The women had already started to come down from the hiding places in the hills, some to hear the news that they were now widows. The women brought sad tidings themselves. Norgaard’s wife, Sonja, had lost her baby, a little boy. He’d been born too early to survive outside his mother’s womb. Sonja herself was now fighting for her life in a cave in the hills. She was too ill to be moved.
“I am sorry, Father,” said Skylan, resting his hand gently on the older man’s arm. “If there is anything I can do—”
Norgaard had lost men close to him this day. He had lost his hope for the future, and he might yet lose the young woman who brought joy into his life. He had been told by the Bone Priestess that the gods were themselves fighting for their survival. He had watched the ogres sail off with the sacred Vektan Torque.
His eyes were red with tears, yet a flicker of flame blazed in the blue depths.
Norgaard gripped his son’s hand with crushing strength. “I will make Horg pay!” he vowed. “I swear to Torval! I will call for the Vutmana!”
Skylan gaped. He was about to say, Father, don’t be ridiculous! when Garn leaned close to whisper, “Tread softly!”
Skylan took his friend’s counsel and closed his mouth on his hasty words. Norgaard was serious. He was determined, resolved to challenge Horg to a fight to the death.
Perhaps the old man wanted to die in battle and this was a way to do it. Or perhaps grief and anger had acted as flint and tinder to rekindle a fire in the old man’s belly.
Whatever the reason, it was Norgaard’s right, as Chief, to challenge Horg, the Chief of Chiefs, in the Vutmana.
Dating back to the days of the great Clan Chief Thorgunnd and his legendary war against the Clan Chief Krega, the Vutmana was an institution created by the Bone Priestesses as a means of ending the ceaseless feuds between the clans. In those days, clans had gone to war and men had lost their lives over the theft of a chicken. With the Vutmana, one man could challenge another to fight to resolve the issue. The Vutmana could be made by any warrior against another, but only a Chief could challenge the Chief of Chiefs; the winning combatant could then claim the right to be Chief of Chiefs.
Skylan drew Garn to one side. “What do we do, my friend? A hog has more right to be Chief of Chiefs than Horg. Yet, how can Norgaard fight him? Horg is a big man, strong as an ogre. Norgaard is a cripple.”
“Torval judges the Vutmana,” Garn reminded him. “The god must be furious at Horg’s treachery.”
“That is true,” Skylan conceded, “but sometimes Hevis plays cruel jokes on both men and gods. Hevis might devise some trick to allow Horg to win.”
Garn admitted that was true. Hevis, God of Deceit and Trickery, was always plucking at the thread of a man’s wyrd, seeking to unravel it.
“Skylan,” said Garn suddenly. “There is a way.” He spoke quietly in his friend’s ear.
Skylan regarded him dubiously. “Are you certain?”
Garn smiled and said dryly, “Unlike you, I stay awake during the annual recital of the Chief’s Law.”
Skylan’s eyes shone with fierce joy. He embraced Garn. “You have given me a great gift, my brother.”
Skylan drew his sword, which was red with ogre blood, and walked over to stand before his father. Skylan knelt down on one knee. He thrust the blade into the ground in front of him.
“Revered Father,” said Skylan. He spoke humbly, and he was sincere in his humility, for he could see the raw grief and terrible anger in his father’s face. “Your honorable wounds, which are a testament to your skill and valor, give you the right to select a warrior to fight the Vutmana in your place. If the Heudjun agree to the challenge, give me the privilege. Let me fight Horg for you. I will make you Chief of Chiefs!”
Skylan clasped one hand around the blade and rested his other hand on the silver axe. “I vow to Torval.”
A pale smile flitted across Norgaard’s lips. Looking down on Skylan’s upturned face, Norgaard saw true admiration and respect in his son’s eyes.
This was a day to cherish. Much that was bad had happened, but now it seemed something blessed might come of it. Norgaard would be Chief of Chiefs, and he believed in his heart he would be a good one. He felt new life stir in him at the thought. He would lift the Vindrasi people out of this ugly bog in which their boats had long been mired, and he would guide them into a safe and prosperous harbor.
Norgaard clasped his hand around his son’s. Then he seized the sword’s hilt, drew it from the ground, and raised it high into the air. He handed the sword back to Skylan. The warriors lifted their voices in a cheer.
Aching from bruises, the blood still oozing from fresh-bandaged wounds, the men and women returned to their tasks, some tending to the dead, others to the wounded, and still others working to repair the harm done to their dragonship.
The Torgun would spend the night honoring their dead.
They would sail with the dawn to avenge them.
Draya spent another sleepless night in fruitless prayers. When the sun rose, she left the Great Hall and walked down to the shore. Armed Heudjun warriors had gathered on the shore, along with many women and children, all watching and grimly waiting. The Heudjun were acutely aware that if the Torgun had survived the ogre attack, they would come to find out why their clansmen had refused their summons for help. A low growl rumbled through the crowd when the Torgun’s dragonship, the Venjekar, was sighted sailing around the cliffs.
“Someone should alert Horg,” said Sven, Fria’s husband and the War Chief for the Heudjun Clan. Sven’s voice was flat, noncommittal. As Chief of Chiefs, Horg should be with his people. No one knew why he wasn’t.
Horg’s cronies stood huddled together in a knot on the fringes of the crowd. None of them made a move, and Sven wondered if Horg was even still in the city. Perhaps he had fled during the night. Sven glowered at them and then gestured to his eldest son. “You go.”
Sven ordered the warriors to make a show of force, let the Torgun know they could not come uninvited onto Heudjun territory, even if they did have a legitimate complaint. The warriors held their weapons in plain sight and raised their shields. They did not form a shield-wall, though they were prepared to do so should it come to that. The Torgun were fellow clansmen, and they had a grievance. They would be permitted to tell their side of the story, but only from a distance. Their dragonship would not be permitted to land.
Draya watched the Venjekar draw steadily nearer. Everyone saw her, knew she had arrived. They cast her hopeful glances, wanting her reassurance, wanting her to tell them the gods were on their side. Her pallid face and stoic silence made them uneasy. The dragon’s-head prow turned toward land. Draya could see the fiery gleam in the Dragon Kahg’s carved eyes. She left the beach and ran back to the Great Hall and threw herself before the statue of Vindrash.
“Please tell me what I should do!” she begged.
Someone was banging on the door. Horg woke from a stuporlike sleep with a jerk that almost knocked his partner out of the bed. She grunted, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Horg wrapped his naked body in a blanket and flung open the door. Half-blinded by the bright sunlight, he blinked and squinted, trying to see.
“Yes, what is it?” he demanded surlily, recognizing Sven’s son.
“The Torgun,” said the young man.
Horg blinked again. His cider-soaked brain stumbled about a moment, trying to remember why he should give a fart. Then it all came back to him.
“How many ships?” he asked.
“Just one, the Venjekar.”
Horg nodded. “Assemble the warriors.”
“We have already assembled, Chief,” said the young man. “My father has command. He said I should let you know.”
Horg cast a sharp glance at the young man, who met the glance with a frozen stare.
Horg grunted. “Tell the men I will be there shortly.”
“I’m sure they’ll be elated to hear that,” the young man muttered.
“What did you say?” Horg barked.
The young man grinned and ran off.
“If your turd of a father won’t teach you manners, I will!” Horg yelled savagely.
He slammed the door and, walking over to the sleeping platform, kicked at the woman lying beneath the blankets. He cuffed her when she did not immediately respond.
“Fix me something to eat. And fetch me more cider,” Horg told her as she dragged herself out of bed.
His head throbbed. His mouth was dry as dirt. The cider was cold and tasted good and eased the pain. He drank it thirstily. As his head cleared, it occurred to him that two nights had passed and he had not seen Draya. She had not come home. He was angry. A wife belonged with her husband.
Horg did wonder, a bit uneasily, what he would do if she refused. Her defiance would make him look bad. People would say he could not control his wife.
An idea came to him, struck him like a thunderbolt. His idea was so amazing and wonderful, it sent tingles of excitement through his blood, as exhilarating as the cider.
Horg chuckled and made haste to dress and arm himself. He would go to the beach, but first he intended to have a talk with his wife.
Draya was rising unsteadily to her feet when the door to the Hall flew open with a bang.
“Bitch!” Horg roared. “You did not come home last night!”
Draya stilled her trembling heart and slowly turned to face him. She had gone two days and nights with almost no sleep and nothing to eat, and she was taut as a bowstring. She didn’t feel fear. She didn’t feel anything. She could smell the cider.
“I am not coming home,” she told him. “Ever. I loathe the very sight of you.”
“I don’t take any great pleasure in looking at you, Wife, what with your small tits and bony ass,” Horg said crudely. He had drunk just enough to give himself courage. “But you’re my wife, and you’ll do as I say.”
“We will not speak of this now. Leave the sacred Hall. Your presence angers the gods.”
“Gods!” Horg gave a whoop and a great guffaw. “What gods?”
Draya gasped. “Are you mad? Keep your voice down!” She tried to sidle past him, heading for the door. “The Torgun are here. You should be with the warriors—”
Horg seized her arm in a bone-crushing grip and twisted it. She moaned and tried in vain to break free.
“I got to thinking about what the ogres told me,” Horg said, breathing cider fumes into her face. “About the gods being dead. Do you realize what this means, Kai Priestess? You have no power over me! No rutting Priestess does. I can get rid of the whole bloody lot of you!”
“You are wrong, Horg,” Draya said, her numb lips barely able to move. “The gods are not dead—”
“C’mon, Vindrash!” Horg bawled, still hanging on to Draya. “Strike me down! Prove to me you’re alive!”
Horg laughed again, his foul-smelling breath hot on her face, nearly gagging her. The blast of a ram’s horn sounding the alarm cut short his mirth.
“The Torgun.” Horg spoke with a disdainful curl of his lip. “Norgaard has come to whine that they’ve been mistreated.”
“They have just cause for complaint,” said Draya. She paused to try to keep her voice from trembling, then said defiantly, “And so I will tell the people.”
Horg grunted. “You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”
He gave her arm another twist; this one nearly wrenched her elbow from the socket. Pain flared, white-hot. Draya cried out and sagged in his grip. She was afraid she would pass out. Horg drove her to her knees and squatted over her.
“You will back me up, Draya. If you don’t, there will be war, and it will be your fault. The blood of your people will be on your hands!”
“I have a duty to the people! I am still Kai Priestess!” Draya cried.
Horg smiled an unpleasant smile. “Not for long.” He walked off, slamming the door behind him.
Draya remained crouched on the floor, cradling her injured arm. She had underestimated Horg, underestimated his cunning and tenacity. Horg had the power to destroy the Kai. If he did, he would bring about the fall of the Vindrasi nation.
Draya raised her eyes to the statue of the goddess.
“You must stop him, Vindrash!” Draya breathed.
The eyes of the goddess might have flickered—Draya wasn’t sure.
She picked up her ceremonial robes and gingerly wrapped them around her shoulders, favoring her injured arm, then left the Great Hall, heading for the beach. Horg was in front of her, swaggering and lifting a waterskin filled with cider to his lips.
CHAPTER
3
By the time Draya arrived, the dragonship of the Torgun, with its shallow draft, was very close to shore. The helmsman was maneuvering to bring the Venjekar to within hailing distance. The prow, with its figurehead of the dragon, faced the beach. The dragon’s eyes flamed red. The Dragon Kahg had not manifested himself, yet he was present. In all the long history of the Vindrasi, the dragons had refused to take sides in a clan war. But then, up until now, the dragons had never had provocation.
The morning was still, cloudless. In the breathless air, the waves were little more than rivulets that rolled ashore and then departed with a soft sigh, leaving behind smatterings of foam bubbles. The Sun Goddess glared at them from across the sea. The warriors on the ship and on the beach sweat beneath their heavy armor.
Norgaard stood at the ship’s prow. Beside him was his Bone Priestess, Treia. Draya immediately recognized the young woman’s tall, spare form. Draya had tried very hard to love Treia, but when her affection was met by nothing except sullen, smoldering resentment, she had given up.
Draya had sent Treia back to the Torgun with misgivings. She’d had doubts about how well the bitter young woman would serve her people. Treia was Torgun, however, and it was her right to return to her people upon the death of the old Bone Priestess.
Now Treia stood in a place of honor, proudly wearing the spiritbone around her neck. Draya was glad for Treia’s sake that the Dragon Kahg had answered her summons. Perhaps this would give the young woman needed confidence, strengthen her belief in herself and in the gods.
No one had started talking yet. The ship was not quite close enough. Men on both sides needed to be able to hear each other clearly, so that there could be no claim of misunderstanding. Horg stood at his ease on the beach. He appeared relaxed, confident, and was even joking with some of his cronies. As Kai Priestess, Draya’s place was at Horg’s side, as Treia stood beside her own Chief.
Draya took up a position on top of a sand dune, deliberately choosing the highest point on the beach. The people had their backs to her. They were watching the dragonship and did not notice her. None of the Heudjun knew she was there. Only the gods saw her.
Her gaze went to the Venjekar. A young man had come to join Norgaard and Treia at the prow. He rested his hand on Norgaard’s shoulder and said something to him, and Draya recognized Skylan, Norgaard’s son. She had not seen the young man in years, but she had heard many tales about him, and she regarded him with interest.
The young man was the clan’s War Chief, now that his father’s injury had left the elder man incapacitated. She had heard stories of Skylan’s prowess and courage in battle. She had also heard—from Horg—that Skylan was wild, reckless, and headstrong. She wondered where the truth lay. Probably somewhere in the middle.
The dragonship was in position now. The Torgun lowered the heavy stone weight that would anchor it. Horg began the conversation. Draya shifted her gaze back to him.
Horg took the role of the injured party, demanding to know why the Torgun had come in a belligerent and warlike state to Heudjun shores. The Heudjun had no quarrel with their clansmen, but if the Torgun wanted a fight, they could see for themselves that the Heudjun would be happy to accommodate them.
Leaning on his crutch, gripping the rail to steady himself against the rocking motion of the ship, Norgaard responded. The Torg
un had been attacked by a large army of ogres, he said. The Torgun had kindled the beacon fire, asking their kinsmen for help to fight the foe. As Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi, Horg had sworn a sacred oath to take all the clans to war should any one clan be threatened. Horg had sworn vows of brotherhood to the Torgun. Why had he broken these vows?
Draya had known Norgaard for many years. She liked and admired him. She always made it a point to converse privately with him when he came to the annual Clanmeld. Mostly the two of them discussed the Torgun people and their problems, but sometimes they spoke of personal matters.
Draya knew Norgaard to be everything Horg was not. The gods had permitted Norgaard to survive his terrible wound, but they had, for reasons of their own, left him crippled and in pain. Draya saw the suffering in his eyes, yet he never spoke of it, never complained. He was considered a good Chief, fair in his judgments. He was said to be a good husband, a good father. He was intelligent, wise. And he was playing Horg for the fool he was, lulling his enemy into complacency, luring him into a trap.
Horg thundered back. “I did not come to your aid because the gods forbade it!” He pointed at Skylan. “Your son brought the ogres down on you! Your son led them to your shores! It was up to your son to fight them. My warriors remained here to defend our homes and families should the ogres attack us.”
Norgaard was silent. The Torgun in the Venjekar were silent. The Heudjun people gathered on shore were silent. The only sound was that of the waves washing up against the hull of the dragonship.
And then Norgaard spoke. “You lie, Horg Thekkson. You knew the ogres would not attack the Heudjun.”
Skylan reached down at his father’s feet. He picked up something and held it in the air. At first, Draya could not make out what it was, and then she gasped. Skylan held in his hands the head of an ogre. He held it long enough for everyone to see, and then he flung the head at Horg. The grisly object plopped into the sand at Horg’s feet.
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