Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [43]
The tale ran through Draya’s mind, and she was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task.
“Vindrash,” Draya cried helplessly, “I do not know where to find the spiritbones of the Five.”
“You know where one of them is,” said Vindrash, and her voice was cold and pitiless as the dead of winter. “Your husband gave it to the ogres.”
CHAPTER
9
Garn saw Aylaen and her sister safely enter Treia’s dwelling, and then he hastened back to the feast. Treia’s dire statement that Norgaard “already knew” worried Garn. Priestesses were always deliberately vague when it came to such pronouncements. That way, no matter what happened, they were never wrong.
Garn believed in the Gods of the Vindrasi, but he did not believe that the gods were constantly peering over a man’s shoulder. Garn believed that as a child plays with a top, so the gods had set the world spinning and now watched it wobble around creation.
Skylan, on the other hand, believed that Torval was always listening to him, always watching him, always prepared either to reward Skylan or slap him up the side of the head. Their differing viewpoints led to some heated arguments, for Garn liked to speculate about such things. Skylan did not, and once he realized which direction the conversation was tending, he would always end it.
Garn looked toward the cliffs and saw, to his concern, that the beacon fire was being allowed to die. True, the fire had done its work, sent its message. Horg and his warriors would be making preparations for battle, perhaps even setting sail. The beacon fire should continue to burn—in defiance, if for no other reason. But all that was left was a sullen red glow atop the peak.
When Garn reached the Chief’s Hall, his uneasiness became alarm. Torches blazed inside and out. The ogre guards were gone, which meant the godlords had returned to their ships. Garn should have heard laughter and raucous voices raised in stirring songs of battle, accompanied by feet rhythmically stamping the floor, hands slapping the table. He should have heard boasting about the great deeds the warriors would perform tomorrow. He should have heard Skylan, the War Chief, leading his men in a war chant.
Instead, there was quiet—and no Vindrasi feast was ever quiet. Even funerals were riotous affairs.
Garn broke into a run. The thought came to his mind that the ogres had poisoned everyone. Half-expecting to find his friends slumped over dead, Garn burst into the hall. He came to a halt, staring.
The warriors, alive and well, sat in silent gloom around the table. Drinking horns lay empty. Plates filled with food had been thrust aside. The face of every man was shadowed and grim. No man looked at another. Each stared into some private hell.
Norgaard’s head was lowered, his arms resting heavily on the table. His face was gray and drawn. He had aged years in the time Garn had been gone.
Skylan sat hunched on the bench. He had fresh hurts—his jaw was swollen, and blood trailed from a split lip. He was staring at the table in silence; then suddenly he slammed his fist down and jumped to his feet.
“We cannot sit here like dead men,” he said. “Dead men who have died dishonored! We have to act.”
No one responded. A few grunted and some glanced at him and then looked away. Most didn’t even do that.
“What has happened?” Garn demanded. “What is wrong?”
Skylan rounded on him. “Where have you been?” he asked accusingly. “I needed you!”
“The Chief sent me to fetch Treia—”
“Is she coming?” Norgaard lifted his head and looked at Garn, hope flickering in his eyes.
“No, Chief,” Garn said. “She is not.”
He tried to think of some reason that was not the truth, yet not an outright lie. He hesitated too long, however, and Norgaard saw through him.
The Chief shook his head and slumped back into his misery.
“Skylan . . . someone tell me!” Garn insisted.
“The sacred Vektan Torque!” Skylan said, choking on his rage. “One of their goat-screwing, shit-eating godlords was wearing