Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [63]
The ogre warriors paid no attention. They kept coming straight at the Torgun, stumbling clumsily over their own feet or tripping over the bodies of their own dead.
The ogres had been shouting insults, but they were now forced to save their breath for running. Their chubby faces were red from the exertion and hardened in resolve. They resembled little children playing at war, except they were armed with axes and swords, not sticks.
The ogres lifted their shields. Using them like battering rams, the ogres slammed into the front ranks of the Torgun warriors with such force that men in the front ranks were lifted off their feet and bowled over backwards by the shock of the impact.
The Torgun shield-wall disintegrated.
Blood spattered. Men grunted and screamed and shouted and swore. Skylan heard the crunch of breaking bone, and he smelled the stench of war—blood, urine, and excrement—as men lost control of their bladders and bowels in the desperate struggle.
Bjorn, who had been standing in front of Skylan, suddenly wasn’t. Erdmun had been pushed back into the second line by an ogre warrior, who began slashing wildly at him with an axe. Erdmun floundered, holding up his shield to absorb the blows, unable to return the attack, which seemed to come at him from every direction at once. Sigurd grabbed hold of Erdmun and dragged him out of the way, then jammed his sword through the ogre’s gaping mouth.
The ogre’s head seemed to explode, spattering Skylan with blood and brains. He fell, but another ogre thundered up to take his place, heedlessly trampling the body of his comrade. This ogre rushed at Sigurd, who had no more spears. The two collided and stumbled back, fighting hand-to-hand. Skylan lost track of them. He had his own trouble—an ogre charging straight at him.
The ogre’s face twisted in a snarl. He didn’t look ferocious, more like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Skylan would have laughed, but the ogre’s eyes were grim and intent on his death.
The ogre lifted his enormous shield, planning to bash it into Skylan, knock him down, and then hack him to pieces with his battle axe. Skylan waited until the ogre was directly in front of him; then he ducked, hunching his body, keeping his head down. Unable to stop his forward momentum, the ogre tumbled over Skylan, who leaped to his feet and, grabbing the ogre’s legs, heaved upward, upending him. The ogre landed on the ground. Three spears pierced him seconds before Erdmun chopped off his head.
The battle swirled past Skylan, leaving him, for a moment, in the clear, and he looked about to take stock of the situation. It was grim. The shield-wall was no more. The Torgun were being pushed back. Garn stood protectively beside the two women. Aylaen was arguing with Treia, urging her to abandon her prayers and flee. Treia stubbornly resisted. She remained on her knees, the spiritbone in her hand. There was no sign of the dragon.
Norgaard stood with his bodyguards, his sword in one hand, his crutch in the other. His bodyguards had gathered around him, ready to defend him. They would be the last to die.
A bitter taste filled Skylan’s mouth. The taste of failure, defeat. Some men see their lives flash before their eyes in the moments before death. Skylan saw the future. The Torgun would be no more. They would be wiped out as a clan. And all because of Horg, the Chief of Chiefs. To save his own skin, he had sacrificed the Torgun, given them to their enemies.
Despair and fury clouded Skylan’s vision. He seemed to be seeing everything through a haze of blood.
He climbed up on top of the body of a dead ogre to search for the godlord with the torque, but couldn’t find him. An ogre struck at Skylan with an axe. Annoyed—the whoreson was blocking his view—Skylan cleaved open the brute’s skull. He swung his sword again, took down another ogre—at least Skylan supposed it was an ogre. His eyes burned.