Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [33]
Skylan was late. He had to return to his dwelling, strip off the bloody clothes, change into his best, and deck himself out proudly in the silver adornments and the family sword, which had been his mother’s wedding gift to his father.
His arrival caused a stir among the warriors, who were waiting for their Chief and their Bone Priestess. He showed off his healed leg by walking without a limp, and they greeted him with a cheer, pleased and reassured to see him healthy and whole.
“The goddess healed you,” said Garn. “That is a good sign.”
“Keep your voice down. That is not exactly what happened,” said Skylan.
Garn would have questioned Skylan further, but they were interrupted by the arrival of two of the ogre godlords and their shaman, all of them hungrily sniffing the air, which was redolent with the smell of roasting meat. Skylan started to greet them in his father’s absence. Garn stopped him and drew him aside.
“Neither of these two is the commander. The one who wore the tiger-skin. Ask them where he is,” Garn said.
“I don’t know how you can tell one of the bastards from the other,” Skylan muttered. “They all look alike to me. But I’ll find out.”
He walked over to greet the ogres, taking his time, allowing the torchlight to shine on his sword and on the numerous silver armbands that marked his valor.
“Welcome to our Chief’s Hall,” Sklyan said proudly. Glancing about, he said, “But there are only two of you. Where is your commander?”
The two godlords shrugged.
“He will be along,” said one.
“Or he won’t,” said the other.
The shaman stood behind them, blank-faced and dumb.
Skylan thought he’d never known such stupid creatures. He wondered how their race had managed to survive for so long.
“My father, the Chief, has not yet arrived,” said Skylan. “But you are welcome to enter our hall.”
The two godlords, smacking their lips, took him up on his invitation and shouldered their way past him. Their bodyguards accompanied them. The shaman in his feather cape did not immediately enter. He stood in front of the door, staring up at the blazing bonfire. Garn flashed his friend a look of concern.
“A large fire,” Skylan remarked to the ogre. “For a large boar. The boar was a gift from our gods,” he added pointedly. “Our gods who are still very much alive.”
The shaman’s round childlike eyes flickered with amusement. He took hold of the silver axe Skylan wore around his neck and laughed in his face.
Skylan grasped his sword’s hilt.
“Let go,” he ordered through clenched teeth, “or I’ll cut off your hand!”
The shaman chuckled and gave the axe a flip, causing it to strike Skylan on the chin.
“Don’t, Skylan!” Garn warned, grabbing hold of his friend’s arm. “He’s baiting you! Look around!”
The shaman’s bodyguards were standing behind Skylan, their weapons in their hands. Behind them, the Torgun warriors stood ready to come to his defense.
One hundred and seventy ogre warriors waited on board the ships.
Skylan slammed his sword back into the sheath.
The ogre shaman, still chuckling, entered the hall. The guards slung the axes into the harnesses they wore on their broad backs.
“We will wait for my father inside,” said Skylan, and he led the way into the Chief’s Hall.
The ogre godlords took their seats at the head of the table. The Torgun warriors, at a glance and a nod from Skylan, crowded into the hall and took their seats at the long table.
“Look at him. Smug bastard. I should have cut off his head,” Skylan said.
“Time enough for that tomorrow,” said Garn. He was watching the ogres, and his expression was dark, troubled.
Norgaard arrived, and Skylan, as leader of the warriors, went to embrace his father. Norgaard looked unhappy, haggard. He had heard that his young wife had gone into early labor. The baby was not due for a month, at least. Unless the women could stop the birthing process, he might lose yet another child.
“I am sorry to hear about Sonja, Father,