Bones of the Dragon (11 page)

Norgaard said something evasive. Catching sight of Skylan and Garn, he motioned to them.

“You heard them? I need Treia here. Now,” Norgaard said.

“I will go fetch her,” said Skylan.

“No, your absence would be noted,” said Norgaard. “I must commence
the feast. The ogres tell me we should not wait for their commander. I do not like this, any of it. Garn, summon Treia and then see if you can find out what the ogres are up to. Skylan, come sit in front with me.”

Garn gave a nod and departed on his errands.

Skylan took his place at his father’s right hand. The two ogre godlords and their shaman sat on the bench at the head of the table along with Norgaard. Ogre bodyguards stood behind their commanders.

At a signal from Norgaard, men entered the hall bearing large wood platters filled with roasted meat. Others brought in stew in wooden bowls and the round, flat loaves of bread.

The ogres did not appear concerned over the absence of their commander, nor did they wait for him to arrive before they commenced eating. Spearing large hunks of meat with their knives, they piled it on their plates along with bread and bowls of steaming stew.

Skylan watched food that would have fed the Torgun for weeks filling ogre bellies, and he burned with anger. He contained himself, however, thinking of the dawn and imagining slitting those bellies wide open.

Once each godlord had a full plate, he gestured to a bodyguard, who reached over to the godlord’s plate, tore off a piece of meat, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The bodyguard did the same with the bread, eating a portion of it, and using it to sop up gravy from the stew.

Skylan paused in his own meal to stare at this practice in astonishment. “Why do your men eat
your
food?” he asked one of the godlords.

The ogre blinked at him, not understanding the question. Then, comprehension dawned. The godlord grinned and nodded and jerked his thumb back at his bodyguard.

“If the food is poisoned, he dies, not me,” said the godlord.

Skylan leaped to his feet, drawing his sword from the sheath. The ogres reacted immediately. Their blades flashed in the torchlight. The Torgun warriors, already tense and excited, jumped to their feet and started to shove back the benches.

“Hold!” Norgaard roared.

Everyone stood still, weapons poised. Norgaard looked to his son for an explanation.

“These bastards think we’re trying to poison them!” Skylan cried, pointing at the ogres.

The Torgun growled in anger. A warrior fought his foe face-to-face, looked him in the eye. Poison was the weapon of weaklings, cowards. The Torgun had been insulted.

Norgaard heaved a sigh and shook his head. “It is their custom, Skylan. It has nothing to do with us.”

Seeing that Skylan remained unconvinced, Norgaard added, “Assassination is one way of advancing in rank.”

“That is true,” the godlord affirmed. “It is not you Torgun I fear.” Grinning widely, he pointed to his fellow godlord. “It is him.”

The ogres appeared to find his words hilarious. Both godlords and their guards burst out laughing, hooting and banging the table with their large hands, causing the wooden plates to jump and the horn mugs to rattle. The shaman did not join in. He glowered at the two godlords in displeasure.

As for the Torgun, they had never heard of anything so barbaric, and they regarded the ogres in silent wonder. Vindrasi Chiefs were chosen by the gods, not by murder. Shaking their heads and muttering in low tones of amazement, the Torgun warriors sheathed their weapons and resumed their seats.

Once the godlords knew their food was safe, they began to eat, stuffing their mouths with huge chunks of meat. They chewed and talked at the same time, spitting bits of food.

“It is a wicked custom,” said the shaman. “Left over from the Dark Times.”

“Our leader got his position that way,” stated one of the godlords defensively. Gravy dribbled down his chin.

The shaman fixed the godlord with a withering glare. “Times are changing. Our new gods, the Gods of Raj, demand we put a stop to it. You see that no one tastes
my
food!”

From the baleful looks the godlords gave their shaman, Skylan thought the shaman might want to reconsider that practice. The godlords said nothing, but both continued to hand their bodyguards bits of food before they ate it, and they made them drink ale from the horn mugs, as well.

Knowing the duties of a host, Norgaard asked the shaman polite questions about the ogre gods, the Gods of Raj. The shaman was eager to answer. Skylan should have been conversing with their guests, as well, but he was hungry, and he left entertaining the ogres to his father. He was still a little weak from the loss of blood, and he would need his strength in the morning.

He would also need a clear head, as would his warriors. Skylan was careful to drink no more than two mugs of ale, and he frowned at the men who were laughing or talking too loudly or were seen filling their drinking horns too often. Catching his warning look, they put down the horns. The Torgun would go to their beds this night relatively sober.

The ogres had no such worries. All of them, including the shaman, drank vast quantities of ale, nearly emptying the cask. The ale seemed to have little effect on them, however, except to make the shaman more and more effusive in his praise of their gods.

Skylan paid scant attention. In his mind, he was on the other side of the fjord in Vindraholm. He could picture the excitement and alarm. Everyone would be rushing about, making preparations to go to war. Warriors would be examining their shields to make certain there were no weak spots and sharpening swords and spears and axes. Those fortunate enough to have chain mail would be going over the shirts by the firelight, making certain no links were missing. Those who did not have mail would be donning leather shirts made of deerhide, which were almost as tough as chain.

Skylan had work to do himself. He had inherited his father’s chain mail, and though hardly a day went by that Skylan did not examine it to make certain every link was sound, he planned to go over it again tonight. He would sharpen, clean, and oil his sword, though it did not really need it, for the sword, named Dragon’s Tooth, was Skylan’s pride.

He pictured the battle tomorrow and the glory he would win for himself. He imagined fighting alongside Horg, the Chief of Chiefs. He imagined saving Horg’s life and Horg offering him rich reward in gratitude. Cattle, perhaps, or silver or even gold. Skylan would at last have enough to pay the bride-price, and that turned his thoughts from battle to love. He wondered what Aylaen had been about to tell him this afternoon before they were interrupted by Owl Mother. It seemed to have been important. He would have to remember to ask her. Perhaps he would see her tonight, if she and Treia came to the feast. . . .

Bjorn kicked Skylan in the shins hard enough to make him wince and rouse him from his reverie. Something had happened. Something was wrong. A deathlike silence shrouded the hall. Every man, including Norgaard, had turned to face the entrance.

Alarmed, Skylan gripped his sword and turned, as well.

The ogre commander stood in the doorway. He was an arresting sight, for he wore a shining breastplate that gleamed brightly in the firelight. But why, Skylan wondered, was everyone staring at him as though he’d fallen from the skies? Plate armor was worth a Chief’s ransom, but the Torgun had fought men in plate armor before.

Then Skylan saw that Norgaard’s appalled gaze was not staring at the armor, but at some point above the breastplate. Skylan looked more closely.

His eyes widened. His hand, gripping the sword’s hilt, went numb. He could not believe what he was seeing. He had only to look at his father for confirmation of the unthinkable truth.

Gold glinted. Sapphire glittered.

Around his fat neck, the ogre godlord wore the sacred Vektan Torque. He rested his hand on it and grinned.

“You can douse your beacon fire,” said the godlord. “No help is coming.”

In the silence that quivered tense and taut as a bowstring, the godlord walked over to the table, shoved aside the bench with his foot, sat down, and began to calmly fork meat onto his plate.

A
ylaen sat on the ground with her back against the Hall of Vindrash and watched the flames of the beacon fire flicker through the tree branches. Night had fallen, and her sister was still inside, still refusing to answer Aylaen’s periodic questions. Was Treia ill? Was she in need of water? Should Aylaen run to fetch Norgaard?

Not a word in response. The last Aylaen had seen or heard from Treia was when she opened the door to tell Skylan she could not heal him. Aylaen, putting her ear to the door, couldn’t hear her sister moving about inside.

Aylaen began to worry that some accident had befallen Treia. She tried to enter the Hall, even though she wasn’t supposed to disturb Treia when she was at her prayers, but Treia had used something to block the door. That in itself was strange. The Hall of Vindrash was supposed to be open to all, day or night. Aylaen had given the door a healthy shove, and she could not cause it to budge.

Darkness fell, and the hours passed, and Aylaen grew more and more uneasy. Perhaps she should fetch Alfric to help her force the door open. Alfric was the strongest, largest man in the village. He had once picked up Skylan, hoisted him over his shoulder, and carried him around as effortlessly as if Skylan were a babe. But Aylaen was loath to leave her sister alone in the wilderness, especially with ogres roaming about.

The longer Aylaen sat in the darkness, with only the moon and the stars for light, the more worried she grew. She went again to the door and called to her sister.

No reply.

What if Treia was lying there hurt, unable to move or cry out? Maybe she was subject to foaming-mouthed fits? That was possible. Aylaen didn’t know that much about her sister, who had been away for so many years. Treia was
still a stranger. Aylaen was about to leave to obtain help when she saw torchlight and heard someone walking along the path.

Aylaen picked up her axe. All Vindrasi women were trained to fight. If an enemy overran the men of the village, it was left to the women to defend themselves and their children.

Aylaen was strong, and she was a skilled warrior. Having grown up with Skylan and Garn, she was more boy than girl, as her mother never tired of telling anyone who would listen. Aylaen did a man’s work on the farm. She hated being cooped up inside the house, doing women’s work: cooking and weaving and the like. She had learned from Skylan and Garn how to handle weapons. She even knew how to use Skylan’s most prized possession—his sword.

Aylaen had no sword. Few men in the village owned one. But she had an axe, and was not afraid. Whoever was out there was making a great deal of noise. An enemy would move silently, try to sneak up on her.

“Who is there?” she challenged. “Make yourself known to me.”

“Aylaen, you can put down the axe!” came the laughing call. “It’s Garn.”

Aylaen sighed in relief and dropped the axe to the ground. Garn, bathed in yellow torchlight, came into sight. Aylaen ran to him, threw her arms around him, and pressed her head against his broad chest.

“Thank Vindrash you’ve come! I’ve been so worried.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Garn asked, alarmed. “Where is Treia? She’s supposed to be at the feast.”

“She’s in there. In the Hall. She won’t answer me—”

Garn gave a sigh of relief. “So she is safe. You are safe.”

He put his arms around her, clasping her close to him. They pressed together, heartbeat to heartbeat, warm and comforting. And then, gently, he pushed her away.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. “This is wrong.”

“Wrong to love each other?” Aylaen asked, and she raised her lips to be kissed.

Garn glanced at the Hall. Though the building had no windows, Treia might be watching through a chink in the wall. He shook his head.

“Skylan is dear to me,” he said. “Dearer than a brother.”

“And he is dear to me, as well,” Aylaen said gently. “Dear to me
as
a brother. We should tell him we are in love. I almost told him today.”

“You mustn’t, Aylaen!” Garn said. “You must never say anything to him.”

“I don’t see why not,” Aylaen said. “He has to know sometime.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Garn quietly. “Promise me you won’t say a word to him or to anyone.”

Aylaen tossed her head defiantly.

“You would hurt Skylan deeply, Aylaen,” Garn told her. “He adores you. And he trusts me. Promise me you won’t tell him. . . .”

“Sometimes I think you care more about him than you do me,” Aylaen said petulantly.

“I hope I never have to choose,” said Garn.

Aylaen heard the sorrow and pain in his voice, and she regretted her hurtful words. He loved her, loved her deeply and dearly, as she loved him. The two had not meant to fall in love. It had just happened. It seemed they had grown up loving each other. The threads of their wyrds were bound together. Yet she was as good as betrothed to Skylan.

“I’m sorry,” Aylaen said remorsefully. “I promise I won’t tell him. But I won’t marry him!” she added with a flash of her green eyes.

Garn shook his head. “Not even the gods can see the future. Norgaard sent me to fetch your sister. The feast has started, and her absence has been noted.”

“I tried to go inside,” said Aylaen. “Something’s blocking the door.”

Garn looked grim on hearing this, and Aylaen’s heart lurched. Treia was not an easy person to get to know, much less to love, but Aylaen was doing her best. She liked having a sister. Having grown up with the boys, she had never made friends with girls her age. Most of the time, Treia was stiff and cold, but sometimes, in rare moments, she would relax and forget the grudge she bore the world, and she and Aylaen would talk confidingly as sisters talk. They discussed their mother and her problems, shared memories of their dead father, and acknowledged the hatred both felt for their stepfather. Aylaen cherished these moments, and she was afraid for her sister now.