Bones of the Dragon (21 page)

The shaman now had nothing to hold him back. The godlord was either dead or dying, and the human was about to recover the Vektan Torque.

The moment the shaman had seen the torque around Horg’s neck, he had sensed its power. He was the one who had urged the godlords to accept Horg’s bargain, take the torque, and leave him and his people in peace. The
shaman had been irate when the godlord claimed the torque for himself. The shaman wanted the torque as he had never wanted anything in his life.

And now it was going to be his.

The shaman drew a knife and lopped off the top half of the gourd. Mumbling the words to his spell—or at least what he hoped were the words to the spell—he scooped up the dead godlord’s blood in the gourd and flung the blood into Skylan’s face. Somewhat to his amazement, the shaman saw the spell work. The young human was paralyzed, unable to move. The shaman reached out, plucked the Vektan Torque from Skylan’s frozen fingers, and turned and ran for the sea.

Disaster struck so swiftly that the Torgun had no idea, at first, that disaster had struck at all. Elated by their victory, the men laughed out loud to see the ogre shaman fling blood on Skylan and then run off, his feathers flapping around his bony knees.

Norgaard was not laughing.

“Stop him! He has the torque!” Norgaard thundered.

Garn saw the flash of gold in the shaman’s hand, and he realized what had happened. He gave a shout and dashed down the hill in pursuit. Torgun laughter changed to curses as the others joined Garn in his frantic chase.

Ogres could move fast when there was need. Terrified of the dragon, the ogres had surged through the water and were swarming up ladders to board their ships. By the time the shaman reached his ship, his fellow ogres had already pulled up the ladder and were raising the sail. They lowered a rope, and one of the godlords helped drag the shaman aboard.

As Garn and his men reached the sea, the ogre sails caught the wind. The outraged Torgun flung off their armor and plunged into the waves, intending to swim to their dragonship and sail after the ogres in pursuit. The Torgun learned then, if they had not learned before, that ogres were not stupid. Those waiting onshore cried out in anger and dismay to see clouds of smoke rise from the
Venjekar
, accompanied by orange tongues of flame. Unable to steal the dragonship, the ogres had set it ablaze.

“Kahg!” Norgaard bellowed at the dragon, who was circling above them, glaring at the ogres. “Go after them! Sink them! Burn them!” He jabbed his finger at the departing ogres.

The Dragon Kahg only shook his head and continued to fly above them in gloomy circles.

“He cannot,” said Treia. “The Dragon Kahg fears that if he attacks, the ogres will destroy the Vektan Torque. He dares not risk it. According to the dragon, the ogres spoke the truth, at in least part. There
was
a great battle in
heaven, though only one of the gods, Desiria, was slain. Unfortunately, she was the Goddess of Life. With her death, we have no ability to heal.”

Norgaard stared at the woman, unable to grasp the enormity of what she was saying. Bewildered and still angry, he lashed out at her. “You are awfully calm about this, Priestess!”

Treia shrugged. “I am just glad to know it wasn’t my fault.”

Having lost the chase, Garn returned to Skylan, who remained spellbound, unable to move. Taking off his helm, Garn dipped it in the seawater. He washed the blood from Skylan’s face, and the spell was shattered.

“Get out of my way!” Skylan cried, almost knocking Garn down. “I’m going after the torque.”

“Skylan, stop,” said Garn. “The
Venjekar
is on fire. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I can swim!” Skylan said, wrestling with his friend. “I’ll swim around the world if I have to—”

“We cannot recover the torque,” Garn said swiftly. “But we can avenge its loss. And we can avenge our dead,” he added with a grim glance at the bodies strewn over the bloody battleground.

Skylan relaxed. His muscles twitched. His lips compressed. His blue eyes met Garn’s, and he spat a single word, “Horg!”

T
he Norns spin the threads of our wyrds on the day of our birth. This does not mean that a man’s wyrd—or a woman’s—cannot be changed. Each man’s wyrd is affected by the wyrds of others, when their threads cross his. Not even the gods remain untouched.

The morning the Torgun fought for their lives against the ogres, their clansmen, the Heudjun, gathered at Torval’s Rock. Draya joined them.

After her disastrous confrontation with Horg over the Vektan Torque, she had spent the night praying in the Great Hall of the Gods. She had not returned to her dwelling. Horg would be off somewhere, grunting and sweating with one of his concubines, but when he was finished with his lovemaking, he would return to his own bed to sleep.

This night, he would find his bed empty. She would not be there. Not this night. Not any other night. She loathed him. She could not stomach the sight of him. Her hatred was so deep, it drowned fear.

That said, what was she going to do about him? Horg was not fit to be Chief of Chiefs. He was not fit to empty the pisspot of any brave warrior. Yet she dared not challenge him openly.

Horg was cunning. If he went through with what he had threatened, telling the people that the Gods of the Vindrasi were dead, the entire Vindrasi nation would be thrown into turmoil. People would come to the Kai Priestess, demanding answers, and what would she say? The gods lost a great battle, one of their number is dead, Torval is lying low, and Vindrash has gone into hiding. The people would be thrown into despair.

Draya would have to tell the Vindrasi some version of the facts eventually. They were already starting to wonder why the Bone Priestesses had lost their ability to heal the sick and injured. But as a mother keeps a brutal truth from a child, so Draya wanted to keep the worst of what she knew from her people for as long as possible. Which meant she had to find a way to deal with Horg.

Draya spent the night in agony, restlessly pacing the length of the Hall, seeking answers to her dilemma. She prayed to the goddess, but Vindrash did not respond.

Day dawned. Across the fjord, the Torgun were forming their shield-wall, each warrior aware that he might not live to see the twilight.

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.”