Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [77]
Norgaard clasped his hand around his son’s. Then he seized the sword’s hilt, drew it from the ground, and raised it high into the air. He handed the sword back to Skylan. The warriors lifted their voices in a cheer.
Aching from bruises, the blood still oozing from fresh-bandaged wounds, the men and women returned to their tasks, some tending to the dead, others to the wounded, and still others working to repair the harm done to their dragonship.
The Torgun would spend the night honoring their dead.
They would sail with the dawn to avenge them.
Draya spent another sleepless night in fruitless prayers. When the sun rose, she left the Great Hall and walked down to the shore. Armed Heudjun warriors had gathered on the shore, along with many women and children, all watching and grimly waiting. The Heudjun were acutely aware that if the Torgun had survived the ogre attack, they would come to find out why their clansmen had refused their summons for help. A low growl rumbled through the crowd when the Torgun’s dragonship, the Venjekar, was sighted sailing around the cliffs.
“Someone should alert Horg,” said Sven, Fria’s husband and the War Chief for the Heudjun Clan. Sven’s voice was flat, noncommittal. As Chief of Chiefs, Horg should be with his people. No one knew why he wasn’t.
Horg’s cronies stood huddled together in a knot on the fringes of the crowd. None of them made a move, and Sven wondered if Horg was even still in the city. Perhaps he had fled during the night. Sven glowered at them and then gestured to his eldest son. “You go.”
Sven ordered the warriors to make a show of force, let the Torgun know they could not come uninvited onto Heudjun territory, even if they did have a legitimate complaint. The warriors held their weapons in plain sight and raised their shields. They did not form a shield-wall, though they were prepared to do so should it come to that. The Torgun were fellow clansmen, and they had a grievance. They would be permitted to tell their side of the story, but only from a distance. Their dragonship would not be permitted to land.
Draya watched the Venjekar draw steadily nearer. Everyone saw her, knew she had arrived. They cast her hopeful glances, wanting her reassurance, wanting her to tell them the gods were on their side. Her pallid face and stoic silence made them uneasy. The dragon’s-head prow turned toward land. Draya could see the fiery gleam in the Dragon Kahg’s carved eyes. She left the beach and ran back to the Great Hall and threw herself before the statue of Vindrash.
“Please tell me what I should do!” she begged.
Someone was banging on the door. Horg woke from a stuporlike sleep with a jerk that almost knocked his partner out of the bed. She grunted, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Horg wrapped his naked body in a blanket and flung open the door. Half-blinded by the bright sunlight, he blinked and squinted, trying to see.
“Yes, what is it?” he demanded surlily, recognizing Sven’s son.
“The Torgun,” said the young man.
Horg blinked again. His cider-soaked brain stumbled about a moment, trying to remember why he should give a fart. Then it all came back to him.
“How many ships?” he asked.
“Just one, the Venjekar.”
Horg nodded. “Assemble the warriors.”
“We have already assembled, Chief,” said the young man. “My father has command. He said I should let you know.”
Horg cast a sharp glance at the young man, who met the glance with a frozen stare.
Horg grunted. “Tell the men I will be there shortly.”
“I’m sure they’ll be elated to hear that,” the young man muttered.
“What did you say?” Horg barked.
The young man grinned and ran off.
“If your turd of a father won’t teach you manners, I will!” Horg yelled savagely.
He slammed the door and, walking over to the sleeping platform, kicked at the woman lying beneath the blankets. He cuffed her when she