Doom of the Dragon by Margaret Weis Page A

fiends. The whipping winds shredded the sail and broke off the mast. I knew we were doomed and I drew my sword so that I would die a warrior and then wind tore the ship apart. The raging seas dragged me under. I held my breath as long as I could, but the pain was too great and I gave up.”
    Sigurd sat in morose silence, recalling his death. Skylan was quiet a moment out of respect, then said, “What happened next?”
    Sigurd shrugged. “I woke up here. Grimuir and Erdmun and Bjorn were with me. They’re somewhere.” He cast a vague glance around.
    â€œSo Joabis brought you here,” said Skylan.
    Sigurd snorted. “As if he dared! I would have slit him from gizzard to gullet. Vindrash brought us and all the Vindrasi warriors.”
    â€œBut why would Vindrash bring warriors to the Isle of Revels?” Skylan asked, frowning.
    â€œHow should I know? It was dark and the winds were howling. The next I knew, we were here.”
    He motioned Skylan near. “And there are others!” he said, breathing beery breath into Skylan’s face. “Ogres and outlandish folk! In the back of the hall.”
    Skylan stared into the back, but the room was so dark and smoke filled he couldn’t see what “outlandish folk” Sigurd meant. He did see many more Vindrasi, some of whom he recognized, for they had been in attendance at his Vutmana, the ritual battle where he had defeated Horg and been named Chief of Chiefs.
    These men are also warriors, he realized. By the looks of their wounds, they died in battle. They, too, should be with Torval. He needs all the warrior souls he can get.
    Skylan glowered back at Sigurd. “Why do you men sit here all day swilling ale in company with that sodden wretch, Joabis? Why don’t you leave? Go to Torval, explain to him what happened.”
    â€œBecause we can’t,” said Sigurd flatly.
    â€œCan’t what?”
    â€œWe can’t leave.”
    â€œNonsense,” said Skylan angrily. “Walk out the door.”
    â€œWhat door?” Sigurd frowned. “There is no door. Nothing but solid timber.”
    â€œAre you blind? I see a door!” Skylan exclaimed.
    â€œMaybe you do,” said Sigurd. “Some god loves you … The great Skylan…” He gave a drunken grin. “Yet here you are, dead, just like the rest of us.”
    â€œI’m not dead,” said Skylan. “I’m not alive, either. I’m caught in between.”
    â€œYou’re not dead?” Sigurd seized hold of his wrist, gripping him painfully. “Then help us! Get us out of here!”
    â€œThat’s why I’m here. Find the others. Something is not right. I’ll go talk to Torval—”
    â€œSkylan,” said a voice behind him, a voice Skylan recognized. “Is that you?”
    Skylan turned to see the bald head, guileless face, and hulking body of an ogre standing behind him. The ogre’s head was painted white with a black stripe running from the neck to the chin and another black stripe crossing the nose and cheeks. Skylan knew only one ogre who painted his face like this.
    â€œKeeper, my friend!” Skylan cried, flinging his arms around as much of the ogre as he could reach. “I am glad to see you!”
    â€œI am not glad to see you,” said Keeper. “For if you are here, this means you are dead.”
    Skylan suddenly remembered that Keeper had died and the fault was his. The ogre had been murdered by Treia, who had given him a potion to ease his pain. Her potion had eased him out of this life.
    Skylan drew back, ashamed. “I am sorry, Keeper. I failed you. I should have never left Treia alone with you.”
    â€œYou had no way of knowing that evil woman would poison me,” said Keeper. “I knew she was a traitor. I was a fool to drink what she gave me.”
    He embraced Skylan in a hug that nearly broke his ribs. “We will speak of this no