Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [83]
“I admit nothing,” Horg said sullenly. “Except that all Heudjun are pisspants.”
Sven turned to Norgaard. “Chief of the Torgun, our shame is very great. We ask the spirits of your dead to forgive us. You are free to challenge Horg Thekkson to the Vutmana. We will not oppose you.”
Sven walked off across the sand. His sons followed him, as did the rest of the warriors. Their womenfolk walked with them, putting their arms around their husbands in sympathy and ordering excited, clamoring children to keep quiet.
Horg looked dazed, like a man who feels pain in his back and looks down to find the head of a spear protruding from his gut.
The Torgun steered their dragonship in to the shore. Men jumped over the sides to assist in the landing. Norgaard did not jump into the water with the others. He was forced to walk down the ship’s gangplank. Horg’s eyes glittered. The old look of cunning was back. He turned to his cronies and grinned. Draya could not hear his words, but she could guess them.
“I’ll be fighting a cripple,” he said.
His cronies laughed and clustered around him, pleased that they had placed their bets on the right man.
Splashing through the waves, heading into shore, Skylan and Norgaard looked at each other; then Skylan threw back his head and laughed.
A thrill of excitement surged through Draya.
One of the rules of the Vutmana was that a Chief may select a champion to fight in his stead.
A rule Horg had apparently forgotten.
“Thank you, Vindrash!” Draya whispered.
CHAPTER
4
Draya returned to the Great Hall of the Gods and was thankful to find it empty. Soon, she would have to assemble Fria and the other Bone Priestesses, and the acolytes would also assemble to prepare for the Vutmana. But for now, she was alone with Vindrash.
Horg would not face the crippled Norgaard. He would have to fight Skylan, the strong warrior son. Horg had forgotten the provision about champions, apparently. Or perhaps he didn’t even know it. The Law of the Challenge was recited every year during the annual Clanmeld, but Horg generally paid scant attention to the recitations, which admittedly went on for days. He spent the time jesting with his friends or catching up on his sleep to be ready for the nightly revels.
The Gods of the Vindrasi judged the Vutmana, determined which man was best suited to be Chief and gave that man the victory. But were the Gods of the Vindrasi fit to judge?
Draya pondered this question in an agony of doubt.
The Vindrasi Gods had been too weak to hold on to the Vektan Torque, allowing it to fall into the hands of one of the Vindrasi’s most feared enemies. Draya’s one poor consolation was that the ogres did not know what they had or how to use it. They might learn over time, however, and that could not be allowed. The spiritbone of the Vektia Dragon had to be recovered.
A daunting task! An old man of the Luknar Clan, who claimed he had seen eighty winters, told tales of having visited the ogres’ realm as a boy, during the glory days when the Vindrasi had been a mighty people, ruling the oceans as their gods ruled the heavens. But that was long ago. Many years had passed since the Vindrasi last crossed the seas to ogre nations. Vindrasi glory was now nothing more than an old man’s fading memory.
No one knew now how to find the ogres’ realm. The Vindrasi dragonships would have to sail seas strange to them, and they would need a strong, wise, intelligent Chief of Chiefs to lead them on what could be a desperate voyage for their own survival. Half the time Horg was so drunk, he could not find his own slop bucket. Draya remembered his threat to get rid of the Kai, to get rid of her.
Could the gods be trusted to make the right judgment?
Draya’s faith was her reason for being. As her own life grew more wretched, she clung to Vindrash for support, turning to the goddess for comfort and consolation. Now it seemed Vindrash clung to her.
Torval had fought a great battle and