Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [40]
“What is, is what is. I cannot change it, and neither can you.” Treia huddled more deeply into her robes. “I will not attend the feast. I will go home. Aylaen will come with me.”
Garn hesitated. Norgaard had wanted her there, but if she went in her present mood, there was no telling what harm she might do.
“A wise decision, Priestess,” Garn said at last. “What do you want me to tell Norgaard?”
Treia stared at him, and then she laughed—strange, harsh laughter that was the most terrible sound Aylaen had ever heard.
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Treia said, the laughter bubbling in her throat. “There will be no need to tell Norgaard anything. By now, he already knows!”
CHAPTER
8
The wind rose in the night, causing the ogre ships to rock as they lay at anchor in the bay and sending whitecapped waves rolling in between the high cliffs of the fjord. The wind tore at the beacon fire, catching up sparks and flinging them into the air. The logs that fed the bonfire collapsed, fell in on one another, sending up a shower of ashes. No one bothered to add more fuel. The warriors who had tended the fire stared grimly at the dying flames and saw in them their own future. Word had come from Norgaard, carried by swift messenger.
“Help is not coming.”
Across the fjord, the young warriors of the Heudjun watched in silence as the beacon fire dwindled. They did not speak, or look at each other. They were ashamed.
The beacon fire finally went out. The Heudjun warriors returned to their homes. Some of them had decided amongst themselves to prepare for battle. Despite Horg’s assurances that the ogres would not attack, the Heudjun did not trust either him or them. Many hoped the ogres would attack Vindraholm.
Battle would ease the Heudjun’s shame.
Horg had worked himself into a rage by the time he reached the Great Hall. He was Chief of Chiefs, after all. His fists clenched. He muttered imprecations and swore beneath his breath. He had a right to do as he had done. The plague take anyone who thought otherwise, and that included the gods.
Draya had never seen him in such an ugly, belligerent mood, and she began to think fearfully that she should have confronted him in the open when there had been people about. Not even Horg was drunk enough to publicly raise his hand against a Kai Priestess.
But she had to find out the truth about the Vektan Torque, and the only way to do that was to bring Horg before the gods, even if it meant placing her life at risk. Horg might lie to the people. He might lie to her. He could not lie to Vindrash.
Draya opened the door to the Hall and went inside, carrying a torch with her. The light shone on the statue of the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, and caused her to leap out of the darkness. The dragon’s eyes glowed in righteous anger, her fangs gleamed, her claws were extended, ready to rend his flesh. Horg staggered back a step or two in drunken terror. He stood on the threshold, refusing to enter, staring at the statue with blenched face and quivering gut.
Draya’s fears vanished—at least her fear for herself. She was in no danger from this sweating, sodden coward.
“Come inside,” she ordered.
Horg hesitated; then he lurched across the threshold.
“Well, woman, I’m here. What do you want?”
Draya could not reply. She felt smothered, unable to fully catch her breath. Fear clogged her throat.
Not fear of Horg. Fear of what Horg had done.
Vindrash, give me courage, Draya prayed, and her voice came back to her.
“Where is the Vektan Torque?”
Horg gave a blustering laugh. “Is that what all this fuss is about? I thought you suspected me of murder at the very least!”
“The torque,” said Draya. “Where is it?”
Horg shrugged. “I put it away for safekeeping. I never wear the torque in battle.” He yawned massively and scratched himself. “I’m going to bed.”
“You said there would be no battle.” Draya spoke to his sweat-stained back. “You said the ogres