The shot would be a long one, for the two ships had drifted farther apart. Aylaen ignored him. She had no water to use to form the dragon. She had no earth to scatter over the spiritbone. Taking the spiritbone to Skylan, she dipped the bone in his blood.
Aylaen threw the spiritbone in the air.
The bone hung for a moment and vanished. Just as Raegar fit the arrow to his bow, the Dragon Kahg came to life. His scales were as red as blood. Blood drooled from his jaws and stained his fangs. He spread his red wings and the sun, shining through them, was blood-red. The Dragon Kahg made no sound. He dove, claws extended.
Raegar had no spiritbone. He could not summon his dragon and it was doubtful if Fala would have stayed around to fight the enraged Kahg. Raegar knew he was a dead man anyway. He had nothing to lose. He stood his ground, lifted the bow, aimed at the dragon, and fired.
The arrow burst into flame and fell into the sea.
Kahg flew over Aelon’s Triumph. Drops of blood rained down from the dragon’s wings, burning anything they touched. The droplets ate like acid into men’s flesh. They screamed in pain and jumped into the sea. The water boiled around them and they were never seen again. At last, the only two left on board were Raegar and Captain Anker.
The deck smoldered in a hundred places and soon caught fire. Raegar and the captain tried desperately to put the fires out, but they spread too rapidly. Captain Anker urged Raegar to abandon ship. Raegar paid no heed, kept fighting the flames. Captain Anker shook his head and leaped into the water.
Abandoned by its crew, Aelon’s Triumph sank, hissing, into the blood-red sea. Raegar stood on the deck gazing on the Venjekar with hatred until the waves washed over him.
All that was left of Aelon’s Triumph were a few bits of charred wood and the dragonhead prow which had broken off and lay floating in the water, its empty eyes gazing up at heaven as if asking Aelon what had gone wrong.
Pleased at his work, the Dragon Kahg saluted Aylaen gravely and then disappeared, flowing back into the ship. His spiritbone fell from the skies, landing on the deck at Aylaen’s feet. The bone was covered with blood and from that day forward, the spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg would always be stained red. Aylaen picked up the bone. She thanked the dragon and hung the spiritbone on the leather thong from the nail on the dragonhead prow.
She went down into the hold and Acronis thought she had at last gone to rest and grieve in private. He stood gazing out at the red blotch upon the water.
“I have seen too much death, Chloe,” he said. “I have watched too many men, young men, good men like Skylan, die. I have given orders that sent men to their deaths. I have killed men myself. For what? Some cause or other. Some country or other. Some god or other. And in the end, who wins? For everyone is dead…”
He remained there a long time, staring out to sea.
* * *
Aylaen washed off the blood. She combed her red hair and changed her clothes, putting on a sodden chemise that she had pulled from one of the sea chests. The sun still shone brightly, as though reluctant to set on this day.
She went back up on deck.
“I need to speak to you, sir,” Aylaen said to Acronis. Her voice was calm and did not waver. “Can you and Farinn and Wulfe and the Dragon Kahg and I sail this ship?”
“We can, my dear,” said Acronis. “At least as far as the nearest land. I have no idea where we are, but once I see the stars tonight, I can find a safe landfall-”
“You misunderstand me, sir,” said Aylaen. “I do not seek a safe landfall. We must sail to the land of the Stormlords. Do you know it?”
“I know of it,” said Acronis, astonished. “Why do you want go there?”
“These Stormlords have in their keeping the fourth Vektia spiritbone.”
“I don’t … I’m not sure…”
Aylaen turned from him before he could say anything more. She lowered a bucket into the sea and drew it back, filled with water. She set the bucket on the deck beside Skylan’s body and with gentle, loving hands, closed the staring blue eyes. She dipped a cloth in the water and began wiping away the blood.
Farinn brought up Skylan’s shirt and breeches and the armor that he had worn in Sinaria. He and Aylaen dressed Skylan and put on his armor, for he would need it when he stood with Torval in the god’s shield wall. Aylaen combed Skylan’s hair. Farinn laced on Skylan’s boots. Last, Aylaen gave Skylan his sword, placing it on his breast and clasping his hands over the hilt.
Acronis watched, torn between admiration and pain. He could tell her what he knew about the Stormlords, that they were reputed to be powerful and dangerous wizards, who used terrible magicks to keep people away from their land. He could tell her, but it wouldn’t matter. She would not be deterred.
At last, as though exhausted, the sun slipped beyond the horizon. Those left on the Venjekar kept vigil throughout the night. The Dragon Kahg carried the body of Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, across the dark and silent sea.
Farinn sang his song.
EPILOGUE
The Norn were three sisters who lived at the foot of the World Tree. The Norn were ancient. Their backs were bent, their bodies twisted, their feet halt and lame. They held the wyrds of gods and men in their hands. One of the Norn spun the thread of life. One wove the thread into life’s great and never-ending tapestry. One of them held the shears that snipped each thread when a man’s life came to an end.
The Norn had little care for the wyrds in their hands. They cackled and gossiped and spun and wove and cut. Some wyrds were short. A young mother died in childbirth, an infant died of fever, a young man was cut down in the shield wall. Some wyrds played out long. An old woman lay on her deathbed, smiling to see her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathered around her.
The Norn prattled away. The Norn who did the spinning saw her sister ready to shear through yet another thread.
“And whose is that?” the Norn asked.
“Skylan Ivorson,” said her sister who did the weaving.
“Past time for that rascal,” said the Norn with the shears.
She held the sharp blades over the thread and began to cut. The wyrd was thick and stubborn and the shears were dull from much use, or at least that’s what the Norn would later claim. She hacked at the thread and cut apart strand after strand and still it would not break. Finally there remained only a single thread. Her old, palsied hand jerked. The shears slipped from her gnarled fingers and fell to the ground.
The Norn stopped spinning. The Norn stopped weaving. The gods in the heavens and below the seas stopped warring. They stared in shock at the shears, lying on the roots of the World Tree.
“What do we do?” asked one of the Norn, trembling.
The Norn gazed with her shrewd watery eyes at the wyrd of Skylan Ivorson-a single strand finer than a spider’s silk.
“Apparently, it’s not his day to die,” said the Norn.
The three Norns cackled gleefully and, leaving the strand quivering in the sunlight, went back to work.
* * *
Skylan Ivorson strode up to Torval’s Hall of Heroes, his sword in his hand. He stood for long moments outside the Hall, gazing up at it. The Hall was an immense structure, for it had been built by giants, who had labored on it for many long centuries. They had ripped enormous oak trees from the ground by the roots to use to form the walls. The shields of brave warriors decorated the walls. Skylan would soon see his shield hanging among them.
He could see through the windows the orange glow of a roaring fire. He longed for its warmth, to ease the chill of death, and he walked toward the door. Made of oak, banded by iron, the door was closed. He thought that odd. Certainly Torval must be expecting him. Skylan was surprised and somewhat offended that the god was not there to greet him.