Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [14]
“Because there are one hundred and seventy ogre warriors in those ships,” said Norgaard, glowering.
The Torgun could muster perhaps seventy-five warriors—ninety, counting old men and boys. Skylan was not daunted, however. The fight with the boar had given him a taste for blood. Battle lust burned in him. He felt he could fight all 170 ogres himself.
“All men know that Torgun warriors are worth two of any ogre in battle,” Skylan said.
“I don’t know it,” said Norgaard sharply. “And I have fought ogres. Have you, boy?”
“No, Father,” Skylan said. Stung by the use of the term boy, he added sullenly, “Apparently I am not to have the chance.”
“You may well get the chance,” Norgaard said. “I do not know why the ogres have come, but I smell danger. These two ogres are commanders; the ogres term them godlords. The third is a shaman, and the fact that a shaman is present on a warship means this has something to do with their gods and is extremely important to them. They were about to tell me when you entered and insulted them. I remind you, Skylan, that the ogres are here under a flag of truce to parley. I invited them into the Chief’s Hall, and as such, they are my guests. The parley is sacred; the guest is sacred. Torval watches.”
Norgaard leaned nearer. “One thing more—did you see the ships when you came into the village?”
“Yes, Father,” said Skylan.
“Did you happen to notice that they have our dragonship surrounded?”
Skylan stared at his father, stunned. He had seen that, of course. He had not thought of the implications. He began to consider that perhaps he had been in the wrong. Maybe he had earned his father’s rebuke—at least some portion of it.
“I am sorry, Father,” he said, subdued. “I was not thinking.”
“You never think, boy,” Norgaard said with a sigh. “You rush in, sword swinging. . . .”
“That is the way of the warrior,” Skylan said proudly.
“But it is not the way of a Chief,” said Norgaard. He gestured toward the ogres. “Apologize to our guests.”
Skylan did as he was told. After all, Torval was watching. His apology was short and gruff and grudging, but the ogres accepted it. Now that the wise old dog had put down the boisterous young pup, they were ready to carry on with business.
“You were about to tell me why the ogres honor the Torgun with a visit,” Norgaard said.
The two godlords looked with deference at their shaman and invited him to speak.
The ogre shaman rose to his feet. An imposing and outlandish figure, he was tall and thin, lacking the musculature of a warrior, and his headdress of long black glossy feathers made him appear even taller. In addition to the feathered cape, he wore a necklace of curved bones tipped in silver. His hairy arms were thick with silver bracelets. The black paint around his eyes emphasized his gaze, gave it strange intensity.
“We have come to tell the Vindrasi about a great battle that recently took place in heaven between your gods and ours,” said the shaman. His eyes glinted. He didn’t look so childlike anymore. “Our gods won this battle. Your gods lost. Your gods are dead.”
The shaman calmly resumed his seat. Feathers rustling, he looked very much like a large and gangling stork settling into its nest.
CHAPTER
3
There followed a silence so complete that everyone in the longhouse could hear the rustling of the shaman’s feathers. Seeing that none of the Torgun had anything to say, the godlord wearing the tiger-skin cape rose to speak.
“Since the Vindrasi now have no gods, we are here to offer you our protection. In return, you will renounce your gods, who are dead anyway, and you will worship ours. In order to honor our gods, you will give us forty-three head of cattle, thirteen bars of silver, and seven men—among them your son—as hostage to your good faith. And you will also give us your dragonship.”
Skylan was the first to find his tongue.
“You lie!” he cried savagely.
Drawing his sword, he tried to dash at the ogres, but his wounded leg gave out on him. He staggered and almost