Doom of the Dragon by Margaret Weis Page B

more.”
    Skylan hesitated, still not ready to forgive himself. Keeper smiled and Skylan took the ogre’s hand in his own. “I will make it up to you.”
    He looked at Keeper and a sudden astonishing thought came to him. “How do you come to be here , my friend? In the afterlife of the Vindrasi? Don’t you ogres have your own afterlife?”
    Keeper scratched his head. “I always thought so. Yet here I am. And many others of my race. And there are others of another race, as well. Cyclopes!”
    â€œCyclopes!” Skylan repeated, amazed. “How do Cyclopes come to be in our afterlife?”
    â€œOutlandish folk,” Sigurd muttered. “Wait until you see them. They have three eyes and skin the color of night.”
    â€œI spoke to one of their warriors,” said Keeper. “She said that after she died, the Gods of Raj carried her here to this hall, then left her.”
    â€œThe Gods of Raj!” Skylan grew more and more perplexed. Was Joabis conspiring with the Gods of Raj?
    â€œWhoever brought us,” Keeper added, “Sigurd is right. We cannot leave. We have tried.”
    Hefting an axe, he pointed to great gouges in the log wall.
    â€œWe even tried to crawl out through the roof, but it is too far above us,” Keeper added, glancing up at the ceiling that seemed as high as heaven.
    â€œWe are prisoners of Joabis,” Sigurd said bitterly.
    â€œBut why did he bring you here? What does he want with you and all the other Vindrasi warriors? And what do Vindrash and the Gods of Raj have to do with this?”
    â€œWhat does it matter? There’s nothing we can do.” Sigurd gloomily shook his head.
    Skylan pondered. “Are all those here warriors?”
    â€œAll warriors,” Keeper confirmed.
    â€œJoabis said you were wrecking the place,” said Skylan, looking at the overturned tables, upended benches, broken crockery, and pools of spilled ale. “I see he was right about that.”
    â€œAll those here are enemies. The ogres hate the Cyclopes and the Vindrasi hate us. We exchanged insults, then fell to fighting,” Keeper admitted. “Battle is thirsty work, however. Joabis brought in barrels of ale and we declared a truce and started drinking.”
    â€œAnd kept drinking,” said Sigurd. “At least, for a time, we forget we are prisoners.”
    Skylan thought this over.
    â€œFind the others and see to it they’re sober,” he told Sigurd.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Sigurd demanded.
    Skylan looked grim. “To have a talk with Joabis.”

 
    CHAPTER
    9
    Reaching the door, Skylan eyed it warily, fearing that it might suddenly vanish, trapping him here with the others. The door stayed where it was, however, and he was vastly relieved to be able to push it open and walk out into the sunshine.
    He was accosted by a group of revelers the moment he stepped outside. Men draped their arms around his shoulders, hailing him as if they were brothers. Women offered him ale and wine and kisses.
    â€œWhere is Joabis, friends?” Skylan asked in good-natured tones, thinking it best if he played along. “I need to speak with him.”
    No one seemed to know. Some said he was here. Others said he was there. One woman said she thought she had seen him enter the shrine to pray.
    â€œPray?” Skylan said, interested. “To what god?”
    â€œWhy, Joabis, of course,” the woman returned, laughing.
    Only Joabis would pray to himself, Skylan thought.
    The revelers offered to take him to the shrine, which they said was on a remote part of the island. As they shoved their way through streets thronged with merrymaking souls, Skylan wondered that such constant reveling didn’t grow wearing after a time.
    Leaving the village behind, they walked past fields of barley and wheat. Skylan was surprised to see people working among the plants.
    â€œSo people actually work on this isle?” he