Valorian watched the stocky warrior disappear among the huts and tents. It was true that he didn’t know the guardsman well, but he thought he should change that. Although Mordan was his age, about thirty-five summers, he was one of the youngest of the chieftain’s guards, a rank earned by proven skill and courage. If Mordan was willing to talk so openly to him about the problems of the camp, it was possible he could be looking for ways to change things. Mordan could be a good ally and a good ear in Fearral’s camp.
“This is incredible,” Aiden said forcefully. “Why would—”
Valorian held up his hand. “Let’s follow Mordan’s advice first. We’ll look things over before we judge. Remember, Aiden, if we anger Fearral, he’ll never listen to us.”
The younger man subsided with a surly glare. “All right, but I’m going back to our camp. I won’t share meat with our chieftain tonight.”
“No,” Valorian said, thoughtfully rubbing his jaw. “I think you’d better not. Just to be safe, I want you to take Hunnul and the brood mares to pasture in the mountains. Take some of the older boys with you and go up to Black Rock.”
Kierla gasped. “Surely you don’t think Lord Fearral would sell our horses.”
“Right now I don’t know what he would do. But his tribute is due, just as ours is, and I don’t want to risk our breeding stock.”
An appreciative glint warmed Aiden’s gray eyes. “For how long?”
“Until I feel it’s safe,” Valorian said.
“Done! We’ll leave tonight after dark.” He saluted his brother and dashed away to make his preparations.
Kierla took her husband’s arm. “I can hardly believe this,” she murmured.
“It’s worse than I feared,” Valorian agreed. He turned to look at the big hall from the raftered ceiling to the stone floor. “Nothing short of a miracle is going to shake Lord Fearral out of this.”
They stayed to share the evening meal with the chief, his two unmarried daughters, his guards, and a host of other bachelors, visitors, and drop-ins. The meal wasn’t fancy, but compared to what Valorian and Kierla were used to, it was a feast. They ate roast venison, boiled mutton, and duck with slabs of bread, bowls of dried fruits and berries, cheese, and flagons of ale. The food was eaten mostly with the fingers from platters at the big trestle tables.
The only problem Kierla complained of was the serving of the meal. Sitting on a bench at a table to eat was a Chadarian custom, not a practice of the Clan. Tables and chairs were too difficult to move from one nomadic camp to another, and most Clan meals were eaten sitting on the ground. Valorian took this new habit of Fearral’s as another sign that the chieftain was abandoning the ancient nomadic ways and setting his feet too firmly on the ground.
Although he tried several times to talk to Lord Fearral about moving the Clan out of Chadar, he was unsuccessful. Fearral’s eyes were glazed all evening, and his speech was slurred. He drank ale all evening, then staggered out to his quarters before anyone could stop him.
The following days were much the same. No matter how often Valorian tried to speak with Fearral, the old chief either changed the subject, ignored him, or avoided him completely. Valorian’s anger began a slow stew.
One afternoon seven days after their arrival at Stonehelm, Valorian invited Lord Fearral to his camp in hope of getting the chief to talk in the quiet privacy of a tent. Short of insulting a close family member, Fearral could hardly refuse.
He came late, with his guard Mordan at his side. His face was red—with exertion or drink, Valorian couldn’t tell—and his hands twitched nervously.
Kierla welcomed him with a soft cushion to sit on and a cup of fermented mare’s milk. For a while, the four people merely sipped their drinks and exchanged pleasantries. Finally Valorian plunged into his arguments. He gave a brief explanation of his hunting trip and the meeting with the five Tarnish soldiers, leaving out his journey to Ealgoden, and tried to detail his reasons for leaving Chadar.
Fearral listened, growing more agitated by the moment, until he could stand it no longer. “Absolutely not!” he cried. I will not allow it.”
“My lord,” Valorian said, trying to keep his voice calm, “the pass is there. I know it. All you have to do is gather the Clan, and we can leave these barren hills.”
“Leave!” Fearral looked aghast. “And go where? Over a pass you can’t find? To a land you’ve never seen? You have no proof that any of this exists, only the words of a few drunken Tarns. No, Valorian, I will not leave. Our home is here.” Valorian’s hands tightened around the horn cup; his blue eyes were snapping. “Our home is gone! There is nothing for us in this place but starvation and death.”
“That’s ridiculous. Look around you. Look at this town I’ve built. Here,” Fearral stabbed his finger at the ground “is where we will find our survival. Not out there in the mountains.” Valorian leaned forward and studied his chieftain’s face in the afternoon light. He didn’t notice Mordan watching him with equal intensity.
The problem was that Lord Fearral was convinced he was right. He had traded away the old ways for stability and protection, not realizing that the people’s only defense from General Tyrranis was their lifestyle. The family groups were small and nomadic, forming no dangerous armies or fortified settlements. They raised livestock to help feed the Tarnish garrison at Actigorium and horses to enrich Tyrranis’s purse.
As long as the Clan fulfilled these obligations, they were left alone.
But now Fearral had organized a semi fortified, permanent camp, and he had sold off all of the best breeding stock and most of the lesser animals to do it. Worst of all, the people who lived here hadn’t had time to replace their herds with any marketable skills. The crops were meager, the artisans were too few, and there were no natural resources such as gold or iron to trade. There was little to support the camp and nothing to appease the Tarns. Before too long, General Tyrranis could decide that the village posed a threat to his authority and have it destroyed. The inhabitants were already growing uneasy. Only Lord Fearral didn’t seem to see the danger.
“My lord uncle,” Kierla said, “we have looked at your town. Given time and good fortune, it could possibly succeed. But Valorian and I feel there will be no time. We have talked to the people and they are hungry and restless. They’re afraid of General Tyrranis.”
Fearral slammed his cup down and glared at her. “If they’re afraid now, how will they feel if we pack our belongings, gather our herds, and try to leave his jurisdiction? How will they feel when they see his soldiers gathered on the skyline ready to sweep down on us? And how will they feel when Tyrranis has us slaughtered for our foolish attempt to test his authority? Oh, no. As long as we stay here he will not bother us.”
“My lord, I don’t think—” Valorian began.
The chieftain cut him off. “I’ve heard enough. The answer is no.” He rose to go. “Do not bother me again with this ridiculous idea of yours.” With a grunt, he stomped out of the tent.
Mordan followed close behind, then at the tent flap, he paused. “If you haven’t done it already, you could send out a scout to find that pass,” he suggested quietly.
Valorian looked up, and for a moment, the two men stared at one another with understanding and a growing respect. “I have already done so,” Valorian replied.
“Good. Many people in this camp are talking about your plan, and not all of them agree with Lord Fearral.” He waved a hand to Kierla and ducked out to catch up with the chief.
Sighing, Kierla bent to pick up the horn cups. “I never realized my uncle could be so hardheaded. He didn’t even try to understand,” she said sadly.