed from the ship. They now sat in the sand, their hands and feet shackled, bound to each other by chains, and watched over the soldiers of the Legate in their glistening segmented armor and leather skirts.
The Torgun warriors, bereft of their armor, were now only seven in number. Almost thirty had set sail on the Venjekar when Skylan had begun this god-cursed voyage. Some had died fighting the giants on the Dragon Isles. Some had been wounded in the battle against the Southlanders. They had survived their wounds only to die later with the others, victims of a strange sickness, the likes of which the Torgun had never known before.
The sickness came on suddenly, beginning with fever and chills, stomach cramps and bloody diarrhea, and ending in death for many. Others, like Aylaen and Treia, Erdmun and the youngster, Farinn, had caught the sickness, but recovered. Skylan had not been affected by it at all, possibly because he had remained isolated from the others, a prisoner in the hold. The sickness had not struck Wulfe either, possibly because the boy had run away. Terrified of the strange soldiers, Wulfe had stayed away from the camp for days. He was gone so long Skylan had thought the boy had run off for good this time. But then Wulfe had returned, showing up unexpectedly, saying he was hungry.
Skylan had feared the soldiers of Oran would try to shackle Wulfe. The boy had a marked aversion to iron, swearing he could not touch it or it would hurt him. Wulfe could not even bear to smell it.
The Southlanders did not shackle Wulfe. They had no manacles that would fit over the boy’s scrawny wrists, and no one considered the eleven-year-old boy a danger. They didn’t particularly care if he ran away again, and so the soldiers left him alone. If Raegar had been on shore, he could have told them that Wulfe was extremely dangerous. He would have urged the soldiers to bind him hand and foot and lock him in the hold. Raegar was not there, however. Skylan had not seen his traitor cousin for days. Wulfe crouched by Skylan’s side, keeping his distance, for fear he might accidentally touch one of the iron shackles.
The prisoners were not chained up to keep the
m from running away, but rather to discourage the “savages” from attacking their guards. The Torgun warriors had already tried twice to fight their captors, not with any hope of escape, for they had no weapons, but simply with the intent of killing as many as they could before they themselves were killed.
The Torgun blamed Skylan for everything—the storm that had blown them off course, the disastrous encounter with giants, their enslavement. They even blamed him for the sickness. The Torgun could not blame Skylan more than he blamed himself. Nor could they hate Skylan more than he hated himself.
Skylan had often dreamt that his soul went to Torval’s Hall of Heroes. As he stood among the valiant warriors who had died with swords in their hands, his hands and feet were bound by chains. Torval and the other heroic warriors had roared with laughter, driving him from the Hall. He would constantly awake from that terrible dream in a cold sweat.
Skylan now watched the carpenters. He had to admit, grudgingly, that they knew their business. He turned to Wulfe, who was digging holes in the sand.
“I asked you a question. Where has Raeger been keeping himself?” Skylan said. “I would think he would be hanging around like he did at first, gloating and jeering at us.”
Wulfe shrugged. “He is probably somewhere rutting with Treia.”
Skylan stared at the boy, incredulous. “Treia? And Raegar? Treia may be a venemous snake, but she is Vindrasi. She is loyal to her people and to her gods. Raegar betrayed her as he betrayed the rest of us. She would scratch out his eyes if he came near her.”
“I saw them,” said Wulfe. “In the temple. Rutting.”
“What do you mean, you saw them in the temple? What temple? Where?” Skylan demanded.
“The temple here,” said Wulfe. “The temple with the big statue of a dragon inside it.”
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