The young woman heard her mother’s voice rising in shrill anger, calling her name and ordering her to come back. Shaking her head, the young woman gathered up her skirts and continued to run over the hard, frost-rimed ground. Her two friends laughed and called out for her to slow down. She taunted them as she outpaced them, for though the men were stronger, she was the swiftest of the three and always won their races. She ran until she came to the boundless sea, inky black except for the frothy white waves that broke upon the shore at her feet and the gleaming stars above her head.
Her two friends soon caught up with her. The three stood on the beach in silence, for the heart needs no voice. The threads of their destinies unrolled before them, leading to distant horizons, star-bright and sparkling with promise.
For they were young and knew they would live forever.
As had the tale of Skylan Ivorson …
BOOK 1
CHAPTER 1
“Where’s Keeper?” Sigurd asked, peering down into the hold.
“Dead,” said Skylan.
His comrades stared at him in shocked silence. Then some of the men glanced grimly at the ogre ships with their triangular sails that were approaching them cautiously, wary, no doubt, of the reputation of the Vindrasi dragonships.
Other men watched Raegar sailing after them in his new dragonship, Aelon’s Triumph, that he had ordered built along the same lines as the fabled dragonships of his cousins. Raegar’s ship was dedicated to the God of the New Dawn, Aelon. His dragon, Fala, was dedicated to the new god, as well. Both of them were traitors to the Vindrasi and the Old Gods, the true gods.
“So what do we do now?” Sigurd demanded, breaking the silence.
“We stand together,” said Skylan.
Sigurd snorted. “You mean we die together.”
“Better than dying alone,” said Skylan. “Like Keeper.”
“How did our Keeper die?” asked Legate Acronis, frowning. He had known the ogre godlord a long time and although they were nominally slave and master, the two had long been friends. “He had a cracked head, nothing for an ogre with their thick skulls.”
Skylan’s gaze flicked to Aylaen. Worn out after her battle with the Vektia dragon, she was sitting on the deck, slumped back against the bulkhead. He and Aylaen had fled Sinaria disguised as the military escort for Legate Acronis and they were both wearing the segmented armor worn by the Sinarian soldiers, as well as the breastplate and the leather skirt that was too big for her slender waist. Aylaen had removed the helm, claiming that she couldn’t see properly. Her legs were bare from her thighs to her tightly laced boots. Skylan was surprised her stepfather, Sigurd, hadn’t berated her for exposing her body in such an unseemly manner. Perhaps Sigurd had given up the fight to salvage his wayward daughter’s honor. She had, after all, just saved his life. Skylan hoped Aylaen was asleep.
She wasn’t. Hearing the news of Keeper’s death, she opened her eyes wide and pushed herself to her feet.
“Keeper’s dead?” she said in dismay. “How did he die? What happened?”
“How he died doesn’t matter,” Skylan said in flat, dry tones. “What matters is how we die. If Raegar captures us, he will take us back to Sinaria and slavery.”
Skylan held out his arm, still bloody from where the blessed sword of Vindrash had slashed through the tattoo that had branded him a slave. “For myself, I choose the ogres.”
“The brutes will board our ship to find one of their godlords dead,” Erdmun pointed out. “They’ll think we killed him. They’ll butcher us.”
Skylan sighed. Erdmun could always be counted on to take a negative view of the situation. Though Skylan had to admit, in this instance there wasn’t much positive.
“So we’re going to just sit here and wait for death,” Sigurd said, scowling.
“We will not sit here. We will pray,” Aylaen said. “We will turn to our gods.”
“Our gods have been such a big help to us up to now,” Erdmun sneered.
Aylaen angrily rounded on Erdmun.
“We’re still alive,” she said, her green eyes flashing. She pointed back to the city, to the smoke that blacked the sky and the orange flames that burned so fiercely not even the torrential rains could douse them. “The people in that city cannot say as much. We are alive and we are free. We have our ship and we have our dragon and we have each other.”
The men were listening to her. She was wet and bedraggled, her face smeared with grime and soot, her red curls plastered to her head. She was a mess, but to Skylan she was beautiful. He had never loved her more than he loved her now, and he had loved Aylaen all his life.
“Our gods fight for their survival even as we fight for ours,” Aylaen continued. “They have given us what help they can. The rest we must do for ourselves.”
The men were impressed. Aylaen turned to face the carved figurehead of the dragon that proudly graced the prow of the Venjekar. Kahg’s eyes glittered red. The dragon had refused to fight Raegar’s dragon, Fala, saying he would not fight one of his own kind, no matter that she served a treacherous god. Kahg had not abandoned them, however. The dragon was with them, sailing the dragonship, imbuing the ship with his spirit.
Aylaen began praying to Vindrash, the dragon goddess, thanking her for her blessings, for her help in saving them from a Vektia dragon. Skylan was proud of her, proud of her courage, her strength. She had become a Bone Priestess reluctantly, led to the decision by a lie that held more truth for her than she wanted to admit.
“Vindrash,” Aylaen said in conclusion, gazing up at the heavens tinged with smoke. “We need a miracle.”
Skylan said his own prayer. He did not pray to Vindrash. Now that the Dragon Goddess had given him the secret to the Five Vektia dragons, Skylan hoped she was done with him, that she had punished him enough and there would be no more horror-ridden dragonbone games played night after dreadful night with the draugr of his dead wife, Draya. Skylan had worked hard to make amends for his past misdeeds. Aylaen was a Bone Priestess now. She and Vindrash could commune and leave Skylan out of it. He clasped his hand over his amulet, the silver hammer he wore around his neck.
“I don’t need a miracle, Torval. I need a favor. I need time,” Skylan said beneath his breath. “Anything that will gain me more time. Do that, and we can handle the rest.”
His prayer dispatched, Skylan looked with concern at his warriors. They had escaped Sinaria aboard the Venjekar, hauling the ship overland until they reached the river and then launching it. They were wearing the traditional armor of the Torgun, “barbaric armor,” the Sinarians termed it-leather tunics, padded leather vests, and chain mail, newly made for the Para Dix games. Some wore swords, others carried axes, depending on their preference. Skylan, as a Sinarian soldier, carried a standard-issue sword; a weapon neither good nor bad.
Sigurd’s head was bowed in prayer, but Skylan thought he was only pretending. Sigurd cast darting glances at the ogre ship from out of the corner of his eye. Grimuir, his friend and ally (allied in their dislike of Skylan), was watching Raegar’s ship. Acronis, former Legate of the doomed city of Sinaria, did not bow his head. Skylan knew he did not believe in gods, in any gods. His only beloved daughter had died yesterday. His beautiful home had been burned to the ground. His city was still in flames; the smoke from the burning buildings crept over the water, stinging the throat and eyes. He had lost everything except his life and he must hold that life very cheap right now, for he had tried to kill himself. Small wonder he turned his back on the gods, who had turned their backs on him. He was dressed in his ceremonial Sinarian armor, his finely made sword at his side. He gazed out across the restless sea and scratched his grizzled chin.