CHAPTER
4

The ogre godlords were pleased with the invitation to feast on roasted boar meat. Garn, who went to issue the invitation on behalf of Norgaard, related that one of the godlords even began to drool at the thought. Garn appointed the time of moonrise, when Akaria, Goddess of the Waters and Ruler of the Tides, would lift her lantern.

The godlords said they would attend, and added that they would be bringing their bodyguards and their shaman with them. Garn calculated that this came to about fifteen hungry ogres. Norgaard sighed deeply. The Torgun did not have much food to spare, and what they did have was going into the bellies of their enemies. His one consolation was that on the morrow the ogres would be feasting in their afterlife.

Garn’s next task, given to him by Norgaard, was to convince Skylan, who disliked being “prayed over,” to have his wound healed. Skylan protested, but not so loudly as usual, and at last, he agreed to go seek out the Bone Priestess.

The truth was that the pain and loss of blood had caught up with Skylan during the last portion of the Council meeting. He’d come very close to passing out. Only a fierce determination not to show weakness before the other warriors kept him from succumbing to his injuries. The fear that he might be too weak to fight in tomorrow’s battle drove him to seek what he generally tried to avoid—help.

Garn was going to accompany him to the Hall of Vindrash, but Skylan told him to go with the rest of the men into the forested hills to cut trees for the fire. “I will go, I promise,” said Skylan, and he grasped the silver axe he wore around his neck. “I swear by Torval.”

Reassured, knowing this was one vow Skylan would never break, Garn headed into the forest.

“There is just one problem. I have to find some explanation that will satisfy the ogres about why we have to build two fires,” Garn said as he was leaving. “We cannot very well roast meat over a raging beacon fire.”

Skylan laughed. “Tell the ogres one fire is for roasting the boar’s head and the other the rump. They’re ogres. They’ll believe anything.”

Wishing his friend well, Garn continued up the path that led into the hills. Skylan veered off toward the Hall of Vindrash, walking the empty streets, passing empty houses.

The silence was oppressive. Generally, this time of day, as the Sun Goddess, Aylis, started her downward descent into the sea, women would be making final preparations for supper. The air would be redolent with the smells of baking bread and bubbling stewpots. Children would be laughing and playing outside. The men would be coming home from tending the herds or toiling in the fields or forging iron or whatever each did to earn his place in the clan. They would gather in small groups, discussing the day’s news and awaiting the summons to supper.

“It’s as if everyone died,” Skylan muttered.

Too late, he realized what he’d said. One did not speak of death on the eve of battle. He quickly touched the silver axe, asking Torval to avert the evil omen.

Each clan had its own Hall of Vindrash—generally small, not nearly so large or grand as the Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm. A simple structure, the Hall built by the Torgun was constructed along the lines of the Chief’s Hall, only much smaller. Near the Hall was another longhouse, the residence of the Bone Priestess.

The Hall and the longhouse were located some distance from the village, in a small clearing in the midst of the forest. Both were kept in excellent repair by the men of the village. Treia had a small garden, where she grew herbs used in healing. Otherwise, the people of the village supported the Bone Priestess with gifts of food and hides, cooking pots and furs, and whatever else she might require.

Skylan found Aylaen pacing outside the closed door of the Hall of Vindrash. She smiled at him. He smiled to see her. He’d hoped to find her here, another reason he’d decided to ask for Treia’s help. Her gaze softened when she looked at the bloody gash in his thigh.

“You are white as milk,” Aylaen said. She eyed his blood-soaked clothing worriedly.

“Most of that blood is the boar’s,” Skylan said proudly.

Her concern was a pleasant surprise. Usually whenever Aylaen encountered him, she found some reason to mock or laugh at him. He was warmed to think she cared about him.

“Sit down on the ground. Let me see.”

Skylan eased himself down. Aylaen gently tried to peel away the blood-gummed bandages that had stuck to the wound. He flinched and gasped with the pain.

“It looks bad,” said Aylaen. “It’s all inflamed.”

“I have to fight tomorrow,” said Skylan. “I need your sister to intercede with the Goddess Desiria for me.”

Aylaen glanced doubtfully at the closed door. “Treia said she was not to be disturbed.”

Aylaen’s well-meaning ministrations had opened the wound again. Blood flowed freely. Skylan, now that he was sitting, was not sure he could get back up again.

“She must,” he said. “I am the War Chief.”

Aylaen nodded and went to knock gently on the door.

“Sister, I am sorry to disturb your prayers, but Skylan Ivorson is here. He is wounded, and he needs the healing blessings of the Goddess Desiria.”

Skylan heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened a tiny crack. Treia peered out.

“I can do nothing for him,” she said coldly, and started to shut the door.

“Sister, look at him!” Aylaen cried, seizing hold of the door and holding it ajar. She gestured to Skylan. “See how ill he is—”

Treia’s nearsighted glance flicked over him.

“I can do nothing,” she repeated, and she slammed the door shut.

“Your sister has never liked me,” Skylan said. “I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to her.”

Aylaen stood staring at the closed door, a dreamy haze clouding her eyes.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “The gods weep. Aylis hides her face in grief. Akaria screams and tears her hair. . . .”

“Aylaen,” said Skylan sharply.

Aylaen looked at him and blinked. “What?”

“You are not a bard, and this is no time for storytelling,” he said impatiently. “We have outgrown make-believe. Besides,” he added, frowning, “the gods will take offense. Making up such stories about them is disrespectful.”

“I don’t mean to be. I like to think of them as a family.” Aylaen’s smile dimmed; her expression darkened. “Not as my family. A family that loves and cares for each other.”

Skylan struggled to his feet, his hand pressed over his thigh.

“I will talk to your sister,” he said, and he started for the door.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Aylaen hurriedly. “I have an idea. Owl Mother lives close by—”

“That old crone! Never mind. I am feeling much better. I must return to the village. Garn will need my help—”

Skylan took a step, swayed dizzily, and sagged to his knees. Aylaen knelt down beside him and slipped her arm around his midriff.

“Put your arm across my shoulder,” she ordered.

Skylan was too weak to argue. He did as she told him.

Aylaen’s body pressed against his, and with her help, he was able to stand. Skylan could feel the softness of her breast beneath the wool of her gown, the firmness of her thigh, the play of her muscles, and desire outdid his pain.

Aylaen was tall for a woman, above average height, and she was strong, for she had done hard physical labor on the family farm from childhood onward. She had no trouble supporting Skylan’s weight. Her red mass of curls—so different from the silky blond hair of the rest of her family—brushed against his cheek.

No one else in the Torgun had red hair. There were whispers that the man who had been married to her mother was not her real father. Perhaps that was one reason Sigurd seemed to have so little fondness for his brother’s wife.

“Owl Woman won’t be in her dwelling,” said Skylan huskily. The ache of desire warred with his pain. “She would have gone into the hills with the other women.”

He’d never been this close to Aylaen, not since they were children and had played their rough-and-tumble games. He’d wanted to hold her, the gods knew! But he could never bring himself to touch her, which was odd, because he’d had no such inhibitions regarding other women.

He could still have his pick of those women, but he wanted only one, and that was Aylaen. He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her at night to wake with a groan of longing. He spent hours imagining what he would say to her that would cause her eyes to glow with desire for him. And yet, when he started to say the words, Aylaen would mock him and laugh at him, pretending she didn’t understand.

She did understand; he was certain of it. He was convinced she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Women liked to tease a man, toy with him as fox kits toy with a dead rabbit.

Skylan slowed his steps. “Let me rest a moment with you. The two of us together, here, where it is quiet—”

His arm tightened suggestively around her shoulder.

“I have left my sister alone too long already,” said Aylaen. “As for Owl Mother, she will be in her dwelling. She would never leave her animals. Just a little farther, brother—”

“Don’t call me that!” Skylan ordered angrily.

“Why not?” Aylaen asked pertly. “That’s how I think of you.”

“I don’t want you to think of me that way!” Skylan said. “You are my betrothed. Soon you will be my wife.”

“You don’t need a wife. You have too many women already,” Aylaen said teasingly.

“I have not slept with anyone in two years!”

Aylaen’s eyes widened. She was mocking him. “Truly?”

Skylan made a dismissive gesture. “I want you and no other.”

“I was jesting,” she said.

“I wasn’t,” he replied.

Aylaen flushed and lowered her eyes in confusion. “Skylan, there is something I must tell you—”

“Stop right there, whoever you are!” said a warning voice. “One more step, and I’ll set the wolves on you.”

The sound of a low, rumbling growl caused Skylan to draw his knife.

“We should leave!” he said.

Aylaen ignored him, as usual.

“It’s Aylaen, Owl Mother, and Skylan Ivorson. He was gored by a boar. He needs your help.”

“Let the gods heal him,” came the scornful reply. “I have work to do.”

“Perhaps you have not heard, Owl Mother. Ogres came to the village and—”

“I know about the ogres. The crows told me. What has that to do with anything?”

Aylaen and Skylan exchanged glances.

“The ogres said there was a great battle in heaven, Owl Mother,” Aylaen replied. “They claim our gods were defeated—”

Her words were met by silence.

“We’re getting out of here,” Skylan said insistently.

Aylaen shook her head.

Skylan glared at her, exasperated. “I say we’re leaving.”

“And I say we’re not,” she flared, her temper as fiery as her flame-colored hair. “You don’t tell me what to do, Skylan Ivorson. No one tells me what to do. And, in case you’ve forgotten, you may have to fight tomorrow. Look at yourself! You can’t even walk without help!”

Skylan drew in a seething breath. He recalled what he’d said earlier in the day about Torval having difficulty controlling the women in his family.

“Let the son of Norgaard come forward!” Owl Mother said grudgingly.

Aylaen started to help him, but he shoved her away.

“I can manage on my own. Wait for me here.”

Once again, Aylaen disobeyed. He looked back to see her walking along behind him. He shook his head. Things would be different once they were married.

Skylan emerged from the forest into a clearing. Here, he halted again, looking warily about, wondering where the old woman was and, more important, what she had done with the wolves. Skylan had never been to Owl Mother’s dwelling. There had been no need. Desiria, Goddess of Life, had always thought well of him and given him her blessing. Skylan felt a flash of annoyance at the goddess for having forced him to resort to fae magic.

In the center of the clearing was a longhouse that was well constructed, small, and snug. There was a large garden, newly planted. Six deer stood grazing calmly on grass around the cabin. At the sight of Skylan, the deer fled, white tails flashing.

Six deer! And he and Garn had spent days searching and not seen one. Ducks waddled about the yard. Chickens pecked at the ground. Birds twittered and called.

Owl Mother was nowhere in sight, but the door to the cabin stood open. Moving closer, he saw animal pens in the rear of the house. A calf with a bandage around its leg, looking very sorry for himself, stood in one. A couple of goats were in another. Owl Mother was known for her skill in treating sick animals. People in the village would either send for her or bring the animals to her. A cat, missing an ear, strolled along one of the fence posts. The cat paused to lick its front paw and stare at Skylan. It didn’t appear impressed.

Aylaen came to stand beside Skylan.

“Go home, girl!” Owl Mother yelled from the house. “You’re not needed. This is between me and the son of Norgaard.”

Aylaen looked uncertainly at Skylan. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course. Go back to your sister,” he said.

“Don’t be mad, Skylan,” Aylaen said softly.

She kissed him on the cheek, as a sister might kiss a brother, and then she turned and walked back along the trail.

Skylan watched her until he lost sight of her among the trees; then he looked at the dwelling. He saw no sign of anyone. He was growing increasingly impatient; his wounds burned and throbbed.

“Put down the knife,” said Owl Mother. “And then come inside.”

Skylan did as he was told, dropping his knife onto the grass. The dwelling’s interior was dark and shadowy. After the bright sunlight outside, Skylan was half-blinded, and he almost stepped on a large wolf that was reclining on the floor. The wolf reared to its feet with a snarl, hackles rising. Skylan stumbled backwards.

From somewhere in the darkness came a chuckle. “The wolf won’t harm you. Not unless I tell him to. Just don’t make any sudden moves or look him in the eye, and you’ll be safe enough.”

Skylan still could not see the woman.

“Don’t just stand there like a lump, Son of Norgaard,” Owl Mother said testily. “I have work to do, if you don’t. Come into the kitchen where I can get a look at you.”

Keeping one eye on the wolf, Skylan followed the sound of the voice. He entered a second room, which was dominated by a large fireplace. Owl Mother stood by the fire, stirring something in an iron pot.

Owl Mother was old, the oldest person in the village. She claimed to have seen seventy winters, and everyone believed her. Her hair was snow white, twisted in a long braid that extended below her waist. She wore a linen smock with a plain woolen gown over that, tied at her waist with a belt. With her hunched shoulders, beaky nose, and piercing eyes, she looked like a fierce old owl, though that was not how she had come by her name. She was called Owl Mother because of her way with animals.

“Sit,” she said, and pointed a crooked finger at a three-legged stool.

Skylan had to first displace the stool’s occupant, a squirrel, who raced across the floor and climbed a post that led to the rafters. He took his seat, looking about the shadowy longhouse, wondering uneasily what other creatures might be present. Owl Mother was known to consort with the fae folk who inhabited the woods.

Apparently the old woman was alone. He saw no gnomes lurking beneath the table, nor were imps cavorting around the fireplace. He did note that one corner of the room was concealed by a tapestry hanging from the rafters. The tapestry appeared to be very old, for it was worn and frayed in places. He regarded it with interest, for it portrayed a battle with warriors clad in strange-looking armor.

Owl Mother bent over him, examining the wound, sniffing at it and probing it with her fingers. She was not at all gentle. Skylan gritted his teeth and tried to keep silent, though now and then a grunt escaped him.

Finally Owl Mother straightened. “You had the good sense to use the salve. The wound will heal cleanly. Bathe in the sea every day, smear on the salve, eat red meat to restore the blood, and keep to your bed for three days. Do all that, and you will suffer no lasting effects.”

“I thank you, Owl Mother,” said Skylan respectfully. “But I don’t have three days. We are lighting the beacon fire to summon the warriors of the Heudjun to come to our aid. There will be a battle with the ogres tomorrow, and I must lead the Torgun to war.”

Owl Mother stood with her thin lips pursed, staring down her nose at him. “You want magic,” she said at last.

Not really, Skylan thought, but he didn’t seem to have much choice.

“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “What does it involve?”

“It will cost you,” said Owl Mother, crossing her arms over her breasts.

Skylan frowned. He had a few silver ingots and coins in his coffer, but he was saving all his wealth to pay the bride-price for Aylaen.

“I don’t want your silver!” Owl Mother scoffed, seeing the doubt on his face. “You must agree to serve me for one day, do whatever I ask of you. Don’t worry,” she added dryly, “I won’t ask you to dance with me naked in the moonlight.”

Skylan’s face burned. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be polite, but he couldn’t imagine a more repulsive sight.

Owl Mother laughed at him. “I need a man for only one thing these days, and that’s to help me with chores. There’s wood to be chopped and pens to be mended and—”

“I will serve you, Owl Mother,” said Skylan hastily. He wanted to get this over with.

“Very well. I will do what I can. The magic is chancy, uncertain. I don’t promise anything.”

Owl Mother walked over to the part of the room concealed by the tapestry. She drew on a large leather glove and reached out her hand to pull the tapestry aside. Pausing, she glanced at Skylan.

“You must hold perfectly still,” she warned him. “Do not speak or cry out, no matter what you see. She is a young one and startles easily.”

Owl Mother disappeared behind the tapestry. He could hear an annoyed-sounding squawk and then Owl Mother’s voice speaking softly, lovingly, clucking and cajoling. Owl Mother came out from behind the tapestry. Perched on her gloved arm was an enormous bird. Skylan thought at first it was the largest hawk he’d ever seen.

Owl Mother drew closer, bringing the bird into the light.

Skylan was so astonished, he started to rise off the stool, then remembered, too late, he was not to make any sudden moves. The bird was not a bird. The bird was a beast, and the beast was a wyvern. At Skylan’s involuntary start, the wyvern reared back her head, flapped her wings, and screeched at him.

“I warned you to keep still, fool!” Owl Mother hissed angrily.

Skylan froze and forced himself to sit quietly, though his muscles shook with the effort. He liked to think he wasn’t afraid of anything, but magic was different. The bravest, boldest warrior could be excused for fearing the power of those who had been old when the gods themselves were young. His stomach clenched and his bowels gripped.

The wyvern’s red eyes glared at him. Her reptilian scales glistened orange in the firelight. Her wings, made of membrane stretched between the fine, delicate bones, were so thin he could see the light shine through them. Her long tail curled over Owl Mother’s wrist. Two clawed feet dug into the leather glove.

The wyvern looked deceptively like a dragon, but there was no relation, as Skylan well knew. He was accustomed to dragons, who had long been allies of the Vindrasi. The spiritbone of the great Dragon Kahg hung from a nail on the mast of the dragonship. The spirit of the dragon sailed with them, and when summoned by the prayers of the Bone Priestess, the dragon would take on physical form to join Skylan and his forces in battle.

Dragons were thinking, reasoning, intelligent beings, gifted with miraculous powers bestowed on them by their Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, consort of Torval.

The Vindrasi believed wyverns were made of magic in mockery of dragons. Wyverns belonged to the Nethervold, the twilight world of the fae folk. Most of mankind could not see the Nethervold. But there were some, like Owl Mother, who had learned how to draw aside the curtain of moonbeams and stardust that kept the two worlds apart. She had now opened that curtain for Skylan, and he was sorry he’d ever agreed to come.

“I think I should go. . . .” He spoke through stiff lips.

“Don’t move, and keep your mouth shut,” Owl Mother told him. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”

Holding the nervous wyvern on her arm, Owl Mother dipped her fingers in Skylan’s blood and traced a rune on his forehead and a similar rune on her own forehead. She placed her hand on the rune on Skylan’s head and began to hum.

Her humming grew louder and louder, a single, jarring, off-key note that spread from her throat throughout her body. At the sound of her humming, the wyvern closed her eyes. She seemed entranced. Her wings folded at her sides. Her clawed feet eased their grip. She began to make a noise of her own, a high-pitched keening wail that was painful to the ears.

Except for a splitting headache, Skylan felt no different. He was disappointed and angered. All this fear and discomfort for nothing, and now he was bound by his word to do menial labor for this crazy old crone—

The magic burned him like a cauterizing iron, searing his flesh. He tried to bear the agony like a warrior, but he couldn’t manage. He fell onto the floor, writhing with pain, and finally passed out.

He woke, choking on something, to find Owl Mother bending over him. Seeing he was conscious, she reached into his mouth to pluck out a wad of cloth.

“So you wouldn’t swallow your tongue,” she told him.

Skylan looked nervously about for the wyvern. The beast was gone. He cast a glance at the tapestry and saw it was closed again. Relieved, he sank back on the floor, drawing in welcome breaths, and realized, suddenly, that he was no longer in pain. Sitting up, he examined his wound in the firelight.

Owl Mother had washed off the blood while he’d been unconscious. The wound had closed, leaving a long jagged weal that was tender to the touch. He no longer felt weak. Elated, he jumped to his feet and immediately regretted the sudden movement. The wound still hurt when he put his weight on his leg. He would in the future continue to rely on Desiria’s blessing. But at least he would be strong enough to slay ogres in the morning.

“Thank you, Owl Mother,” he said.

Pleased and grateful, he kissed her weathered cheek.

Owl Mother chuckled and shook her finger at him. “Don’t try to seduce me now. I don’t have time. You had best be going or you’ll be late.”

Skylan looked out the dwelling’s single window and was startled to see darkness. Night had fallen. Stars shone brightly.

“We are having a great feast tonight, Owl Mother,” said Skylan. “I killed a wild boar, and we are roasting it. I would be honored if you came.”

“I’m not much of a meat eater these days,” Owl Mother said, picking up a basin filled with water. “I can’t digest it.”

“Let me carry that,” Skylan offered, taking the basin from her and carrying it to the door. He tossed the water, stained red with his blood, out onto the grass.

“There will be a battle tomorrow,” said Skylan as he prepared to take his leave. “We will win it, of course, but you may not be safe here. You should go into the hills.”

Owl Mother grinned and jerked a thumb to indicate the corner screened by the tapestry.

“My friends will take care of me,” she said complacently. “You should concern yourself with yourself, young Skylan.”

“They are only ogres,” said Skylan.

“Only ogres.” Owl Mother smiled derisively. “The thread of your wyrd snaps tonight, Skylan.”

He stared at her, shocked. When a man’s wyrd snapped, he died.

She poked him in the chest with her finger. “Tomorrow your wyrd is spun anew. Try not to screw it up.”

She left him, disappearing into the kitchen. He paused a moment, wondering what she had meant. It made no sense.

“Crazy old crone,” he muttered.

“I almost forgot,” Owl Mother yelled at him. “You must honor my mysteries, young man. Tell no one what happened here.”

“I will not, Owl Mother,” said Skylan. He had no intention of ever thinking about it again, let alone telling anyone. He clasped the silver axe. “I swear by Torval.”

“Torval!” Owl Mother cackled. “He’s got his own problems. Speaking of which, you had better leave now. The wheel turns.”

Bright orange light flared in the night sky.

The Torgun had lit the beacon fire.