Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [100]
The Kai Priestess felt for a pulse in Horg’s neck, then rose to her feet.
“Torval has judged!” she cried out. “Skylan, son of Norgaard Ivorson, is the victor!”
There were a few murmurs, no cheers. No one mourned Horg’s passing. The Heudjun knew Torval had judged fairly, but they did not rejoice in Horg’s fall. His defeat was their defeat. Once Horg was buried, they could lift their heads, regain their pride. But this moment was bitter for them.
Draya understood their feelings. She grasped the muddy, bloodstained cloth and ripped it loose from its moorings. She covered the body with the cloth, wrapping it around Horg, hiding him from the sight of men and gods. Her face, as she did this, was cold, pale, expressionless. When she finished, her hands and her clothes were covered in blood and dirt. She walked over to the island’s edge and washed her hands in the seawater. She even washed out the drinking horn, for Horg had been the last to drink from it. She filled the drinking horn with wine.
“Now is the time for celebration!” she called. She raised the drinking horn. “To Skylan Ivorson!”
A sigh rippled through the crowd. No one moved. And then one man, Sven Teinar, began to clap his hands. Soon, the rest of the crowd joined in. The clapping began halfheartedly, but then men began to stamp their feet on the ground. Women chanted his name.
“Rise, my son,” said Norgaard proudly. “They honor you. You must acknowledge them.”
Skylan rose unsteadily to his feet. He gazed up at the people assembled on the cliffs above him. Their applause reverberated through the earth, rising up from the ground, pulsing through his body, and seemed to carry him to heaven. He was giddy, dazed with happiness.
And there was Aylaen, clapping madly, looking down on him, her face radiant with pride.
Skylan raised his sword, and the crowd cheered wildly.
Hearing his name, he turned to find the Kai Priestess standing in front of him. She held out to him the drinking horn.
“Whoever drinks from this is the Chief of Chiefs,” she said demurely. Her eyes met Skylan’s.
He knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to take the drinking horn and hand it respectfully to his father, who was waiting to receive it. Norgaard had thrown down his crutch. He stood tall and proud, this moment the crowning achievement of his life. The crowd went from chanting Skylan’s name to chanting Norgaard’s.
Skylan looked at his father, and he saw the old man who had slipped on the gangplank and gone sprawling on the ground.
I won the fight, Skylan said to himself. I defeated Horg.
He looked back at Aylaen.
If I were Chief of Chiefs, I would be a wealthy man. I could pay her bride-price three times over. Or perhaps I would not pay a bride-price at all! Perhaps I would tell Sigurd I intended to marry his daughter. He could not stop me, the Chief of Chiefs.
Skylan’s gaze swept the crowd. He saw the young warriors, hundreds of them, a mighty army going to waste. He would lead them on raids, fill his ships with gold and silver and precious gems to take to the dragons. He would sail to the ogres’ lands and take back the Vektan Torque and slaughter every ogre he could find. He would restore the Vindrasi to their former glory. Once again men would fear them, honor them, respect them.
Men would fear him, honor him, respect him.
Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs.
Skylan lifted the drinking horn, put it to his lips, and drank.
CHAPTER
9
The chanting ceased. People watched in shock to see Skylan drink the wine, proclaiming himself Chief of Chiefs. No one could remember a time when a champion, fighting in the name of another, had taken it upon himself to claim the prize.
Skylan turned to his father. He found it hard to face him, and he avoided meeting his eyes. “I am sorry, Father. I think I will make a better Chief. You are old. I will take this burden from you.”
Norgaard’s lips were tightly clamped, his face dark. “What have you done, my son?” Norgaard said at last, more in sorrow than in anger. “What have you done?”
He picked up his