Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [58]
Skylan laughed and made a crude comment about the gourd and what it resembled. The warriors chuckled at Skylan’s lewd jest, all except Erdmun.
“There are a lot of them,” he observed gloomily. “They outnumber us four to one.”
“Not so,” said Skylan. “We outnumber them. One Torgun warrior is worth five ogres. The fight seems so one-sided, I am considering reducing our army by half.”
Erdmun looked alarmed and opened his mouth to protest.
“He’s joking,” his brother told him, and added, “We could attack them now, Skylan, while they’re disorganized.”
Skylan had been considering that idea, then rejected it. One Torgun might equal five ogres, but his scouting party was too small to do much damage. They would waste their strength and their spears with little to show for it. Better to meet the enemy on the battlefield, standing shoulder to shoulder in the shield-wall.
“Norgaard said the shaman doesn’t fight, but what if he comes onto the battlefield?” Erdmun asked. “He could cast his holy magic on us, strike us blind or wither our arms—”
Skylan laughed and nudged Bjorn with his elbow. “Your brother has been spending too much time with Owl Mother. He’s starting to believe her wild tales! Best be careful, Erdmun. The black stork might shake his ‘gourd’ at you!”
Skylan grabbed his crotch to make his meaning clear. The men sniggered, and Erdmun flushed, chagrined and angry.
Skylan led the way to the strip of ground he had chosen for the battle. Like him, the other young men were in high spirits, looking forward to the fight. Death was a possibility, of course, and none of them wanted to leave this world, but every man must die sometime, and each wanted to stand proudly before Torval and join the other warriors in the Heroes’ Hall.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Bjorn scolded his brother. “You shame us both!”
“Skylan isn’t a goddamn god,” Erdmun muttered, but he said it below his breath.
CHAPTER
13
The warriors gathered on the battlefield—a ridge of grassland not far from the village. Below the ridge, the ground rolled down into a slight depression, curved upward to form a smaller ridge before tumbling in a rocky torrent down to the sea. Skylan chose this ground because it was deceptive. An enemy standing on the opposite ridgeline could not readily see the slight depression. Their godlords would think they could send their warriors racing across a level field. Only when the ogres had run into the depression would they realize they had to fight while charging uphill.
The Torgun greeted Skylan with cheers. Skylan acknowledged them with a grin and raised his sword in salute; then he went to greet his father. Though Norgaard had to rely on a crutch to walk, he insisted on being present at the battle.
“Better to die standing with an axe in my hand than having my throat slit while hiding in a cave.”
Norgaard embraced his son, and Skylan was touched to see tears of pride in his father’s eyes. The Torgun cheered the two of them and then lifted their voices in a rhythmic war chant. Their blood was up, their spirits roused.
The Torgun were angry at the ogres, but they were furious at Horg and the Heudjun. The Torgun meant to fight the battle Horg had basely fled, and they meant to win it. Until the day he died, each man would remember the shame he felt witnessing the ogre godlord standing in their Chief’s Hall, smirking at them, his filthy fingers toying with the sacred Vektan Torque.
Under Skylan’s direction, the Torgun warriors formed the shield-wall.
Somewhere in this world of Ilyrion, generals spent hours studying maps, devising devious strategies. Somewhere in the world, but not in the land of the Vindrasi.
Battle was a simple affair.