Rage of the Dragon

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.

He could hear the riotous sounds of song and music, jests and laughter. He could see the warriors inside, carousing, dancing with their womenfolk, fighting mock battles. He paused to look inside a window and he was pleased beyond measure to see Keeper, seated at a table, devouring a leg of venison. Skylan waved and called, but Keeper did not appear to see or hear him.

And there was Chloe, watching the dancers, clapping her hands with joy. Skylan had promised the dying girl that he would dance with her in Torval’s Hall. He looked forward to taking her by the hands, leading her in the dance. He shouted her name, but she didn’t hear him.

He searched and finally found Garn, laughing with a man that Skylan couldn’t see until he turned around.

The man was Norgaard, his father.

Skylan was shocked. He had no idea his father had died. Skylan had so much to tell his father. He had so much to make right.

“Father! It is me, Skylan!” he called.

Norgaard turned away, returning to his conversation with Garn.

Skylan left the window and ran to the door. He pounded with his fist and shouted, trying to make himself heard above the noise inside. His voice sounded very small and his cries seemed to float off into eternity.

Skylan kept pounding until his fist was bloody. Suddenly, the door flew open.

“Thank Torval!” Skylan gasped.

He tried to enter.

The god blocked his way.

Torval stood in the door. The god wore his armor made of the finest steel, with a steel breastplate embossed with a dragon’s head. He wore furs around his shoulders and a helm of steel decorated with silver and gold.

His armor was fine, but it was dented, bloody, showing signs of a recent battle. By the sounds of the celebration, Torval and his heroes had been victorious. But they had not won the war. That much was evident by the stern, severe expression on Torval’s face.

“What are you doing here, Fish Knife?” Torval demanded.

Skylan was angered. “Let me in. I belong in the Hall with my comrades!”

“When you are dead, come back. We will discuss it,” said Torval.

The god slammed the door in Skylan’s face.