The Great Hall of the Gods had no windows, but the blazing ire of the Sun Goddess seemed to burn through the walls. The Hall was stifling, driving Draya out into the fresh air. She had been awake all night, and she was exhausted. Lack of sleep, strong emotion, anxiety, and fear had drained her. Her thoughts plodded round and round in the same circle like a hobbled horse. Perhaps a walk would clear her mind.
Almost immediately she realized she’d made a mistake. The moment people saw her, they looked alarmed. They came to her, trepidatious, fearful. What had happened? Was she all right?
I must look terrible, Draya realized, and she pressed her hands against her cheeks. Her skin was fevered to the touch. Her eyes burned, half-blinded by the bright light.
Draya needed refuge, she needed to talk, she needed to rest. As if in a daze, she found herself standing on the threshold of the home of her dear friend and fellow Priestess, Fria.
Fria was not within, however. Her little son told Draya that his mother had gone to Torval’s Rock. The child was on his way there himself, along with several of his friends. He was armed with a wooden sword.
“My papa and I are going to kill ogres!” the little boy announced proudly.
Alarmed, Draya accompanied the child and his group of excited companions to Torval’s Rock, where a crowd had gathered to hold silent vigil. Among them were the Heudjun warriors, armed and ready for battle. Draya searched for Fria, but could not find her. The child ran off, playing at war with his companions.
A thin, pitiful trail of smoke was all that was left of the beacon fire. Every man there was present only in body. In spirit, he was with the Torgun warriors. They would know by now that they fought alone, that their clansmen were not coming. Draya noticed one grizzled veteran dash a tear from his cheek. He wept from shame.
The Heudjun could not see the fight, for the Torgun village was located on the other side of the fjord, below the cliffs, near to sea level. But they hoped to be able to hear the sounds of the battle, for the air this early morning was clear and still, as though the gods themselves watched with held breath.
Suddenly several warriors cried out and pointed, though in truth there was nothing to see except the cliffs and the restless sea. The warriors claimed they had heard the crash of shield against shield. Draya heard nothing herself, and she doubted the men did either. They were hearing what they wanted to hear. They could picture the fight, the Torgun outnumbered, the ogres smashing into the wall, the slaughter. . . .
Draya could picture the slaughter quite clearly. Once the ogres overran the small band of Torgun, they would head for the village. She would soon see the smoke rising from burning homes and crops. They would butcher the little children, who would fight with wooden swords. . . .
Draya felt suddenly sick. She pressed her hand against her mouth, doubled over, and retched.
“My dear, what are you doing here? You should be at home in bed!” Fria came out of nowhere and slipped her arm around Draya’s waist. “You’re not well.”
Fria was a large woman, big-boned and strong-willed. She was thirty-two years old and had brought fourteen healthy children into the world, all of them large and big-boned like her and her husband. Six of her sons stood with their father, Sven Teinar, himself a skilled and valiant warrior.
“I can’t go home,” Draya mumbled, her lips too numb to form words.
Fria’s own lips clamped together. Fria knew Horg beat his wife, but she never said a word to Draya about it. Such a conversation would have been embarrassing for both, and it would have served no purpose. Chief’s Law, the law governing all the clans, would not permit a Chief of Chiefs and a Kai Priestess to be divorced. These two people, leaders of their nation, were supposed to be above human frailties and weaknesses. All Fria had to offer her friend was fierce, angry sympathy.
“You must come to my dwelling, then,” said Fria. “I will fix you something hot to eat.”
Draya smiled faintly. Food was Fria’s answer to all life’s problems. Draya was not hungry, but she was too tired to resist. She allowed Fria to lead her away from Torval’s Rock, where the warriors stood listening.
“Has Horg . . . Has anyone seen him this morning?” Draya asked the question reluctantly, almost choking on his name. She could not even talk of him without tasting bile in her mouth.
Fria glanced at her. “There was trouble this morning. You didn’t hear about it?”
Draya shook her head. “I was at prayer. What happened?”
“Some of the warriors planned to defy Horg and sail off to fight with the Torgun, my husband and sons among them. They were boarding the ships before dawn when Horg’s toadies saw and ran bleating to Horg. He came roaring down to the sea and ordered the men to return home. The ogres might attack us next, he said, and the warriors would be needed to help him defend the town.”
“And so the warriors did not sail,” said Draya.
Fria gave a deep sigh. “How could they, my dear? Horg spoke the truth. My man knew it, they all knew it, much as they hated to hear it. How could they sail off and leave us defenseless? And so, in the end, they came back.”
The two women had reached Fria’s house. Draya paused on the threshold, turned to face her friend. “What will Sven and the others do, Fria?”
“You mean about Horg?” Fria cast a sharp glance up and down the street. “Come inside, my dear. We’re being watched.”
Draya was not surprised. She saw one of Horg’s cronies lounging in a doorway across the street, his thumbs tucked into his belt. He did not even bother to dissemble, to pretend he had business there. He stared meaningfully at Draya.
Casting the man an irate glance, Fria led Draya into the dwelling and slammed the door.
Once inside, she fussed over Draya, giving her a stool near the fire, offering her hot stew, bread, ale, dried apples—anything she wanted.
Draya shook her head. Her stomach roiled. Anything she ate would only come back up. She did finally accept ale and sipped a small amount. Fria drew up a stool and, seated close to her, spoke in a soft undertone.
“There will be angry talk among the people about Horg. Curses and threats. But in the end, it will come to nothing. Horg is strong and he has friends, not only in our clan, but in the others, as well.”
Fria cast a loving gaze around her large and comfortable dwelling place. “I have five young ones still at home. Could Sven and I afford to lose our dwelling? Our land, our cattle?”
Draya clasped her friend’s hands. “No, of course not. I understand. It’s just . . .”
Draya paused. She toyed with the idea of telling Fria about the Vektan Torque.
“Just what?” Fria asked.
Draya shook her head. There was nothing Fria or her husband could do about Horg. As Fria had said, they had their family to think about. In his position as Chief of Chiefs, Horg was responsible for settling disputes among clansmen. All one of his cronies would have to do, for example, was to claim that he had a right to Sven’s farmland. He could swear that Sven’s greatgrandfather had promised the land in return for several head of cattle. Sven could dispute it, of course, but Horg would be the final judge.
Draya made an excuse. “I was awake all night, Fria. I’m so tired.”
“You must get some sleep,” said Fria. “Lie down. With the men gone, the house will be quiet—”
“Mother!” The little boy came shouting and banging through the door. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with excitement. “You can see the dragon! Come quick! He might still be there!”
The two women stared at the boy in astonishment.
“Is this one of your tales, young Fari?” Fria demanded.
“No, no, Mother!” The boy seized hold of her hand, tried to pull her along. “I saw the dragon. Father says to come quickly.”
“What dragon?” Draya gasped.
“The Torgun’s dragon! Father says the dragon is helping the Torgun fight the ogres.” The boy tugged on his mother’s hands. “You must come see. The d
ragon is green and brown, and he flies around in a circle and then dives like an eagle.”
The two women looked at each other, the same thought coming to each.
Draya clasped her hands together. “Blessed Vindrash, thank you!” she whispered brokenly.
Fria promised to go and then shooed her son out the door, sending him back to his father.
“The Torgun have a chance now!” Draya said, almost in tears. “With Kahg to fight for them, they may yet defeat the ogres!”
And recover the Vektan Torque! Please, Vindrash, let them find the torque and bring it back! she prayed silently.
Draya realized suddenly that Fria did not share her joy. Her friend looked grim and stern. She stood with her hands on her hips, arms akimbo.
“Draya,” said Fria sharply, “don’t you realize what this means?”
Draya shook her head. She was too tired to think.
“If the Torgun defeat the ogres, what then? They lit the beacon fire asking for our help, and help did not come. The Torgun will come to Vindraholm demanding answers. They will come in anger. We may have escaped ogres only to fight the Torgun.”
Draya stared at her friend in dismay; then she groaned and sank back down onto the stool.
Blood feuds, clan wars, just what she had worked all her life to prevent. Few of the Heudjun liked Horg. Few had agreed with his decision to refuse aid to the Torgun. But he was their clansman, and he was their Chief. His honor was their honor. They might mutter against him among themselves, but they would close ranks around him and stand together to protect him.
“What can I do?” Draya asked helplessly. “I can do nothing!”
“The one thing you can do is rest. You’ll make yourself ill otherwise, and we need you. Come, lie down.”
Draya did not think she could sleep, but she was too weak to resist. Fria led her to the sleeping platform and helped her into bed. She tucked the blankets around her and stood over her, smoothing Draya’s hot forehead with her hand.
“We will ask Vindrash to help us,” Fria said softly. “The gods will not turn their backs on us now.”
Draya closed her eyes, pretending to sleep, and Fria left, going to join her family at Torval’s Rock.
When she had gone, Draya slipped out of bed and knelt in prayer. But no voice answered.
Horg pretended to be glad when people brought him the news that the Dragon Kahg had joined the fight against the ogres.
“You see there,” Horg told the warriors, who had assembled in front of his dwelling place. “All that excitement for nothing. Take off your weapons and pick up your tools. The crops won’t tend themselves.”
He shut the door and stood for long moments in the shadowy darkness of the windowless dwelling. Then he slammed his fist into one of the support beams, causing the longhouse to shudder.
“Goat-fucking sons of whores!” he swore. “Witless arseholes! I warned the godlords. ‘Capture the dragonship and set fire to it,’ I said. ‘Leave nothing but ashes floating on the water.’ The greedy bastards didn’t listen. They wanted the ship for themselves. It was that whoreson shaman. I saw the gleam in his eyes when I spoke of it.”
Horg sucked his bruised knuckles and thought things over. There was the chance that the ogres could still win the battle. Dragons weren’t invincible. They could be killed, same as any other creature. Or perhaps the dragon had arrived late, after the battle had been lost and all the Torgun were dead.
Horg brightened at the thought. He hated the Torgun, who spent the fine summer months sailing the seas in their dragonship—the ship that by rights should have been his—in search of gold and glory, fighting battles Horg refused to fight. True, such raids had gained the Torgun little these days, as Horg was continually pointing out to his disgruntled warriors. That was why he no longer led the Heudjun in raids. Their time was more profitably spent in tilling the fields and tending the cattle.
Horg heard the whispers. He knew some of his people despised him as a coward. Horg’s spies were quick to bring him the latest rumblings and seemed to relish telling him the foul things people said about him.
Horg had another reason for hating the Torgun. Skylan Ivorson, the Chief’s son, had not shown Horg the proper respect. Two years ago, the Heudjun’s dragonship had been wrecked off the coast in a storm. Many warriors had drowned, as well as the ship’s Bone Priestess. The sacred spiritbone had been lost at sea and never recovered, which meant that the Heudjun had no dragon.
Horg and several of his cronies had gone to the Torgun to demand that Norgaard give him the Venjekar. During the meeting, the whelp Skylan had stated that it was his belief the gods had sent the storm to deliberately wreck the Heudjun dragonship as a punishment for their cowardice. That rash statement had angered the Heudjun and had almost resulted in war.
Norgaard had reprimanded his obstreperous son and insisted that Skylan apologize. Skylan had done so, though to Horg’s mind the young man hadn’t really been sincere. Horg had confidently expected Norgaard to hand over the dragonship, for the Torgun Chief was a broken old man who dared deny his Chief of Chiefs nothing.
Norgaard had refused, however, much to Horg’s ire. He was Chief of Chiefs. He deserved a dragonship. He deserved to have a dragon serve him. Horg had been angry enough to fight, but at the thought, his stomach curled up in a tight little ball. He decided that he would send his men on a raid to steal the Venjekar. The damn dragon, Kahg, had thwarted that plan.
Horg had waited for his revenge, biding his time until he could find a way to inflict harm on the Torgun and, especially, on Skylan.
Horg was a gambler. He believed in luck, not in the gods. He considered himself lucky. He attributed his rise as Chief of Chiefs to luck. His marriage to that cow, Draya, had not been lucky, but a gambler could always find ways to explain away a bad fall of the dragonbones.
The ogres had come to Horg as a lucky throw of the dragonbones. Horg had been dallying with one of his women in a secluded part of the beach when he had seen the ogres’ ships sailing under a flag of truce, heading for Vindraholm. He had been tempted to wait until they reached the city, where he would meet them surrounded by his warriors. Some god had whispered to him that he should meet with them alone, and he had rowed out to intercept them.
The ogres had given him the news that the Vindrasi gods were dead, defeated in a great battle. The godlords declared that the Vindrasi must worship the Gods of Raj and pay them tribute. Horg had been proud of his own cleverness. He had made a pact with the ogre godlords. The ogres would leave the Heudjun and the other clans in peace. In return he had given them a moldy old dragonbone and the Torgun. As to worshipping the Gods of Raj, Horg had been as happy to pray to them as to any other gods. Faith was all a lot of horseshit anyway.
But luck had turned on him.
His plans should have worked! Horg couldn’t understand how it had all gone awry. First his meddling bitch of a wife had discovered he no longer had the Vektan Torque. He’d dealt with her. He’d seen the fear in her eyes when he’d threatened to tell the people that her beloved gods were dead. She would never dare betray him.
Just as he thought he was safe, now this. What would happen to him if the Torgun survived the battle? They would be puzzled that their plea for aid had been ignored. Their first thought would be that the ogres had already attacked and defeated the Heudjun. They would sail over to investigate and find the Heudjun squatting comfortably over their cook fires.
That was always presuming they didn’t know the ogres had taken the Vektan Torque. If they did . . .
Horg broke out in a cold sweat and began to feverishly calculate how fast the Torgun could reach Vindraholm. The day was fine. The sea was calm. The battle had taken place at dawn. . . .
He sent men to the shore with orders to keep watch. He filled a mug with cider and paced his lodging, waiting for news.
The day passed. Night fell. No ships were sighted, and Horg’s hopes revived. The Torgun must have been slaughtered. Otherwise they would ha
ve been here by now, howling with rage and threatening to rip off his head.
Horg was in such good spirits that he summoned his latest concubine to come to him, rather than sneak off to meet her. He was Chief of Chiefs. He could have any woman he wanted. Let Draya come home to find him taking his pleasure. He’d be glad to let her watch. She would see for herself that some women enjoyed being in the arms of a strong, powerful man such as himself.
He drank more cider and more after that.
CHAPTER
2
The Torgun were eager to confront Horg, but even the enraged Skylan realized that they could not immediately leap into their ships and sail off to what might be war with their fellow clansmen. The Torgun owed a debt to their dead, whose souls were waiting, impatient to commence their journey to join Torval in the Hall of Heroes. In addition to honoring the dead, the Torgun had to make repairs to their dragonship. Norgaard meant to arrive on his clansmen’s shores in full dignity and might.
The number of dead was surprisingly few. Most had died in the initial clash, when the ogres had crashed headlong into the Torgun shield-wall and left it in shambles. Fighting one on one, warrior to warrior, the Torgun had discovered, like Skylan, that ogres were relatively unskilled with their weapons. Bjorn had survived with only a cracked head.
But it was the Dragon Kahg who had saved the day. The Torgun honored the dragon and sang songs in praise of him.
The Dragon Kahg generally disliked such displays, and he would ordinarily have left immediately after the battle. He felt some small remorse for having initially ignored the Bone Priestess’s desperate prayers, however, and the dragon deigned to graciously receive the Torgun’s homage. He did not stay long, for he had to report the disastrous loss of the Vektan Torque to the dragon elders. Kahg planned to return that night. He intended on being present when the Torgun confronted Horg. The dragon was keenly interested to hear what Horg had to say for himself.
The Torgun reverently carried the bodies of their dead to the beach. Warriors who had died in battle were placed in boats with their weapons, their armor, and their shields, along with food and ale to sustain them through the long journey. The boats would then be set ablaze, the bodies cremated.
Bones of the Dragon Page 17
