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.
CHAPTER
4
&nbs
p; The 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.
The Hall and the longhouse were located some distance from the village, in a small clearing in the midst of the forest. Both were kept in excellent repair by the men of the village. Treia had a small garden, where she grew herbs used in healing. Otherwise, the people of the village supported the Bone Priestess with gifts of food and hides, cooking pots and furs, and whatever else she might require.
Skylan found Aylaen pacing outside the closed door of the Hall of Vindrash. She smiled at him. He smiled to see her. He’d hoped to find her here, another reason he’d decided to ask for Treia’s help. Her gaze softened when she looked at the bloody gash in his thigh.
“You are white as milk,” Aylaen said. She eyed his blood-soaked clothing worriedly.
“Most of that blood is the boar’s,” Skylan said proudly.
Her concern was a pleasant surprise. Usually whenever Aylaen encountered him, she found some reason to mock or laugh at him. He was warmed to think she cared about him.
“Sit down on the ground. Let me see.”
Skylan eased himself down. Aylaen gently tried to peel away the blood-gummed bandages that had stuck to the wound. He flinched and gasped with the pain.
“It looks bad,” said Aylaen. “It’s all inflamed.”
“I have to fight tomorrow,” said Skylan. “I need your sister to intercede with the Goddess Desiria for me.”
Aylaen glanced doubtfully at the closed door. “Treia said she was not to be disturbed.”
Aylaen’s well-meaning ministrations had opened the wound again. Blood flowed freely. Skylan, now that he was sitting, was not sure he could get back up again.
“She must,” he said. “I am the War Chief.”
Aylaen nodded and went to knock gently on the door.
“Sister, I am sorry to disturb your prayers, but Skylan Ivorson is here. He is wounded, and he needs the healing blessings of the Goddess Desiria.”
Skylan heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened a tiny crack. Treia peered out.
“I can do nothing for him,” she said coldly, and started to shut the door.
“Sister, look at him!” Aylaen cried, seizing hold of the door and holding it ajar. She gestured to Skylan. “See how ill he is—”
Treia’s nearsighted glance flicked over him.
“I can do nothing,” she repeated, and she slammed the door shut.
“Your sister has never liked me,” Skylan said. “I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to her.”
Aylaen stood staring at the closed door, a dreamy haze clouding her eyes.
“It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “The gods weep. Aylis hides her face in grief. Akaria screams and tears her hair. . . .”
“Aylaen,” said Skylan sharply.
Aylaen looked at him and blinked. “What?”
“You are not a bard, and this is no time for storytelling,” he said impatiently. “We have outgrown make-believe. Besides,” he added, frowning, “the gods will take offense. Making up such stories about them is disrespectful.”
“I don’t mean to be. I like to think of them as a family.” Aylaen’s smile dimmed; her expression darkened. “Not as my family. A family that loves and cares for each other.”
Skylan struggled to his feet, his hand pressed over his thigh.
“I will talk to your sister,” he said, and he started for the door.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Aylaen hurriedly. “I have an idea. Owl Mother lives close by—”
“That old crone! Never mind. I am feeling much better. I must return to the village. Garn will need my help—”
Skylan took a step, swayed dizzily, and sagged to his knees. Aylaen knelt down beside him and slipped her arm around his midriff.
“Put your arm across my shoulder,” she ordered.
Skylan was too weak to argue. He did as she told him.
Aylaen’s body pressed against his, and with her help, he was able to stand. Skylan could feel the softness of her breast beneath the wool of her gown, the firmness of her thigh, the play of her muscles, and desire outdid his pain.
Aylaen was tall for a woman, above average height, and she was strong, for she had done hard physical labor on the family farm from childhood onward. She had no trouble supporting Skylan’s weight. Her red mass of curls—so different from the silky blond hair of the rest of her family—brushed against his cheek.
No one else in the Torgun had red hair. There were whispers that the man who had been married to her mother was not her real father. Perhaps that was one reason Sigurd seemed to have so little fondness for his brother’s wife.
“Owl Woman won’t be in her dwelling,” said Skylan huskily. The ache of desire warred with his pain. “She would have gone into the hills with the other women.”<
br />
He’d never been this close to Aylaen, not since they were children and had played their rough-and-tumble games. He’d wanted to hold her, the gods knew! But he could never bring himself to touch her, which was odd, because he’d had no such inhibitions regarding other women.
He could still have his pick of those women, but he wanted only one, and that was Aylaen. He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her at night to wake with a groan of longing. He spent hours imagining what he would say to her that would cause her eyes to glow with desire for him. And yet, when he started to say the words, Aylaen would mock him and laugh at him, pretending she didn’t understand.
She did understand; he was certain of it. He was convinced she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Women liked to tease a man, toy with him as fox kits toy with a dead rabbit.
Skylan slowed his steps. “Let me rest a moment with you. The two of us together, here, where it is quiet—”
His arm tightened suggestively around her shoulder.
“I have left my sister alone too long already,” said Aylaen. “As for Owl Mother, she will be in her dwelling. She would never leave her animals. Just a little farther, brother—”
“Don’t call me that!” Skylan ordered angrily.
“Why not?” Aylaen asked pertly. “That’s how I think of you.”
“I don’t want you to think of me that way!” Skylan said. “You are my betrothed. Soon you will be my wife.”
“You don’t need a wife. You have too many women already,” Aylaen said teasingly.
“I have not slept with anyone in two years!”
Aylaen’s eyes widened. She was mocking him. “Truly?”
Skylan made a dismissive gesture. “I want you and no other.”
“I was jesting,” she said.
“I wasn’t,” he replied.
Aylaen flushed and lowered her eyes in confusion. “Skylan, there is something I must tell you—”
“Stop right there, whoever you are!” said a warning voice. “One more step, and I’ll set the wolves on you.”
The sound of a low, rumbling growl caused Skylan to draw his knife.
“We should leave!” he said.
Bones of the Dragon Page 5