Doom of the Dragon by Margaret Weis

rot.
    Reaching the door, he did not immediately go inside. He had no idea what he might be facing when he entered that building and he stood with his ear pressed against the door, listening.
    Joabis had said his men were wrecking the place, but Skylan could not hear anything and that was alarming. He thought wrathfully that if Joabis had deceived him, he would shove a wineskin down his throat.
    Skylan gave the door a tentative push, expecting it to be barred. To his surprise, the door swung open on creaking, rusty hinges. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and cautiously walked in.
    The hall had no windows and was lit only by a few rays of sunlight straggling through the holes in the roof. The cavernous chamber was hazy with smoke from a poorly vented fireplace. The shields hanging from the walls were covered with dust and cobwebs. Plank tables had been overturned. Trestles and benches were scattered about the floor.
    Skylan stared in bleak dismay, thinking he had come too late to save his friends. Bodies of Vindrasi and ogre warriors lay sprawled on the floor, draped over the tables or the long wooden benches. The hall was covered in blood and the smell of death was overwhelming.
    And then one of the corpses belched.
    Skylan bent down to examine the bodies more closely and realized to his chagrin that the horrible stench in the air was not the smell of death. It was the smell of piss and vomit.
    The warriors were not dead.
    They were dead drunk.
    Filled with shame for his people, Skylan stalked into the hall and began kicking at those on the floor, trying to rouse them and searching for his friends.
    â€œWhere is Sigurd?” he demanded, going from one to another. “I’m looking for a man called Sigurd? Have you seen him?”
    Men mouthed curses and passed out again.
    â€œSigurd! Erdmun! Bjorn!” Skylan yelled until he finally heard what he thought was a mumbled response.
    He stepped over bodies until he came to a man with black hair and a black beard slumped on a table. Skylan grabbed the man by the hair and lifted his head.
    â€œSigurd!” Skylan eyed him in disgust. “Sober up! We need to talk!”
    Sigurd had seen forty winters, and he had never thought the much younger Skylan should be chief over him. Dour and hot tempered, he had few friends. For all that, Sigurd was a fierce warrior. He looked at Skylan with bloodshot, bleary eyes.
    â€œPiss off,” he said thickly.
    Skylan slammed Sigurd’s forehead against the table.
    Howling in pain, Sigurd clenched his fist, took a swing at Skylan, missed, and fell off the bench.
    Skylan grabbed a mug of stale ale and tossed it into his face. Sigurd sputtered, wiped his eyes, and gave a bitter laugh.
    â€œIf it isn’t the great Skylan Ivorson. So Joabis caught you, too.”
    â€œCaught me?” Skylan repeated. “What do mean ‘caught me’? I came here of my own free will searching for you and the others. I feared something dire had happened to you. Instead I find you swilling ale.”
    â€œAle. A good idea,” Sigurd said.
    He picked up a mug and tried to drink, only to find it was empty.
    â€œYou spilled it,” he said to Skylan. “Fetch me more.”
    â€œI’ll be damned if I—” Skylan began.
    Sigurd scowled. “ You’ll be damned! We’re all damned! We’re dead and it’s all your fault! You sent us off in that rat-infested, leaky whoreson of an ogre ship.”
    He propped his elbows on the table and let his head sag into his hands. Skylan sat down across from him.
    â€œHow did you die?”
    â€œWe were caught in a storm.” Sigurd’s face paled beneath the thick growth of beard. “I have sailed the seas all my life and I have never seen a storm like it. The sun fled. The day grew black as night. Clouds of black and green whirled above us, turning into a waterspout that sped across the sea, sucking up the seawater and roaring like a thousand