Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [15]
“Torval would never flee!” Skylan raved, struggling in the arms of his captors.
“Torval pissed his pants and ran away,” the ogre godlord said calmly. “Along with your Dragon Goddess and all the rest of the cowards.”
Skylan surged at the ogres with such fury that he carried Garn and the two warriors along with him. His face flushed, his blue eyes blazed, spittle flew from his mouth. He roared as he went, looking and acting like a madman. The ogre godlords jumped to their feet and drew their swords.
Skylan charged straight at them, his feet driving into the dirt floor. Two warriors clung to his arms. Garn was still wrapped around his chest. Skylan made it halfway across the floor before the three men managed at last to wrestle him to the ground.
Even then, with his arms and legs pinned and one warrior sitting on him, Skylan continued to rail against the ogres. He cried out that they lied, until he lacked the breath to speak. Panting and gasping for air, he glared at the ogres and beat his clenched fists into the ground as though he were beating their heads.
He was not the only Torgun outraged by the ogre’s statement. After their initial shock, every man in the longhouse was on his feet, each clamoring to have his say and determined to say it louder than the rest. The Torgun howled and raged and gesticulated, stamping their feet and banging their weapons on their shields. The walls of the longhouse shook with the commotion.
The warriors outside had not heard the ogre’s pronouncement, but they could hear Skylan’s furious roar and the warriors inside yelling. Thinking a fight had broken out, they rushed the door in an attempt to enter. The ogre guards raised their shields and shoved the Torgun warriors, who swore at the ogres and shoved back.
“Silence!” Norgaard thundered. “Cease this madness, all of you!”
He had been a War Chief once. Accustomed to issuing orders on the field of battle, forced to make himself heard over the clash of steel and the roars of battle lust, and the screams of the wounded and dying, he could make his voice slice through the clamor. He glared particularly at his son. The warriors holding Skylan eyed him dubiously.
“I’m all right,” he said, shaking them off. “You can let go of me.”
Skylan hoped it was clear to everyone, especially the ogres and Aylaen, that he was backing down only because he’d been ordered to do so by his Chief. He rose to his feet, angrily refusing help, and saw that his wound had broken open. Blood was running down his leg.
The hall was once more subdued, though not quiet. It was filled with an ominous and threatening muttering, like the lull in the stormy battles between the Goddess Akaria and her sister Svanses, who sometimes fought over the rulership of wind and water, whipping up great waves that sank boats and flooded villages. The warriors inside the longhouse returned to their places along the wall. Those outside backed away from the door. No one sheathed his weapon.
Skylan and every person in the hall looked at Norgaard, waiting for him to refute this outrageous claim and even more outrageous demand. There would be war, of course. Their Chief had only to give the order.
Norgaard remained grimly silent.
The truth was, he didn’t know what to do. He had never been confronted with a situation like this. The ogres were not acting like the ogres he had fought. Those ogres would never have bothered to come to the humans with such a tale and demand a parley. The ogres he knew would have sailed into Luda, burned the village, slaughtered everyone, stolen everything, and sailed off.
Why the change? What was going on? These were dark and dangerous waters, and Norgaard had to wade into them carefully, feeling his way. He kept his mouth shut, scratching his bearded chin, and gazed thoughtfully at the shaman. As in the game of dragonbones, it was