Doom of the Dragon (47 page)

Raegar gave a shrug, as if to shake off the strange occurrence. He was wearing his ceremonial armor and a purple cape that had torn loose from one of the shoulder clasps and dragged on the ground. With an impatient yank, he tore it loose and let it fall.

Looking closely, Skylan saw no sign of a spiritbone, no torque or brooch, and he smiled. His plan had worked. Raegar looked past Skylan to the battle and
he
smiled. Skylan had no need to look. He knew what he would see—his own forces being driven back step by bloody step into the sea.

“We may have lost, but you have not won, Cousin!” Skylan shouted over the din of battle. “You do not have the spiritbone.”

“No one has it,” Raegar returned, his voice grating. “Aylaen is dead.”

The words struck Skylan a mortal blow, driving into his gut, cutting off his breath, draining his life's blood.

“You killed her!” he cried, lunging at Raegar, who managed at the last moment to raise his sword in time to block Skylan's blow. The two closed, grappling.

“I did not kill her, Cousin,” Raegar hissed, his breath hot on Skylan's face. “Your own gods killed her. Aylaen found the fifth spiritbone and fell down dead.”

“I don't believe you,” Skylan said through grit teeth as the two heaved back and forth. “She is not dead!”

“I can prove it!” Raegar snarled. “Where are the Vektia dragons? If Aylaen was alive, she would have summoned them. Yet all I see is the bright light of Aelon's glory.”

“All I see is the bright fire of your defeat!” Skylan roared.

Raegar gave a great heave and shoved Skylan with a force that sent him staggering. His foot turned in the wet sand and he fell heavily onto one knee and did not immediately rise.

Raegar stood nearby, watching him suspiciously, fearing Skylan was merely feigning injury in order to lure him into some deadly trap.

Skylan was not pretending. He knew in his soul Raegar was telling the truth. Aylaen was dead. He was suddenly very tired, with the weariness that comes from loss of blood and, worse, loss of hope. He did not see the light of a grinning moon. He saw only bleak and unending night. His plan had failed. He had led his men to death and defeat for nothing and left his people to the mercies of Aelon.

The spiritbones that were supposed to be their salvation had instead been their doom. Perhaps the gods had lied. Perhaps they had been mistaken. None of that mattered, for they, too, had paid a terrible price. Skylan wanted only to die, to meet Aylaen in the ashes of Torval's Hall, and hold her close throughout eternity.

He had something to do first, however.

Skylan paid no heed to the fighting, to the cries and screams of men bleeding, dying. His battle came down to one man.

By his looks, Raegar had been enjoying the life of an emperor. The muscular arms and shoulders were soft and flabby, his pudgy gut leaked out from beneath his breastplate. His face was puffy from an overindulgence in wine, and shining with sweat and he was breathing hard from even their brief encounter.

Skylan rose slowly, limping, favoring his right knee.

Raegar watched him, shifted the sword to his left hand to flex his fingers and wipe the sweat from his face, then nervously shifted it back. He seemed to have just realized that he was in a dangerous predicament, for he was alone and on foot in the midst of a raging battle, with no guards, no elite troops to protect him. In his mad pursuit of Wulfe, Raegar had left his retinue behind and now he was looking for help.

“You men, there, I need you!” he shouted to a group of soldiers running past to join the fighting.

The men glanced at him in the light of the flames that flared up to illuminate faces, only to plunge them again into shadow. Seen dimly by darkness and fire, Raegar was just another foot soldier. The men kept running.

“I am your emperor!” Raegar angrily shouted after them. His cry was lost in the din.

“You will have to kill me yourself,” said Skylan.

Raegar gave a grim smile and took up a fighting stance, planting his feet firmly in the sand. “And this time I
will
kill you, Cousin! No god can save you now.”

Raegar may have grown fat and sleek from good living, but Skylan didn't underestimate his cousin. Raegar was a Vindrasi; he'd been raised to battle. He was taller than Skylan, with a longer reach, and he was not using the standard Sinarian short sword. Raegar had his own sword, an enormous weapon, made of steel, finely crafted. And although flabby and out of shape, Raegar was still as strong as an ox.

Skylan had one advantage: Raegar had everything to lose and Skylan had lost everything.

Once before, Skylan had given himself to the madness of Torval, a state of being in which a warrior loses all sense of fear. Time slows so that he is keenly aware of every second, seeing everything around him in minute detail with astonishing clarity. The madness can open a warrior's eyes, give him insight into his foe. The madness leads to glory.

Skylan could feel the warm sticky blood running down his leg; he could feel his life ebbing away. In the heavens, Torval was watching his great Hall burn. Glory for both man and god had turned to blood and ashes and the bitter grief of loss. Skylan did not give himself to Torval's madness. He joined Torval in his despair. He had one last goal to achieve before he joined Torval in death—to avenge his gods, his people, and Aylaen.

Skylan limped until he deemed he was close enough to Raegar to attack, then his limp drastically improved. He sprang at Raegar, hoping to catch him flat-footed, aiming to drive his blade into Raegar's throat. Soft living had not dulled Raegar's reflexes, however. He knocked Skylan's sword aside and kicked Skylan in the shin.

Skylan staggered, almost losing his balance, and Raegar was quick to follow his advantage, lifting the blade to bring it down on Skylan's head, cleave through his helm and split his skull.

Skylan shifted to one side and Raegar's blade whistled past him with such force that his sword stuck in the sand. He yanked his blade free with a curse, but Skylan used the time to try to drive his sword into the gap left between Raegar's breastplate and belt. Raegar twisted around, swinging his sword in an arc, striking Skylan's sword a jarring blow that sent stingers through his arm and numbed it to the elbow.

Skylan had to stumble back, transferring the sword from his useless right hand to his left. As he was wiggling his fingers to try to get some feeling into them, he was assailed by a sudden sickening wave of faintness—the herald of death. Skylan swore and fought to hang on. His head cleared in time to see Raegar charging at him.

Skylan still had no feeling in his right hand and he was forced to clumsily block the blow with his left. He managed to deflect the killing stroke, but the blade stabbed into his midriff. Ribs broke and blood spurted and pain tore at him from somewhere deep inside. Groaning, he sagged to the ground.

He tried to get back up, but he was too weak. He could not stand, but yet he would not fall. Not before Raegar. On his knees, Skylan lifted his sword.

“Why aren't you dead?” Raegar shouted, his face twisted in fury.

He ran at Skylan, who managed with his waning strength to slash the blade across Raegar's legs. God-rage bit deep through the ornate heavy leather boots into muscle and tendons and bone, and Raegar stumbled and fell, clutching his bloody shins and howling in pain.

Skylan sank to the ground and, lying there, felt the world quake and shiver.

At first, Skylan dazedly imagined the tremor was Freilis, the Goddess of the Tally, coming for him. The shaking grew stronger; the ground rolled beneath him. Raegar had quit howling and staggered to his feet, looking about in fear and wonder as the charred remains of the siege tower toppled and crashed to the ground in a shower of sparks.

Soldiers were shouting in alarm and pointing toward the city. Golden domes and silver spires and stone walls shone with a brilliant golden radiance. Tsa Kerestra blazed like a star and suddenly everyone on the beach could hear panicked shouts and terrified cries coming from those soldiers who had rushed inside the city to loot and kill. They cried out in fear and then fell horribly silent.

As the morning mists faded with the dawning of day, Tsa Kerestra disappeared. The pale, brittle light of Aelon's moon shone on an enormous dragon with scales of shining gold flying above an empty, flat, and desolate plateau.

The dragon spread her wings and soared high among the clouds with graceful ease. Golden sparks showered down from her wings; she trailed flame like the tail of a comet. She gave a clarion call of triumph and joy.

“Aylaen!” Skylan breathed, gazing at the dragon. “You didn't die.… You summoned the dragon.…”

The fighting stopped as friend and foe alike stared in wonder at the vanishing city and the great dragon flying above it, shining in the heavens with a radiance that rivaled the sun.

“Ilyrion!” Dela Eden cried, her single voice rising, breaking the silence. “Ilyrion!”

The Cyclopes gave their eerie wailing calls. The ogres roared and beat their weapons against their shields.

Biting his lips against the agony, Skylan picked up his sword and slowly and painfully rose to his feet. Aylaen was alive and she would find him among the dead with his sword in his hands, victorious.

“Raegar!” Skylan meant to shout, but the word came out a gasp.

Raegar heard him, however, and, limping on his bloody legs, turned to see what he must have thought was a draugr, an apparition, crawled out of the grave.

Skylan pressed his hand against his side, blood welled black from between his fingers. Every breath was blazing fire and he wavered where he stood, but he kept standing.

And then he started walking toward his foe.

Raegar blanched at the ghastly sight and backed up a step. “Why won't you die?” he cried and then, clutching his sword, he rushed at Skylan in a rage. “Why won't you die!”

Raegar swung his sword in wild, savage arcs, without thought or skill, desperate to kill. Skylan had to conserve his waning strength. He watched and waited as his father had taught him and, timing his blow, he struck at Raegar's sword and knocked it from his hand.

Raegar knelt to make a grab for it, only to find the point of Skylan's blade at his throat. Raegar froze, on his knees, his eyes wide with terror. Skylan saw himself reflected in Raegar's fear: pale as death, grim as death, holding death in his hand. He put his foot on Raegar's sword.

“You will not die a warrior.”

Raegar shuddered and waited for the end.

Skylan meant to strike the death blow, but his arm wavered, his fingers trembled. He tightened his grip, but Raegar saw his weakness. His eyes went to Skylan's sword and his hand twitched, as though he would grab it. His eyes went to Skylan's eyes and he hesitated.

Skylan heard a shout, someone calling Raegar's name. Sigurd came splashing out of the red-tinged waves, dripping blood and seawater, carrying an axe that was not his own. Grimuir was beside his friend, as always. His helm was gone, his face horribly mangled and covered in blood. He could still see out of one eye, however, and that eye was fixed on Raegar. Bjorn walked with them, slogging through the wet sand, his face grim and dark. His sword blade was notched, but still sharp. Farinn came running up behind them. He carried no weapons, and his face was deathly pale.

Skylan was too weak to ask how the young man came to be here. Perhaps he had been sent to witness the end of the song.

Skylan smiled.

“I do not have the strength to kill you myself,” he said to Raegar. “But, if you wait, my friends will be glad to finish you.”

Raegar rose slowly to his feet. Blood covered his legs. His face contorted in pain, and tears of anger and frustration cut furrows down his cheeks. He cast Skylan a bitter, hate-filled look.

“Some god loves you.” Raegar sneered and spat in the sand at Skylan's feet. “For all the good it has done either of us.”

Turning, he hobbled off and vanished in the night.

Skylan's sword slipped from his hand. He sagged and fell onto the blood-wet sand. Strong arms caught him and held him, lowering him gently to the ground.

“Skylan!” Farinn cried. “Skylan, no!”

Skylan gasped and choked, then smiled to see his friends, with their weapons drawn, stand protectively over him, their fallen chief.

Farinn pressed his hand over the worst of the wounds, trying vainly to stop the bleeding. Skylan watched the dragon soar into the sky. Shedding golden sparks, she dove down, flying low to the ground. Men fled in terror at her coming, trampling each other, plunging into the sea.

“Farinn, tell me the truth,” Skylan whispered. “Aylaen is alive.…”

Farinn hesitated the briefest moment, then said firmly, “Yes, Skylan, she is alive.”

The dragon flew nearer, her head turning this way and that until she seemed to find what she sought. Her flight slowed. Her wings barely stirring the air, the dragon hovered over Skylan.

“Tell Aylaen I love her,” said Skylan.

He reached out his hand, feeling for his sword, and, finding it, clasped his hand over the hilt. His eyes closed, his head lolled in Farinn's arms.

*   *   *

Farinn looked up at the dragon. A single golden tear fell from the dragon's eye and splashed on Skylan, washing away the blood on his lips and his body.

The dragon gazed down on him a moment, then looked at Farinn and nodded slightly. Lifting her head, with a single flap of her golden wings, she effortlessly soared back into the heavens.

The song was supposed to end with the glorious death of the victorious hero. Farinn held Skylan in his arms and lowered his head and wept.

He wept because he knew it wouldn't.

 

CHAPTER

46

Raegar hated Skylan with a hatred that twisted and roiled inside his belly; his was hatred that suffocated him, made it hard to even breathe. Whatever beautiful object Raegar possessed, Skylan smashed. Whatever victory Raegar won, Skylan snatched from his grasp.