Bones of the Dragon (12 page)

“Treia!” Garn called, knocking respectfully on the door. “Bone Priestess, the Chief requests your presence at the feast. It is important that you attend.”

He waited, but there was no response.

Garn handed the torch to Aylaen, who put it into the iron sconce on the wall. He put his shoulder to the door and shoved. The door moved a little, opening a crack. Aylaen put her eye to it and tried to see inside, but all was dark.

“It will take both of us,” said Garn. “Put your weight into it. Now—”

“No, stop,” came Treia’s cold voice. “I will let you inside.”

They heard something heavy being dragged across the floor, and then the door swung open. Treia had been sitting in the darkness, apparently, for no light burned inside. Her face was stark white in the torchlight.

“Treia, what’s wrong?” Aylaen asked, alarmed. “What’s the matter? Have you been here all this time in the dark?”

She took hold of her sister’s hands, rubbed them with her own. “You’re freezing! Where’s your cloak?”

Garn carried his flaring torch inside. The flame cast a pool of light around them, leaving the rest of the Hall in shadow.

“Treia, Norgaard requires your presence at the feast,” Garn said.

Treia stood stiff, unmoving. Her face was drawn and haggard. She did not respond. She gazed at the firelight, did not appear even to have heard him.

Garn and Aylaen exchanged perplexed glances. They had no idea what to do. Garn could not very well drag Treia to the feast, yet it was of vital importance that she attend.

“Treia, dear sister—,” Aylaen began in soothing tones.

“Look!” cried Treia suddenly, savagely. She pointed a quivering finger at the altar. “Look! Look there!”

Garn held his torch closer, and light flowed over the altar. Aylaen blinked, not certain if she was seeing things. The flickering light of the torch was causing the shadows to dance, playing tricks on her eyes. Garn drew nearer still, holding the torch directly above the altar. Aylaen sucked in a horrified breath. The statue of Vindrash had split in two. The goddess lay in pieces on the floor.

Every clan had a statue to honor Vindrash, generally reproductions of the beautiful jadeite statue of the goddess found in the Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm. The Torgun’s statue of Vindrash was carved of wood, larger than the jadeite statue, coming to about a man’s waist. Vindrash was portrayed as a dragon rearing up on muscular hind legs. Her long spiked tail wrapped gracefully around her scaled body. Her wings thrust out from the shoulders, and her head was raised in fierce dignity, the fanged mouth gaping wide in a silent roar.

The statue was said to be nearly as old as the original statue, and now it lay broken. A crack ran lengthwise, dividing the head, sundering the body. One of the wings had fallen off when the statue hit the floor, and it lay to one side.

“The ogres are right,” said Treia in a shaking voice. “The gods are dead. This proves it!”

“Nonsense!” Garn said sharply. “This proves that the statue was very old and fragile and it fell apart. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more . . . ,” Treia murmured. She continued to stare at the statue.

She has been here all this time, Aylaen realized, sitting with the broken statue, believing the gods are dead.

“Listen to me,” said Garn, gripping Treia’s arms and giving her a shake. “That statue was older than the hills. It’s been out in the rain and the snow and the freezing cold. The wood rotted, as it was bound to do eventually, and the statue broke.”

The statue of Vindrash was present at the launching of the dragonship, where she was doused with seawater. She attended weddings and funerals in sunshine and rain. She presided over the harvest festival and came out of her warm Hall into the fierce wind and cold to celebrate the winter solstice.

“The true miracle is that the old wooden statue has survived this long,” said Garn.

He was being logical, as always. Still, looking down at the broken statue, Aylaen wasn’t certain logic made her feel any better. She remembered being afraid of the statue when she was little. The dragon seemed to glare down at her as she stood in the Hall beside her mother, and she had nightmares about the teeth snapping at her, the claws reaching out to tear her apart.

Her mother had sought to reassure her, telling her that Vindrash loved her people. Her fangs and claws were used to protect the Torgun, not harm them. Aylaen tried hard to believe that was true, but the childhood fear never truly left her. She had always felt a little tremor pass through her when she looked upon the statue of Vindrash.

Now, as she stared down at the two halves of the broken statue, she was reminded of her dead father. She remembered seeing his corpse laid out in the funeral boat, and she remembered feeling bewildered and confused. That wasn’t her father, lying there, any more than these broken pieces were Vindrash. Her father had been a hale and hearty man with a ready laugh. She had worshipped him, adored him. The disease-ravaged corpse with its frozen grimace of pain and its wasted, shrunken limbs was a stranger. Someone she didn’t know.

She had refused to believe her father was dead, and she had run away to hide in the woods until the funeral had ended and the blazing boat carrying his body had been shoved out to sea. And though she knew in the bleak empty darkness of her heart that her father was dead, she kept stubbornly insisting he was merely gone on a raid and would someday return. That was one reason she had been so furious with her mother when she had married Uncle Sigurd.

Aylaen felt the same now, bewildered and confused. This was not Vindrash. This was a stranger.

“We will build a new statue,” Garn was telling Treia. “A better statue,
adorned with jewels to honor the goddess. This is what you will tell our people. This is what you will tell them
tomorrow
”—Garn emphasized—“
after
we defeat the ogres. You will say nothing about this to anyone tonight.”

Treia’s eyes flashed. “I am the Bone Priestess! How dare you give me orders? I will say what I must say. The ogres are right. Our gods are dead—”

“If you tell the people that, you will send our warriors to battle tomorrow with dread and fear in their hearts instead of courage and pride,” Garn said. “And if we are defeated, the fault will be yours. Not the gods’!”

Treia glared at him, but she did not refute his words. Aylaen could not guess what her sister was thinking. Treia hid her thoughts behind a cold, pale mask. At last she stirred and rubbed her thin arms.

“You claim the statue broke because the wood rotted.” Treia gazed up at Garn and smiled a thin, bitter smile. “Is
that
what you would have me say to the people? That our goddess rotted?”

Garn made an impatient gesture. “It’s a piece of wood shaped like the goddess, Treia, not the goddess herself. If the lintel above the door split, would you read in that the end of the world? Don’t say anything to anyone, Treia. Not until after tomorrow’s battle.”

Treia gestured to Aylaen. “Bring me my robes.”

Aylaen was quick to respond. Catching up the embroidered robe that marked her a Bone Priestess, Aylaen draped it around Treia’s spare shoulders. Aylaen put her arm protectively around her sister, for, though the night was warm, she could feel her shivering.

The two walked out of the Hall. Garn shut the door and followed, bringing the torch. He was heading for the path toward the village when Treia stopped him. She laid her chill fingers on his arm.

“What is, is what is. I cannot change it, and neither can you.” Treia huddled more deeply into her robes. “I will not attend the feast. I will go home. Aylaen will come with me.”

Garn hesitated. Norgaard had wanted her there, but if she went in her present mood, there was no telling what harm she might do.

“A wise decision, Priestess,” Garn said at last. “What do you want me to tell Norgaard?”

Treia stared at him, and then she laughed—strange, harsh laughter that was the most terrible sound Aylaen had ever heard.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Treia said, the laughter bubbling in her throat. “There will be no need to tell Norgaard anything. By now, he already knows!”

T
he wind rose in the night, causing the ogre ships to rock as they lay at anchor in the bay and sending whitecapped waves rolling in between the high cliffs of the fjord. The wind tore at the beacon fire, catching up sparks and flinging them into the air. The logs that fed the bonfire collapsed, fell in on one another, sending up a shower of ashes. No one bothered to add more fuel. The warriors who had tended the fire stared grimly at the dying flames and saw in them their own future. Word had come from Norgaard, carried by swift messenger.

“Help is not coming.”

Across the fjord, the young warriors of the Heudjun watched in silence as the beacon fire dwindled. They did not speak, or look at each other. They were ashamed.

The beacon fire finally went out. The Heudjun warriors returned to their homes. Some of them had decided amongst themselves to prepare for battle. Despite Horg’s assurances that the ogres would not attack, the Heudjun did not trust either him or them. Many hoped the ogres would attack Vindraholm.

Battle would ease the Heudjun’s shame.

Horg had worked himself into a rage by the time he reached the Great Hall. He was Chief of Chiefs, after all. His fists clenched. He muttered imprecations and swore beneath his breath. He had a right to do as he had done. The plague take anyone who thought otherwise, and that included the gods.

Draya had never seen him in such an ugly, belligerent mood, and she began to think fearfully that she should have confronted him in the open when there had been people about. Not even Horg was drunk enough to publicly raise his hand against a Kai Priestess.

But she had to find out the truth about the Vektan Torque, and the only way to do that was to bring Horg before the gods, even if it meant placing her life at risk. Horg might lie to the people. He might lie to her. He could not lie to Vindrash.

Draya opened the door to the Hall and went inside, carrying a torch with her. The light shone on the statue of the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, and caused her to leap out of the darkness. The dragon’s eyes glowed in righteous
anger, her fangs gleamed, her claws were extended, ready to rend his flesh. Horg staggered back a step or two in drunken terror. He stood on the threshold, refusing to enter, staring at the statue with blenched face and quivering gut.

Draya’s fears vanished—at least her fear for herself. She was in no danger from this sweating, sodden coward.

“Come inside,” she ordered.

Horg hesitated; then he lurched across the threshold.

“Well, woman, I’m here. What do you want?”

Draya could not reply. She felt smothered, unable to fully catch her breath. Fear clogged her throat.

Not fear of Horg. Fear of what Horg had done.

Vindrash, give me courage, Draya prayed, and her voice came back to her.

“Where is the Vektan Torque?”

Horg gave a blustering laugh. “Is that what all this fuss is about? I thought you suspected me of murder at the very least!”

“The torque,” said Draya. “Where is it?”

Horg shrugged. “I put it away for safekeeping. I never wear the torque in battle.” He yawned massively and scratched himself. “I’m going to bed.”

“You said there would be no battle.” Draya spoke to his sweat-stained back. “You said the ogres would not attack us. Where is the Vektan Torque?”

Horg took another step; then he halted. He paused a moment, turned too fast, and almost stumbled over his own feet. He pulled himself upright and said with massive calm, “I gave it to the ogres.”

Draya pressed her hand over her thudding heart. “Vindrash save us!” she gasped. “What have you done?”

“What have I done?” Horg repeated, and his face flushed in anger. “I have saved us from death—that’s what I’ve done. The ogres came with their ships. Their sails filled the skies—”

“So many that no one else saw them,” said Draya caustically.

“I was riding alone! They would have sent their warriors ashore, but I met with their godlords, made a deal—”

“You gave them the sacred torque,” said Draya. “But that wasn’t enough. They wanted blood, and you gave them our kinsmen.”

“We were outnumbered!” Horg bawled, raising his fists and shaking them in the air. “They would have destroyed us!”

“The Vektan Torque belongs to the gods. You have given what was not yours to give. Torval’s curse will fall on you!” Draya’s voice trembled. “His curse will fall on us all!”

“Torval’s curse!” Horg laughed and struck himself on the chest. “Look at me, bitch. I’m going to tell you something about Torval.”

“Get out!” Draya cried. The smell of cider and his sweaty, filthy body sickened her. She averted her face, gripped the altar with her hands. “Get out of my sight, you drunken coward!”

“I’ll go,” said Horg. “I have a new woman to warm my bed and a cask of cider to drink. But first, bitch, you’re going to listen to what I have to say for a change. Torval won’t curse me. The old fart couldn’t curse a cat! The ogres told me. There was a war in heaven, and our gods lost.”

Draya laughed. “How ludicrous!”

“You don’t believe me?” Horg sneered. “Ask your precious Vindrash.
If
you can find her.”

Draya started to angrily refute him, but the words died on her lips. She didn’t believe him—or rather, she didn’t want to believe him.

“You are shamed, dishonored, no longer fit to be Chief of Chiefs. I will tell the people what you have done.”

Horg shrugged. “Go ahead. And I’ll tell them what I know about the gods.” He smirked at her. “Where does that leave you, Kai Priestess? If the gods are dead, who in the name of Hevis needs you anymore? Certainly I don’t!”

Horg made a lunge for her. She tried to escape, but he was too fast. He grabbed hold of her, gripping her by her chin and digging his fingers into her jaw. Draya moaned in his grasp. He held her so tightly, she was afraid to move for fear he would shatter her jaw as if it were an eggshell.

He laughed again, then snarled at her. “Here’s what I think of you. And here’s what I think of your fucking gods.”