From the baleful looks the godlords gave their shaman, Skylan thought the shaman might want to reconsider that practice. The godlords said nothing, but both continued to hand their bodyguards bits of food before they ate it, and they made them drink ale from the horn mugs, as well.
Knowing the duties of a host, Norgaard asked the shaman polite questions about the ogre gods, the Gods of Raj. The shaman was eager to answer. Skylan should have been conversing with their guests, as well, but he was hungry, and he left entertaining the ogres to his father. He was still a little weak from the loss of blood, and he would need his strength in the morning.
He would also need a clear head, as would his warriors. Skylan was careful to drink no more than two mugs of ale, and he frowned at the men who were laughing or talking too loudly or were seen filling their drinking horns too often. Catching his warning look, they put down the horns. The Torgun would go to their beds this night relatively sober.
The ogres had no such worries. All of them, including the shaman, drank vast quantities of ale, nearly emptying the cask. The ale seemed to have little effect on them, however, except to make the shaman more and more effusive in his praise of their gods.
Skylan paid scant attention. In his mind, he was on the other side of the fjord in Vindraholm. He could picture the excitement and alarm. Everyone would be rushing about, making preparations to go to war. Warriors would be examining their shields to make certain there were no weak spots and sharpening swords and spears and axes. Those fortunate enough to have chain mail would be going over the shirts by the firelight, making certain no links were missing. Those who did not have mail would be donning leather shirts made of deerhide, which were almost as tough as chain.
Skylan had work to do himself. He had inherited his father’s chain mail, and though hardly a day went by that Skylan did not examine it to make certain every link was sound, he planned to go over it again tonight. He would sharpen, clean, and oil his sword, though it did not really need it, for the sword, named Dragon’s Tooth, was Skylan’s pride.
He pictured the battle tomorrow and the glory he would win for himself. He imagined fighting alongside Horg, the Chief of Chiefs. He imagined saving Horg’s life and Horg offering him rich reward in gratitude. Cattle, perhaps, or silver or even gold. Skylan would at last have enough to pay the bride-price, and that turned his thoughts from battle to love. He wondered what Aylaen had been about to tell him this afternoon before they were interrupted by Owl Mother. It seemed to have been important. He would have to remember to ask her. Perhaps he would see her tonight, if she and Treia came to the feast. . . .
Bjorn kicked Skylan in the shins hard enough to make him wince and rouse him from his reverie. Something had happened. Something was wrong. A deathlike silence shrouded the hall. Every man, including Norgaard, had turned to face the entrance.
Alarmed, Skylan gripped his sword and turned, as well.
The ogre commander stood in the doorway. He was an arresting sight, for he wore a shining breastplate that gleamed brightly in the firelight. But why, Skylan wondered, was everyone staring at him as though he’d fallen from the skies? Plate armor was worth a Chief’s ransom, but the Torgun had fought men in plate armor before.
Then Skylan saw that Norgaard’s appalled gaze was not staring at the armor, but at some point above the breastplate. Skylan looked more closely.
His eyes widened. His hand, gripping the sword’s hilt, went numb. He could not believe what he was seeing. He had only to look at his father for confirmation of the unthinkable truth.
Gold glinted. Sapphire glittered.
Around his fat neck, the ogre godlord wore the sacred Vektan Torque. He rested his hand on it and grinned.
“You can douse your beacon fire,” said the godlord. “No help is coming.”
In the silence that quivered tense and taut as a bowstring, the godlord walked over to the table, shoved aside the bench with his foot, sat down, and began to calmly fork meat onto his plate.
CHAPTER
7
Aylaen sat on the ground with her back against the Hall of Vindrash and watched the flames of the beacon fire flicker through the tree branches. Night had fallen, and her sister was still inside, still refusing to answer Aylaen’s periodic questions. Was Treia ill? Was she in need of water? Should Aylaen run to fetch Norgaard?
Not a word in response. The last Aylaen had seen or heard from Treia was when she opened the door to tell Skylan she could not heal him. Aylaen, putting her ear to the door, couldn’t hear her sister moving about inside.
Aylaen began to worry that some accident had befallen Treia. She tried to enter the Hall, even though she wasn’t supposed to disturb Treia when she was at her prayers, but Treia had used something to block the door. That in itself was strange. The Hall of Vindrash was supposed to be open to all, day or night. Aylaen had given the door a healthy shove, and she could not cause it to budge.
Darkness fell, and the hours passed, and Aylaen grew more and more uneasy. Perhaps she should fetch Alfric to help her force the door open. Alfric was the strongest, largest man in the village. He had once picked up Skylan, hoisted him over his shoulder, and carried him around as effortlessly as if Skylan were a babe. But Aylaen was loath to leave her sister alone in the wilderness, especially with ogres roaming about.
The longer Aylaen sat in the darkness, with only the moon and the stars for light, the more worried she grew. She went again to the door and called to her sister.
No reply.
What if Treia was lying there hurt, unable to move or cry out? Maybe she was subject to foaming-mouthed fits? That was possible. Aylaen didn’t know that much about her sister, who had been away for so many years. Treia was still a stranger. Aylaen was about to leave to obtain help when she saw torchlight and heard someone walking along the path.
Aylaen picked up her axe. All Vindrasi women were trained to fight. If an enemy overran the men of the village, it was left to the women to defend themselves and their children.
Aylaen was strong, and she was a skilled warrior. Having grown up with Skylan and Garn, she was more boy than girl, as her mother never tired of telling anyone who would listen. Aylaen did a man’s work on the farm. She hated being cooped up inside the house, doing women’s work: cooking and weaving and the like. She had learned from Skylan and Garn how to handle weapons. She even knew how to use Skylan’s most prized possession—his sword.
Aylaen had no sword. Few men in the village owned one. But she had an axe, and was not afraid. Whoever was out there was making a great deal of noise. An enemy would move silently, try to sneak up on her.
“Who is there?” she challenged. “Make yourself known to me.”
“Aylaen, you can put down the axe!” came the laughing call. “It’s Garn.”
Aylaen sighed in relief and dropped the axe to the ground. Garn, bathed in yellow torchlight, came into sight. Aylaen ran to him, threw her arms around him, and pressed her head against his broad chest.
“Thank Vindrash you’ve come! I’ve been so worried.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Garn asked, alarmed. “Where is Treia? She’s supposed to be at the feast.”
“She’s in there. In the Hall. She won’t answer me—”
Garn gave a sigh of relief. “So she is safe. You are safe.”
He put his arms around her, clasping her close to him. They pressed together, heartbeat to heartbeat, warm and comforting. And then, gently, he pushed her away.
“We shouldn’t,” he said. “This is wrong.”
“Wrong to love each other?” Aylaen asked, and she raised her lips to be kissed.
Garn glanced at the Hall. Though the building had no windows, Treia might be watching through a chink in the wall. He shook his head.
“Skylan is dear to me,” he said. “Dearer than a brother.”
“And he is dear to me, as well,” Aylaen said gently. “Dear to me as a brother. We should tell him we are in love. I almost told him today.”
“You mustn’t, Aylaen!” Garn said. “You must never say anything to him.”
“I don’t see why not,” Aylaen said. “He has to know sometime.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Garn quietly. “Promise me you won’t say a word to him or to anyone.”
Aylaen tossed her head defiantly.
“You would hurt Skylan deeply, Aylaen,” Garn told her. “He adores you. And he trusts me. Promise me you won’t tell him. . . .”
“Sometimes I think you care more about him than you do me,” Aylaen said petulantly.
“I hope I never have to choose,” said Garn.
Aylaen heard the sorrow and pain in his voice, and she regretted her hurtful words. He loved her, loved her deeply and dearly, as she loved him. The two had not meant to fall in love. It had just happened. It seemed they had grown up loving each other. The threads of their wyrds were bound together. Yet she was as good as betrothed to Skylan.
“I’m sorry,” Aylaen said remorsefully. “I promise I won’t tell him. But I won’t marry him!” she added with a flash of her green eyes.
Garn shook his head. “Not even the gods can see the future. Norgaard sent me to fetch your sister. The feast has started, and her absence has been noted.”
“I tried to go inside,” said Aylaen. “Something’s blocking the door.”
Garn looked grim on hearing this, and Aylaen’s heart lurched. Treia was not an easy person to get to know, much less to love, but Aylaen was doing her best. She liked having a sister. Having grown up with the boys, she had never made friends with girls her age. Most of the time, Treia was stiff and cold, but sometimes, in rare moments, she would relax and forget the grudge she bore the world, and she and Aylaen would talk confidingly as sisters talk. They discussed their mother and her problems, shared memories of their dead father, and acknowledged the hatred both felt for their stepfather. Aylaen cherished these moments, and she was afraid for her sister now.
“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�
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“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!”
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