Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [20]
The godlords said they would attend, and added that they would be bringing their bodyguards and their shaman with them. Garn calculated that this came to about fifteen hungry ogres. Norgaard sighed deeply. The Torgun did not have much food to spare, and what they did have was going into the bellies of their enemies. His one consolation was that on the morrow the ogres would be feasting in their afterlife.
Garn’s next task, given to him by Norgaard, was to convince Skylan, who disliked being “prayed over,” to have his wound healed. Skylan protested, but not so loudly as usual, and at last, he agreed to go seek out the Bone Priestess.
The truth was that the pain and loss of blood had caught up with Skylan during the last portion of the Council meeting. He’d come very close to passing out. Only a fierce determination not to show weakness before the other warriors kept him from succumbing to his injuries. The fear that he might be too weak to fight in tomorrow’s battle drove him to seek what he generally tried to avoid—help.
Garn was going to accompany him to the Hall of Vindrash, but Skylan told him to go with the rest of the men into the forested hills to cut trees for the fire. “I will go, I promise,” said Skylan, and he grasped the silver axe he wore around his neck. “I swear by Torval.”
Reassured, knowing this was one vow Skylan would never break, Garn headed into the forest.
“There is just one problem. I have to find some explanation that will satisfy the ogres about why we have to build two fires,” Garn said as he was leaving. “We cannot very well roast meat over a raging beacon fire.”
Skylan laughed. “Tell the ogres one fire is for roasting the boar’s head and the other the rump. They’re ogres. They’ll believe anything.”
Wishing his friend well, Garn continued up the path that led into the hills. Skylan veered off toward the Hall of Vindrash, walking the empty streets, passing empty houses.
The silence was oppressive. Generally, this time of day, as the Sun Goddess, Aylis, started her downward descent into the sea, women would be making final preparations for supper. The air would be redolent with the smells of baking bread and bubbling stewpots. Children would be laughing and playing outside. The men would be coming home from tending the herds or toiling in the fields or forging iron or whatever each did to earn his place in the clan. They would gather in small groups, discussing the day’s news and awaiting the summons to supper.
“It’s as if everyone died,” Skylan muttered.
Too late, he realized what he’d said. One did not speak of death on the eve of battle. He quickly touched the silver axe, asking Torval to avert the evil omen.
Each clan had its own Hall of Vindrash—generally small, not nearly so large or grand as the Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm. A simple structure, the Hall built by the Torgun was constructed along the lines of the Chief’s Hall, only much smaller. Near the Hall was another longhouse, the residence of the Bone Priestess.
The Hall and the longhouse were located some distance from the village, in a small clearing in the midst of the forest. Both were kept in excellent repair by the men of the village. Treia had a small garden, where she grew herbs used in healing. Otherwise, the people of the village supported the Bone Priestess with gifts of food and hides, cooking pots and furs, and whatever else she might require.
Skylan found Aylaen pacing outside the closed door of the Hall of Vindrash. She smiled at him. He smiled to see her. He’d hoped to find her here, another reason he’d decided to ask for Treia’s help. Her gaze softened when she looked at the bloody gash in his thigh.
“You are white as milk,” Aylaen said. She eyed his blood-soaked clothing worriedly.
“Most of that blood is the boar’s,” Skylan said proudly.
Her concern was a pleasant surprise. Usually whenever Aylaen encountered him, she found some reason to mock or laugh at him.