Bones of the Dragon (6 page)

“I am going to the shrine of Vindrash. There I will call upon your gods and mine,” said Treia. “I will wait to hear which gods answer me. I will be at my prayers all night. I am not to be disturbed.”

Head held high, she walked out of the longhouse. As she passed Norgaard, Treia cast him a look that said as plain as speech,
I have bought you time. Use it well!

The ogre guards, after a nod from their shaman, stepped aside and allowed Treia to depart the hall. The Torgun warriors fell back to give her room. One offered to escort her, but she scornfully refused.

Aylaen had been caught off guard by her sister’s sudden decisive move. After a moment’s hesitation, Aylaen hurried to follow Treia, who was already out the door. The ogres made no move to stop her, though they ogled her as she hurried past them, and one ogre made what was obviously a lewd comment to the other, who grinned.

Skylan did not hear what was said, but he could guess, and he reached again for his sword. Garn seized hold of his arm and whispered urgently in his ear, and for once Skylan listened.

The three ogre godlords consulted with their shaman. Norgaard remained silent, as did the Torgun warriors gathered in the longhouse. They did this ostensibly out of courtesy, but every man there had his ears stretched, trying to hear what was being said.

The ogres kept their voices low. Norgaard rose to his feet, and under the pretense of easing his crippled leg, he limped closer to hear better.

Absorbed in their talk, the ogres did not notice him.

The ogres spoke rapidly. Norgaard could understand only about one word in five, but he heard enough to realize that the ogres were confounded, uncertain what to do. The ogres had urged the Torgun to accept their gods, known as the Gods of Raj, and now the Torgun Bone Priestess had said she was going off to pray to the Gods of Raj. The ogres might or might not believe her (clearly one of the godlords did not), but the shaman insisted that they could not now attack the Torgun. The ogres had to give the Gods of Raj a chance to respond. Doing anything else would be an insult to the gods and, as the shaman pointed out, the ogres were a long way from home with miles of treacherous ocean to cross. It would not be wise to anger the gods.

That last argument convinced the godlords. Ogres did not love the sea, as did the Vindrasi, and the sea did not love ogres.

Having heard enough, Norgaard limped back to resume his seat.

After another few moments’ conferring, the tiger-skin godlord spoke. “We are confident in the powerful and mighty Gods of Raj. We give your
Priestess time to pray to them. We will hear her answer—and yours—this night. In the meantime, we will tell you more of our gods at the great feast you will give this night in our honor.”

Norgaard sighed. Feeding the ogres would deplete the Torgun’s already meager food supply, but he did not dare insult them by refusing.

The ogre godlords made ready to take their leave, as did the shaman, his feathers rustling. Norgaard walked with them. At a gesture from him, his Torgun warriors remained where they were. The sight of all his men suddenly rushing at them might have alarmed their guests.

Norgaard escorted the godlords from the longhouse and sent four warriors with them.

“Make certain they return to their ships,” he ordered the men. “Remain where you can keep an eye on them.”

Norgaard watched the massive ogres walk ponderously away. He had what was left of this day to try to devise a plan to save his people.

Not much time, but it was better than nothing.

When the men reported that the ogres were back aboard their ships, Norgaard called a meeting of the Torgun Council, which was made up of all the heads of families, male and, in some cases, female if a woman’s husband had died and she had not remarried. Skylan, as future Chief, was also in attendance, as was Garn, because he was always with Skylan.

Norgaard described the situation: “Tomorrow morning, we must either surrender to the ogres and give in to their demands, which means we must hand over forty-three head of cattle, thirteen bars of silver, seven men, including my son, and our dragonship. Or we fight—”

“Fight,” said Skylan loudly.

“—an army that outnumbers us almost two to one,” Norgaard finished, his voice grating.

“Where is the choice in this?” Skylan demanded impatiently. “Of course, we must fight.”

“And we will be slaughtered,” said Norgaard.

“We cannot lose,” said Skylan. “Torval is with us.” He reverently touched the silver axe he wore around his throat.

“Was Torval with you on your last raid?” Norgaard asked dryly.

The Council waited for Skylan’s answer, though all knew what it was. Skylan’s last raid had gained nothing and brought the ogres down on them.

“The god was not with us,” Skylan said. “And now I know why. Torval and Vindrash were fighting a great battle of their own. A battle they did
not
lose, no matter what these ugly sons of ugly whores say!”

He added, with an irate glance at his father, “Are you saying we should surrender, give in to their demands?”

“It is true that if we fight, we may well die,” said Sigurd, one of the Council members. “But if we give the ogres all our cattle, we will certainly die—of starvation. I choose to end my life clutching a sword, not my empty belly.”

Sigurd was both uncle and stepfather to Treia and Aylaen. When Aylaen’s own father, Myrdill, had died, Sigurd made his widowed sister-in-law an offer of marriage, not out of any care for her or her children, but to gain his brother’s property. Aylaen’s mother, Holma, had accepted because she needed a husband to assist with the labor involved in tending the farm. Not many people liked Sigurd. He was a dour, implacable man who openly kept a concubine, by whom he’d had two sons. He was good to them, whereas he treated his wife and stepdaughters like slaves. Aylaen loathed her stepfather and avoided him whenever possible.

The other Council members gave their opinions. All were loud and passionate in their agreement that the Torgun should fight.

“I am all for fighting,” Norgaard said. “But I would like to have some chance of winning.”

No one could argue that point. Skylan could boast that one Torgun warrior was worth two ogres, but the elders in the Council knew the boast was empty. Ogres might have faces like toddlers and smell like pigs, but when forced to fight, they were excellent warriors, savage and strong, and they were now backed by powerful gods.

Whereas the gods of the Torgun . . .

“May I speak?” Garn asked in low, deferential tones. He was not one of the Council, and thus had no right to participate in the meeting unless he was granted permission.

“Yes,” said Skylan quickly to forestall anyone who might object.

Norgaard readily gave his assent. He had raised Garn, and he loved him like a son. Sometimes he loved Garn better than his own son, for which he often felt guilty. Norgaard had long hoped that Skylan might learn some of Garn’s wisdom and patience. Thus far, his plan had not worked; Skylan was as impetuous and foolhardy as ever. Still, Norgaard was pleased that Skylan had sense enough to value Garn’s good qualities.

“We should fight the ogres, but not alone,” said Garn. “Help lies on the other side of the fjord.”

The Gymir Fjord was a narrow stretch of deep water that cut inland between tall cliffs separating the Torgun from the mainland of Kharajis and the other clans of the Vindrasi. The Heudjun, the largest, wealthiest, and strongest of the eight major clans, lived in the lord city of Vindraholm, located on
the other side of the fjord. Horg, the current Chief of Chiefs, the most powerful man in the Vindrasi nation, was also the Chief of the Heudjun Clan. His wife, Draya, was Kai Priestess.

“Horg has many dragonships and many warriors,” said Norgaard thoughtfully. “His wife is close to the gods. They would answer her, if they are able to answer anyone.”

Skylan grunted. “I hear Horg has lost his nerve and now searches for it at the bottom of a cider barrel.”

“Horg is a warrior,” Norgaard said sternly. The Chief of Chiefs was near Norgaard’s age, and he could understand what youth could not. “His warrior’s heart will not fail him.”

“Whether Horg is or is not a drunken swine makes no difference,” Sigurd said impatiently. “The ogres have seized our dragonship. We have no way to send for help.”

Someone suggested swimming, but someone else pointed out that though the days were warm, the deep water of the fjord was chill. The swimmer would die of the cold before he made it halfway across. As for traveling overland, the fjord extended many miles inland; trying to walk around it would take days.

“Garn has a plan,” said Skylan. “He would not have brought this up otherwise.”

“Well, Garn? If you do have a plan, let us hear it,” said Norgaard.

“We do not need ships or swimmers to summon aid. We will light the beacon fire.”

An ancient means of summoning the clans to war, the beacon fire alerted the other clans to danger and called for help. Clans were bound by ancient law to respond to a beacon fire. Horg and his warriors would see it and know there was trouble.

There was one problem with this plan, however.

“It won’t work, Garn,” Norgaard said, sighing. He’d let his hopes be raised, only now to have them dashed. “Ogres also use beacon fires. They would see us gathering the wood and building the fire, and they would know we were trying to summon help. They would attack us on the spot.”

“Not if their bellies are full of boar meat,” said Garn.

The others stared at him, perplexed, not understanding. Skylan gave a great guffaw and slapped his leg, forgetting about his wound.

“Explain your plan to these slow-wits, brother,” he said, pressing his hand against his thigh with a grimace.

“The ogres ordered us to give a great feast in their honor,” said Garn. “We will serve them wild boar.”

He paused, looking around, thinking that they must understand him now.

“Boar roasted over a great fire,” said Skylan triumphantly.

The Council members grinned in sudden understanding, and several applauded. Norgaard, turning over the plan in his mind, could find no flaw. Ogres had voracious appetites, especially for meat. These ogres had been at sea a long time, probably forced to live on fish (which ogres detested) and cold peas, not the red meat they relished. He had noted them sniffing hungrily at the smells coming from the stewpots and ovens of the Torgun.

“A good idea, Garn,” Norgaard said simply, and Garn flushed with pleasure at the praise.

Skylan was enthusiastic. “Horg and his warriors will see the beacon fire. They will sail before dawn, and when the ogres wake,
they
will find themselves outnumbered two to one. The water will be red with ogre blood. Their death cries will rise to the heavens, as will the smoke of their burning ships.

“Who knows,” he added, grinning, “the ogres might even pitch in to help us build the fire that will mean their doom!”

The decision of the Council to approve Garn’s plan was unanimous.

T
he ogre godlords were pleased with the invitation to feast on roasted boar meat. Garn, who went to issue the invitation on behalf of Norgaard, related that one of the godlords even began to drool at the thought. Garn appointed the time of moonrise, when Akaria, Goddess of the Waters and Ruler of the Tides, would lift her lantern.

The godlords said they would attend, and added that they would be bringing their bodyguards and their shaman with them. Garn calculated that this came to about fifteen hungry ogres. Norgaard sighed deeply. The Torgun did not have much food to spare, and what they did have was going into the bellies of their enemies. His one consolation was that on the morrow the ogres would be feasting in their afterlife.

Garn’s next task, given to him by Norgaard, was to convince Skylan, who disliked being “prayed over,” to have his wound healed. Skylan protested,
but not so loudly as usual, and at last, he agreed to go seek out the Bone Priestess.

The truth was that the pain and loss of blood had caught up with Skylan during the last portion of the Council meeting. He’d come very close to passing out. Only a fierce determination not to show weakness before the other warriors kept him from succumbing to his injuries. The fear that he might be too weak to fight in tomorrow’s battle drove him to seek what he generally tried to avoid—help.

Garn was going to accompany him to the Hall of Vindrash, but Skylan told him to go with the rest of the men into the forested hills to cut trees for the fire. “I will go, I promise,” said Skylan, and he grasped the silver axe he wore around his neck. “I swear by Torval.”

Reassured, knowing this was one vow Skylan would never break, Garn headed into the forest.

“There is just one problem. I have to find some explanation that will satisfy the ogres about why we have to build two fires,” Garn said as he was leaving. “We cannot very well roast meat over a raging beacon fire.”

Skylan laughed. “Tell the ogres one fire is for roasting the boar’s head and the other the rump. They’re ogres. They’ll believe anything.”

Wishing his friend well, Garn continued up the path that led into the hills. Skylan veered off toward the Hall of Vindrash, walking the empty streets, passing empty houses.

The silence was oppressive. Generally, this time of day, as the Sun Goddess, Aylis, started her downward descent into the sea, women would be making final preparations for supper. The air would be redolent with the smells of baking bread and bubbling stewpots. Children would be laughing and playing outside. The men would be coming home from tending the herds or toiling in the fields or forging iron or whatever each did to earn his place in the clan. They would gather in small groups, discussing the day’s news and awaiting the summons to supper.

“It’s as if everyone died,” Skylan muttered.

Too late, he realized what he’d said. One did not speak of death on the eve of battle. He quickly touched the silver axe, asking Torval to avert the evil omen.

Each clan had its own Hall of Vindrash—generally small, not nearly so large or grand as the Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm. A simple structure, the Hall built by the Torgun was constructed along the lines of the Chief’s Hall, only much smaller. Near the Hall was another longhouse, the residence of the Bone Priestess.