Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [35]
Skylan watched food that would have fed the Torgun for weeks filling ogre bellies, and he burned with anger. He contained himself, however, thinking of the dawn and imagining slitting those bellies wide open.
Once each godlord had a full plate, he gestured to a bodyguard, who reached over to the godlord’s plate, tore off a piece of meat, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The bodyguard did the same with the bread, eating a portion of it, and using it to sop up gravy from the stew.
Skylan paused in his own meal to stare at this practice in astonishment. “Why do your men eat your food?” he asked one of the godlords.
The ogre blinked at him, not understanding the question. Then, comprehension dawned. The godlord grinned and nodded and jerked his thumb back at his bodyguard.
“If the food is poisoned, he dies, not me,” said the godlord.
Skylan leaped to his feet, drawing his sword from the sheath. The ogres reacted immediately. Their blades flashed in the torchlight. The Torgun warriors, already tense and excited, jumped to their feet and started to shove back the benches.
“Hold!” Norgaard roared.
Everyone stood still, weapons poised. Norgaard looked to his son for an explanation.
“These bastards think we’re trying to poison them!” Skylan cried, pointing at the ogres.
The Torgun growled in anger. A warrior fought his foe face-to-face, looked him in the eye. Poison was the weapon of weaklings, cowards. The Torgun had been insulted.
Norgaard heaved a sigh and shook his head. “It is their custom, Skylan. It has nothing to do with us.”
Seeing that Skylan remained unconvinced, Norgaard added, “Assassination is one way of advancing in rank.”
“That is true,” the godlord affirmed. “It is not you Torgun I fear.” Grinning widely, he pointed to his fellow godlord. “It is him.”
The ogres appeared to find his words hilarious. Both godlords and their guards burst out laughing, hooting and banging the table with their large hands, causing the wooden plates to jump and the horn mugs to rattle. The shaman did not join in. He glowered at the two godlords in displeasure.
As for the Torgun, they had never heard of anything so barbaric, and they regarded the ogres in silent wonder. Vindrasi Chiefs were chosen by the gods, not by murder. Shaking their heads and muttering in low tones of amazement, the Torgun warriors sheathed their weapons and resumed their seats.
Once the godlords knew their food was safe, they began to eat, stuffing their mouths with huge chunks of meat. They chewed and talked at the same time, spitting bits of food.
“It is a wicked custom,” said the shaman. “Left over from the Dark Times.”
“Our leader got his position that way,” stated one of the godlords defensively. Gravy dribbled down his chin.
The shaman fixed the godlord with a withering glare. “Times are changing. Our new gods, the Gods of Raj, demand we put a stop to it. You see that no one tastes my food!”
From the baleful looks the godlords gave their shaman, Skylan thought the shaman might want to reconsider that practice. The godlords said nothing, but both continued to hand their bodyguards bits of food before they ate it, and they made them drink ale from the horn mugs, as well.
Knowing the duties of a host, Norgaard asked the shaman polite questions about the ogre gods, the Gods of Raj. The shaman was eager to answer. Skylan should have been conversing with their guests, as well, but he was hungry, and he left entertaining the ogres to his father. He was still a little weak from the loss of blood, and he would need his strength in the morning.
He would also need a clear head, as would his warriors. Skylan was careful to drink no more than two mugs of ale, and he frowned at the men who were laughing or talking too loudly or were seen filling their drinking horns too often. Catching his warning look, they put down the horns. The Torgun would go to their beds this night relatively