Because of its position on top of the natural fortress and Lord Fearral’s status as lord chieftain of the Clan, the camp at Stone helm was different from the camps of the other nomadic family groups. It looked much like a fortified village. It had a wide variety of huts, wooden sheds, stalls, workshops, and stables, all surrounded by a ring of palisades. Near the back of the town was the only permanent temple to the Clan deities and the natural spring that supplied the town with water. A small, crude market sat by the gate, and in the center of town stood Lord Fearral’s wooden hall.
The population of Stonehelm was much larger and more diverse than the other groups, too, since it tended to draw in the smaller families and unattached people who desired the safety of numbers. Unfortunately the greater number of people in one place put a heavy strain on the natural resources of the area, and some clanspeople, for the first time, were attempting to plant crops in the fields at the base of the hill—a time—consuming occupation the nomadic people had never tried before.
Valorian shook his head when he saw the changes Lord Fearral had been making. It had been a long time since he had seen his wife’s uncle, and in that time, the roots of Stonehelm had spread deeper and wider. This growing permanence wasn’t going to make his task of moving the Clan any easier.
He helped settle the caravan in an open, grassy field not far from the road to town. As was customary in the Clan, their hosts brought firewood and offerings of food to welcome the visitors to their camp. Valorian set up his tent and tended to Hunnul. Then he, Kierla, and Aiden went to pay their respects to the lord chieftain.
They found Fearral in his hall, sitting in judgment over a man caught stealing a horse. The newcomers gaped in surprise at the large hall while they waited for Fearral to finish.
“What is he trying to do?” Aiden hissed to Valorian. “Compete with General High and Mighty Tyrranis?”
Valorian had to agree. The wooden hall was larger than anything the clanspeople had ever built, and he wondered if Fearral had brought in Chadarian craftsmen for the job. The design of the building certainly looked suspiciously similar to Chadarian architecture. The raftered ceiling had the typical timbered construction of lowland houses, the row of pillars down the center of the hall used the same popular fluted carvings, and Fearral had even hung weapons, cave lion pelts, and a Tarn—made tapestry on the walls.
“How did he pay for all of this?” Kierla whispered.
Aiden curled his lip in contempt, crossed his arms, and glared at the ceiling.
The three clanspeople had to wait a long while to see Fearral. The case against the accused horse thief wasn’t clear, and since the punishment for guilt was death, the chieftain wanted to be certain of the facts. A number of people came forth to stand up for the man, but in the end, too’ much proof was piled against him.
“Guilty,” Lord Fearral finally pronounced, and over the sudden wailing of the man’s relatives, he ordered the customary sentence. The man was to be taken to the fields at dawn, where he was to be staked out on the ground and trampled to death by a stampede of horses.
Valorian nodded once in agreement. The sentence was harsh, but in a society whose survival depended upon horses, the animals had to be protected for the good of all.
Slowly the large hall emptied of the clanspeople there for the trial. Lord Fearral’s two daughters and several other women began to set up trestle tables for the evening meal while a boy lit the fire in the central hearth. The smell of roasting meat wafted in from an outside kitchen.
Valorian waited until Lord Fearral was finished talking to two men before he approached the old chief. When he drew closer, he was surprised at how much the chieftain had aged since he had seen him last. Fearral’s long hair was totally white now, and his beard was thin, gray, and stained around the mouth. His eyes were rheumy and bloodshot; his hands trembled noticeably. Red patches high on his cheeks and on his nose colored his weathered skin. In the midst of the new changes, Valorian was also rather surprised to see an amulet bag hanging around Fearral’s neck. The bag was an ancient Clan custom that most people had given up.
Keeping his expression bland, Valorian greeted his wife’s uncle with grave respect.
“Valorian!” Fearral greeted him warmly. “How good to see you.” The chief kissed Kierla on the cheek with affection and accepted Aiden’s negligible salute. “You’re moving early this spring. We haven’t held our Birthright yet.”
“Neither have we, Lord Fearral, but I—”
Fearral cut him off brusquely. “Oh? Well, then, stay and celebrate with us.” He glanced over Valorian’s shoulder at the doorway as if he was in a hurry to get away.
“My lord, I really need to talk—”
“Be glad to,” the chieftain interrupted, unable to stifle his anxious expression. “We’ll be having our evening meal soon. Stay and we can talk later.”
Before the three clanspeople could say another word, the chief hurried out the door.
“Drunken old goat,” Aiden muttered. “He’s probably going to his nearest wineskin.”
Valorian made a sound of irritation deep in his throat. “Whatever you think of the man, Brother, he is still our lord chieftain. We must give him our support and obey our vow of fealty, or what’s left of the Clan will fall apart.” He grunted. Who was he trying to convince, Aiden or himself?
“I know, I know,” Aiden replied. “But Fearral makes it very difficult.”
The three began walking to the entrance. “What I would like to know,” Kierla said, stopping by the wide double doors, “is how he got all of this.” She pointed to the Tarnish tapestry on the opposite wall behind the chieftain’s big carved chair. “And did you see his clothes? Lowland weave with ivory buttons. How could he buy something like that?”
“Easily,” a new voice answered her from just outside the door. Mordan, one of Lord Fearral’s personal guards, stepped in to join them. “First he sold off all our excess stock animals and suggested we take up farming.” He laughed at the grimace on Aiden’s face. “Then our lord began selling our breeding stock: goats, sheep, the few cows we had, even the horses. Do you know,” he added, leaning against the doorframe, “that we have no pure-blooded Harachan horses left here? Our last stallion went to pay for that tapestry and the Chadarian craftsmen who finished this hall.” His narrowed eyes watched the other three for their reactions.
“That’s outrageous!” Kierla cried. “What is he going to do when there are no more animals?”
An ironic smile twisted Mordan’s rugged face. “We wonder the same. The only things of value we have left are the women and children. I suppose we could borrow from some of the other families. Unfortunately, everyone has already paid his chieftain’s gifts for the year and won’t have anything else to spare until next year.”
Valorian remained silent while Mordan talked. He was stunned by the suggestion of such a betrayal. The Harachan horse was the only true Clan—bred horse in existence and was one of the finest, most sought—after animals in the Tarnish Empire. The Clan had survived as long as it had by hoarding its remaining stock of purebreds and selling or trading the foals for taxes. Without good breeding animals, the Clan families wouldn’t be able to pay their tribute to General Tyrranis, who was looking for the slightest excuse to be rid of the Clan once and for all. For a lord chieftain to deliberately betray his people like that for his own comfort was unbelievable.
Mordan must have seen the disbelief in Valorian’s face, because he straightened up and touched his chest with two fingers, a sign that he was swearing to the truth. “Valorian, we don’t know each other well, but I have been watching you for the past few years, and I know you seek what is good for the Clan. Look around this camp. Study the people. Ride through our empty fields. Then come talk to me.” He nodded to Kierla and stalked off, his dark blond hair swinging like a horse’s tail under his helmet.