Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [36]
The ogres had no such worries. All of them, including the shaman, drank vast quantities of ale, nearly emptying the cask. The ale seemed to have little effect on them, however, except to make the shaman more and more effusive in his praise of their gods.
Skylan paid scant attention. In his mind, he was on the other side of the fjord in Vindraholm. He could picture the excitement and alarm. Everyone would be rushing about, making preparations to go to war. Warriors would be examining their shields to make certain there were no weak spots and sharpening swords and spears and axes. Those fortunate enough to have chain mail would be going over the shirts by the firelight, making certain no links were missing. Those who did not have mail would be donning leather shirts made of deerhide, which were almost as tough as chain.
Skylan had work to do himself. He had inherited his father’s chain mail, and though hardly a day went by that Skylan did not examine it to make certain every link was sound, he planned to go over it again tonight. He would sharpen, clean, and oil his sword, though it did not really need it, for the sword, named Dragon’s Tooth, was Skylan’s pride.
He pictured the battle tomorrow and the glory he would win for himself. He imagined fighting alongside Horg, the Chief of Chiefs. He imagined saving Horg’s life and Horg offering him rich reward in gratitude. Cattle, perhaps, or silver or even gold. Skylan would at last have enough to pay the bride-price, and that turned his thoughts from battle to love. He wondered what Aylaen had been about to tell him this afternoon before they were interrupted by Owl Mother. It seemed to have been important. He would have to remember to ask her. Perhaps he would see her tonight, if she and Treia came to the feast. . . .
Bjorn kicked Skylan in the shins hard enough to make him wince and rouse him from his reverie. Something had happened. Something was wrong. A deathlike silence shrouded the hall. Every man, including Norgaard, had turned to face the entrance.
Alarmed, Skylan gripped his sword and turned, as well.
The ogre commander stood in the doorway. He was an arresting sight, for he wore a shining breastplate that gleamed brightly in the firelight. But why, Skylan wondered, was everyone staring at him as though he’d fallen from the skies? Plate armor was worth a Chief’s ransom, but the Torgun had fought men in plate armor before.
Then Skylan saw that Norgaard’s appalled gaze was not staring at the armor, but at some point above the breastplate. Skylan looked more closely.
His eyes widened. His hand, gripping the sword’s hilt, went numb. He could not believe what he was seeing. He had only to look at his father for confirmation of the unthinkable truth.
Gold glinted. Sapphire glittered.
Around his fat neck, the ogre godlord wore the sacred Vektan Torque. He rested his hand on it and grinned.
“You can douse your beacon fire,” said the godlord. “No help is coming.”
In the silence that quivered tense and taut as a bowstring, the godlord walked over to the table, shoved aside the bench with his foot, sat down, and began to calmly fork meat onto his plate.
CHAPTER
7
Aylaen sat on the ground with her back against the Hall of Vindrash and watched the flames of the beacon fire flicker through the tree branches. Night had fallen, and her sister was still inside, still refusing to answer Aylaen’s periodic questions. Was Treia ill? Was she in need of water? Should Aylaen run to fetch Norgaard?
Not a word in response. The last Aylaen had seen or heard from Treia was when she opened the door to tell Skylan she could not heal him. Aylaen, putting her ear to the door, couldn’t hear her sister moving about inside.
Aylaen began to worry that some accident had befallen Treia. She tried to enter the Hall, even though she wasn’t supposed to disturb Treia when she was at her prayers, but Treia had used something to block the door. That in itself was strange. The Hall of Vindrash was supposed to be open to all, day or night. Aylaen had given the door a healthy shove,