Horg scowled. He had expected her to go along with him, and her silence was making him nervous. Drunk as he was, Horg could sense his clansmen’s angry mood. He needed Draya to affirm his decision. Raising his massive fist to his face, he made a show of scratching his chin with his thumb. Draya had been hit by that fist often enough to understand the threat.
“Well, Priestess,” said Horg. “Tell them Torval’s will.”
He smiled, sure of himself, and lifted his many chins to stare down his nose at her.
Then she saw. Then she knew what was different.
The Vektan Torque, the most sacred artifact of the Vindrasi people, worn by the Chief of Chiefs, was a ring of heavy gold formed in the shape of two dragons, their tails intertwined, their heads staring at each other. The two dragons held, in their front claws, the spiritbone of a dragon, ornately carved, adorned with a beautiful sapphire, one of the largest ever discovered.
The torque was ancient, dating back to the time of creation, when Torval’s consort, the Dragon Goddess Vindrash, bestowed it on the first Kai Priestess with orders that the Kai Moot was to revere it, keep it safe, and never, never try to summon the powerful dragon whose spirit resided in the bone. For the dragon—one of the Five Vektia dragons—could tear apart creation itself.
Of course, giving a human being possession of a powerful artifact was certain to arouse temptation even in the heart of the best person—or god. Long ago, Hevis, the God of Deceit and Trickery, had gotten into a dispute with Sund, God of Stone. Hevis plotted to summon one of the powerful Vektia dragons and send the dragon to war against Sund. The god seduced a Kai Priestess and urged her to summon the dragon.
The dragon had run amok. The Kai Priestess had not been able to control it, nor could Hevis. The dragon killed the Priestess in a raging inferno. The fire had spread, destroying many homes and taking many lives. The angry Chief of Chiefs had seized the Vektan Torque, removed it from the care of the Kai, claiming women could not be trusted with such a valuable artifact.
Ever since then, the Vektan Torque had been in the care of the Chiefs, handed down from one Chief to the next, much to the ire of the Kai Priestesses, who claimed that the Goddess Vindrash herself was offended. The torque was a sacred relict, indicative of the goddess’s love for her people. It was also immensely valuable, worth more than all the wealth of all the Vindrasi clans put together.
And it was gone. Horg was not wearing it. And he was trying to deceive people into thinking he was. A gold torque was buried in the folds of his neck, but it was only a plain circlet, such as Chiefs gave to reward valiant warriors.
Fear such as Draya had never known squeezed her heart. She couldn’t breathe, and she felt faint and dizzy. She was terrified for a moment that she was going to pass out. Her heart started beating with a lurch, and the horrible sensation passed. She drew in a shivering breath.
Half-hidden between the folds of flesh and his leather tunic, the torque was difficult to see. Draya herself would not have noticed anything was amiss if she had not been warned to look for it. She was willing, even eager, to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he had taken it off when he traveled, put it away somewhere safe.
Horg betrayed himself. He saw Draya’s eyes fixed on his pudgy neck, and he went white, the blood draining from his face all at once, turning as pale as a dead fish’s belly. He sealed his fate by raising his hand to the golden torque and trying clumsily to thrust it beneath his tunic.
Draya did not know what he had done, but she knew it must be awful. She could not confront him there, not before the people. He was their Chief. They must continue to have some confidence in his ability to lead; otherwise, there would be dissension, quarrels, rebellion—a clan at war with itself. She had to remove Horg from the crowd in order to question him alone and find out the truth.
“The Chief and I will go to the Great Hall to pray,” Draya said, trying to remain calm. “We will ask the gods for their verdict.”
Horg blenched, licked his lips, and swallowed a couple of times. He might have lost his faith in the gods, but he still harbored a superstitious dread of them. He managed a sour smile.
“Undoubtedly the gods have better things to do than listen to us, but if you think it right, Priestess, we will go speak to Torval again.” He laid emphasis on the last word.
Draya bowed in silence, afraid to trust herself to answer. She turned and walked back toward the temple, the crowd parting to allow her passage. Horg caught up with her. Under the guise of offering her assistance, he took hold of her arm and gave it a painful squeeze.
“You’ll be sorry,” he breathed in her ear.
“I am certain of that,” Draya returned coldly.
She stared at him, unafraid, until he let loose and, muttering something about needing another drink, stalked off toward the Great Hall on his own.
CHAPTER
6
Back in the village of Luda, the beacon fire blazed, lighting up the night sky. Women who had volunteered to leave the safety of the caves supervised the roasting of the boar on a spit over a much smaller fire. The spit was crude, for it had been hastily constructed; meat for the household was generally boiled, not roasted.
The feast would be held in the Chief’s Hall. Men hauled in trestles and placed them at intervals down the length of the hall, then laid large planks on the trestles to form a single long table, with wooden benches ranging along either side. Other women returned to their homes to bake round, flat loaves of bread and to dish up meat and vegetables from the family stewpots that were always kept bubbling over the kitchen fires. Men carried in casks of foaming ale and lit the torches, both outside the hall and within.
Akaria, Goddess of the Waters, held up her lantern, shedding silver light on the waves that were her province. The warriors gathered in the Chief’s Hall. They were dressed in their finest, wearing the silver and gold torques, armbands, and bracelets that had been given to them or their fathers as reward for courageous actions in battle. The women, who under normal circumstances would have graced the feast, had fled back to the hills, where they fed the beacon fire and tended to Norgaard’s young wife, Sonja, who had gone into early labor.
Though the warriors were decked out for a celebration, their mood was far from festive. Every member of the Torgun Clan was acutely aware of the beacon fire blazing atop the cliffs. Norgaard had cautioned the warriors not to draw attention to it by staring at it, but they could not help themselves. They roamed about outside the Chief’s Hall, their eyes drawn continually to the leaping orange flames, as each asked himself the same questions: Will the Heudjun see it? Will the Heudjun come?
Skylan was late. He had to return to his dwelling, strip off the bloody clothes, change into his best, and deck himself out proudly in the silver adornments and the family sword, which had been his mother’s wedding gift to his father.
His arrival caused a stir among the warriors, who were waiting for their Chief and their Bone Priestess. He showed off his healed leg by walking without a limp, and they greeted him with a cheer, pleased and reassured to see him healthy and whole.
“The goddess healed you,” said Garn. “That is a good sign.”
“Keep your voice down. That is not exactly what happened,” said Skylan.
Garn would have questioned Skylan further, but they were interrupted by the arrival of two of the ogre godlords and their shaman, all of them hungrily sniffing the air, which was redolent with the smell of roasting meat. Skylan started to greet them in his father’s absence. Garn stopped him and drew him aside.
“Neither of these two is the commander. The one who wore the tiger-skin. Ask them where he is,” Garn said.
“I don’t know how you can tell one of the bastards from the other,” Skylan muttered. “They all look alike to me. But I’ll find out.”
He walked over to greet the ogres, taking his time, allowing the torchlight to shine on his sword and on the numerous silver armbands that marked his valor.
“Wel
come to our Chief’s Hall,” Sklyan said proudly. Glancing about, he said, “But there are only two of you. Where is your commander?”
The two godlords shrugged.
“He will be along,” said one.
“Or he won’t,” said the other.
The shaman stood behind them, blank-faced and dumb.
Skylan thought he’d never known such stupid creatures. He wondered how their race had managed to survive for so long.
“My father, the Chief, has not yet arrived,” said Skylan. “But you are welcome to enter our hall.”
The two godlords, smacking their lips, took him up on his invitation and shouldered their way past him. Their bodyguards accompanied them. The shaman in his feather cape did not immediately enter. He stood in front of the door, staring up at the blazing bonfire. Garn flashed his friend a look of concern.
“A large fire,” Skylan remarked to the ogre. “For a large boar. The boar was a gift from our gods,” he added pointedly. “Our gods who are still very much alive.”
The shaman’s round childlike eyes flickered with amusement. He took hold of the silver axe Skylan wore around his neck and laughed in his face.
Skylan grasped his sword’s hilt.
“Let go,” he ordered through clenched teeth, “or I’ll cut off your hand!”
The shaman chuckled and gave the axe a flip, causing it to strike Skylan on the chin.
“Don’t, Skylan!” Garn warned, grabbing hold of his friend’s arm. “He’s baiting you! Look around!”
The shaman’s bodyguards were standing behind Skylan, their weapons in their hands. Behind them, the Torgun warriors stood ready to come to his defense.
One hundred and seventy ogre warriors waited on board the ships.
Skylan slammed his sword back into the sheath.
The ogre shaman, still chuckling, entered the hall. The guards slung the axes into the harnesses they wore on their broad backs.
“We will wait for my father inside,” said Skylan, and he led the way into the Chief’s Hall.
The ogre godlords took their seats at the head of the table. The Torgun warriors, at a glance and a nod from Skylan, crowded into the hall and took their seats at the long table.
“Look at him. Smug bastard. I should have cut off his head,” Skylan said.
“Time enough for that tomorrow,” said Garn. He was watching the ogres, and his expression was dark, troubled.
Norgaard arrived, and Skylan, as leader of the warriors, went to embrace his father. Norgaard looked unhappy, haggard. He had heard that his young wife had gone into early labor. The baby was not due for a month, at least. Unless the women could stop the birthing process, he might lose yet another child.
“I am sorry to hear about Sonja, Father,” said Skylan as he accompanied his father into the hall. “Desiria will be with her, and by morning you will have a fine son.”
Norgaard gave a wan smile, something he did rarely, for there was not much in his life to smile about. He rested his hand on Skylan’s shoulder.
“You mean, I will have another fine son,” he said quietly. “Come with me a moment. I would speak with you in confidence.”
Norgaard motioned for Skylan to join him, and the two left the hall.
“Where is Treia? She should be here. You spoke with the Bone Priestess this afternoon. Do you know why she hasn’t come?”
Skylan remembered Treia’s cold face peering at him from behind the closed door and the flat tone of her voice refusing to help him.
“Who knows why Treia does anything? She’s a strange woman, Father. Perhaps it has something to do with me. She doesn’t like me. I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to her.”
Norgaard gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean Treia doesn’t like you? Why would that matter?”
“She refused to heal me,” said Skylan. “I had to go to that horrible old woman, Owl Mother—”
“The Goddess Desiria refused to heal you?” Norgaard interrupted, aghast.
“The goddess didn’t refuse. Treia refused. She never even spoke to the goddess. I told you, Father. Treia doesn’t like me—”
“That can’t be the reason,” Norgaard muttered. “A Bone Priestess is required to heal her worst enemy if the gods command it. This bodes ill for us.”
“Do not speak words of evil omen, Father,” Skylan urged him. “The beacon fire burns. The call has gone out. Tomorrow morning, Heudjun warriors will be here to help us teach the ogres that the Gods of the Vindrasi are very much alive!”
“And yet, it was Owl Mother and her fae magic who healed you,” said Norgaard grimly, and he limped inside the Chief’s Hall to take his place at the head of the table.
Skylan accompanied him into the hall.
“What did Norgaard have to say?” Garn asked.
The warriors were handing around the drinking horns and pouring the ale. The noise in the hall increased, and though the two young men sat at the front of the table, not far from the ogres, they were able to talk without worrying that their words might be overheard.
“Nothing of importance,” said Skylan, filling his own drinking horn from a pitcher. “My father is being an old granny.”
He related his conversation, adding, “The gods have their reasons for not revealing their power yet.”
Garn shook his head somberly.
“Not you, too!” Skylan exclaimed, exasperated. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about the gods, as well.”
“Not the gods so much as the ogres,” Garn said quietly. He glanced back at them. “They’re too smug, too pleased with themselves. And where is their commander? Why didn’t he come with the others?”
Skylan shrugged. “Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he has the trots and they don’t want to admit it.”
One of the godlords raised his voice. “Where is your shaman? Ours is here. Where is yours? She was supposed to bring us an answer from your gods.”
“Perhaps she is having trouble finding them,” suggested the other god-lord, and the two ogres laughed.
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.
&nbs
p; “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!”
Bones of the Dragon Page 8
