Doom of the Dragon Read Online Free

did not think the old women were crazy. He had seen for himself his single thread shining in the sun.
    A man’s wyrd was his fate, his destiny, rolling out in front of him toward some unknown end. As for choosing his own wyrd, all men are free to make choices. That is the gift—and the curse—of the gods, for while men are free to choose, they must choose blindly, unable to foresee the outcome.
    â€œWhy am I different?” Skylan wondered. “Or am I different at all? Perhaps the Norn are toying with me.”
    And yet, there was that single thread.
    Growing impatient, Skylan went to the door that had been left open a crack to look for Joabis and saw him talking to Torval. They must be discussing him, for Joabis gestured toward the door and Torval turned his head to look in Skylan’s direction. Torval looked very grim, but he gave an abrupt gesture. The door flew open.
    Joabis met him, smacking his lips over a mug of foaming ale.
    â€œTorval has agreed to let you into the Hall, but only for the sake of the wager. Once the game is ended, you must leave.”
    Removing his helm in respect, Skylan crossed the threshold, pausing a moment in the doorway to gaze in awe at this holy place. He had known since he was a child and first fashioned a sword from a stick that he would die a hero and be proud and content to spend his afterlife here.
    A roaring fire blazed in a great stone fireplace. The heroes of the Vindrasi, men and women, filled the Hall. Some sat laughing and talking over mugs of ale at rows of long, rough-hewn tables made of planks of wood laid across trestles. Others were on their feet, wrestling or practicing their techniques with sword or spear or axe, bashing at each other, while their fellows watched and freely criticized. Still others were gathered around a harper, listening to his tale.
    Torval sat sprawled at his ease in a huge chair at the front of the Hall. He was holding a mug of ale in one hand and beating time to the music on his knee with the other. He gazed at his assembled warriors with pride and smiled with pleasure. But his smile seemed wistful to Skylan, touched by the shadow of sorrow that darkened his eyes.
    Skylan searched for his father and saw Norgaard sitting with a group of his friends in the warmest corner of the Hall, near the fireplace. Most of his father’s friends had died before Skylan was born, for Norgaard had died an old man of forty-five, outliving all the warriors of his generation. Norgaard appeared to be telling the tale of some battle, for he was on his feet, jabbing at an imaginary foe with his sword.
    Skylan was pleased to see that his father, who had always walked with a limp, was hale and whole once more.
    Feeling a heavy hand on his shoulder, Skylan looked to see Torval standing alongside, his gaze also on Norgaard.
    â€œHow did my father die?” Skylan asked.
    â€œBandits attacked the village,” Torval replied. “With you and most of the warriors gone, Norgaard and a few other old men, the Torgun women, and their children were the only ones left to fight. Norgaard died defending his people.”
    â€œA good death,” said Skylan.
    Torval nodded. “I will tell him you are here.”
    â€œNo, don’t,” said Skylan.
    â€œWhy not?” Torval asked, frowning.
    â€œBecause I have no right to be here,” said Skylan, his face flushing in shame. “Because I have been ungrateful, full of my own importance, proud and arrogant. I lied to my father and mocked him. I thwarted your will and took the chiefdom of our people from him. How can I face him now, especially in company with Joabis? He will think I have chosen to spend my afterlife in drunken revelry.”
    He knew Torval would understand. When Torval had slain the Great Dragon Ilyrion and taken the world as his prize, he had invited his friends to join him: Aylis, the Sun Goddess; Skoval, God of Night; Sund, God of Stone; Vindrash, the Dragon Goddess;