Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [72]
Draya could picture the slaughter quite clearly. Once the ogres overran the small band of Torgun, they would head for the village. She would soon see the smoke rising from burning homes and crops. They would butcher the little children, who would fight with wooden swords. . . .
Draya felt suddenly sick. She pressed her hand against her mouth, doubled over, and retched.
“My dear, what are you doing here? You should be at home in bed!” Fria came out of nowhere and slipped her arm around Draya’s waist. “You’re not well.”
Fria was a large woman, big-boned and strong-willed. She was thirty-two years old and had brought fourteen healthy children into the world, all of them large and big-boned like her and her husband. Six of her sons stood with their father, Sven Teinar, himself a skilled and valiant warrior.
“I can’t go home,” Draya mumbled, her lips too numb to form words.
Fria’s own lips clamped together. Fria knew Horg beat his wife, but she never said a word to Draya about it. Such a conversation would have been embarrassing for both, and it would have served no purpose. Chief’s Law, the law governing all the clans, would not permit a Chief of Chiefs and a Kai Priestess to be divorced. These two people, leaders of their nation, were supposed to be above human frailties and weaknesses. All Fria had to offer her friend was fierce, angry sympathy.
“You must come to my dwelling, then,” said Fria. “I will fix you something hot to eat.”
Draya smiled faintly. Food was Fria’s answer to all life’s problems. Draya was not hungry, but she was too tired to resist. She allowed Fria to lead her away from Torval’s Rock, where the warriors stood listening.
“Has Horg . . . Has anyone seen him this morning?” Draya asked the question reluctantly, almost choking on his name. She could not even talk of him without tasting bile in her mouth.
Fria glanced at her. “There was trouble this morning. You didn’t hear about it?”
Draya shook her head. “I was at prayer. What happened?”
“Some of the warriors planned to defy Horg and sail off to fight with the Torgun, my husband and sons among them. They were boarding the ships before dawn when Horg’s toadies saw and ran bleating to Horg. He came roaring down to the sea and ordered the men to return home. The ogres might attack us next, he said, and the warriors would be needed to help him defend the town.”
“And so the warriors did not sail,” said Draya.
Fria gave a deep sigh. “How could they, my dear? Horg spoke the truth. My man knew it, they all knew it, much as they hated to hear it. How could they sail off and leave us defenseless? And so, in the end, they came back.”
The two women had reached Fria’s house. Draya paused on the threshold, turned to face her friend. “What will Sven and the others do, Fria?”
“You mean about Horg?” Fria cast a sharp glance up and down the street. “Come inside, my dear. We’re being watched.”
Draya was not surprised. She saw one of Horg’s cronies lounging in a doorway across the street, his thumbs tucked into his belt. He did not even bother to dissemble, to pretend he had business there. He stared meaningfully at Draya.
Casting the man an irate glance, Fria led Draya into the dwelling and slammed the door.
Once inside, she fussed over Draya, giving her a stool near the fire, offering her hot stew, bread, ale, dried apples—anything she wanted.
Draya shook her head. Her stomach roiled. Anything she ate would only come back up. She did finally accept ale and sipped a small amount. Fria drew up a stool and, seated close to her, spoke in a soft undertone.
“There will be angry talk among the people about Horg. Curses and threats. But in the end, it will come to nothing. Horg is strong and he has friends,