Valorian leaned back in the cushions and stared morosely at the tent flap. He hadn’t really expected Fearral to agree with him, but the chieftain’s total refusal depressed him. “At least he heard me. Maybe the words took root and he’ll think them over for a while. I’ll stay out of his way for a few days, then try again.”
In hope that Fearral was mulling over the possibilities of his plan, Valorian put off seeing the chief for six days. While he waited, he hunted and fished to help feed the family, aided Mother Willa with the births of the spring crop of stock animals, and kept his patience on a tight line.
On the evening of the sixth day, Ranulf came bursting into Valorian’s tent. The young man was filthy, exhausted, and half-starved, but his face was lit with the success of his mission.
“I found it!” he shouted. “It’s there, just as you hoped. About five days’ ride into Sarcithia, and it’s perfect for wagons.”
“Sarcithia! No wonder we’d never heard of it,” exclaimed Kierla.
Valorian felt a deep wave of relief and satisfaction wash away much of his worry. Sarcithia was south of the Chadarian province, and clanspeople were not permitted to go there. The country was unfamiliar to the Clan, but Valorian wasn’t worried about that. There would be time to work out a path later.
“So,” he said, his voice ringing with pleasure, “Wolfeared Pass does exist.” “Maybe this news will change Fearral’s mind,” Kierla said hopefully.
Valorian clapped Ranulf on the shoulder. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.”
Although Valorian tried several times to find Lord Fearral the next day, it wasn’t until midafternoon that he rode his horse down the path from Stonehelm and saw the chieftain riding up the same path with several of his guards. Valorian stopped his mount in the middle of the road at the base of the stone hill and waited with a pleasant greeting ready.
Lord Fearral wasn’t rude enough to just go around without acknowledging the clansman, but he didn’t try to stifle the grimace of irritation that settled on his face.
“My lord,” Valorian bowed slightly. “A scout of mine returned last night with good news. He found—” Valorian got no further. Two long, strident notes from a sentinel’s horn sounded across the fields, freezing everyone who heard them in their tracks.
“Tarns!” Mordan snapped.
Even as he spoke, the men saw a cloud of dust kicked up by a troop of horsemen coming up the eastern road.
Lord Fearral went deathly pale.
There was no time to seek the meager safety of the hall, so the chief and his guards gathered in a tight ring on the road. Valorian stayed with them, although his eyes strayed to his camp across the field by a copse of trees. He could see the women scurrying with the children into the woods and the men drawing their weapons to defend the camp if necessary. Then there was no more time for worrying.
A tax collector and a contingent of ten Tarns under the command of a sarturian came galloping up the road to Stonehelm. They brought their horses to a halt a scant six paces from the chiefs group.
“Lord Fearral, I presume,” the tax collector said, his upper lip curled in distaste. He urged his mount to stand directly in front of the chief.
The man was shorter and older than Sergius, Valorian noted, but he seemed to be of the same ilk: well dressed, well fattened, and arrogant with his authority. The clansman kept his hands firmly clamped to the saddle pommel.
“Where is Sergius Valentius?” Lord Fearral asked weakly. His hands were shaking.
The tax collector shrugged. “Who knows? Probably skipped with some tribute due to our general. He will be found.” Valorian fervently hoped not.
“In the meantime, Fearral,” the man continued irritably, “I am your new collector of taxes, tributes, and gifts. Your yearly tribute is due to help maintain the glorious Tarnish Empire that defends and cares for you. Do you have it ready?”
Fearral shifted in his saddle, his face haunted. “Not exactly. I—”
The tax collector snapped his fingers. The soldiers immediately cantered down to the meadows and began rounding up everything they could find. Horses, sheep, cattle, and goats were all driven into herds beside the road.
“Now,” said the tax collector, unrolling a piece of vellum.
“Fearral, twenty-five horses, fifty head of cattle, and fifty head of sheep or goats.” Valorian suddenly jerked forward in his saddle. The soldiers were sweeping through the fields, rounding up every animal they found, including those from his family’s herds.
“No!” he shouted. “Wait! Some of those are our animals.” He turned to Fearral, expecting the chieftain to support him and explain the error, but to his horror, Fearral merely stared at the ground.
The tax collector lifted his tight, narrow eyes to Valorian. “And who are you?”
The clansman hesitated. He hadn’t wanted to draw attention to himself. Now it was too late. “Valorian,” he growled.
“Valorian,” the collector mused. “Hmmmmm. Sounds familiar. However, I haven’t had time to study all the tax records. If you have already paid your tribute, then consider this a donation for the good of your lord chieftain.” Fearral stiffened and remained silent. Mordan shot Valorian a look of apology.
Valorian had to try one more time. “My lord, please. We cannot spare those animals. They’re all we have left.”
His words fell on deaf ears. Fearral continued to stare at the ground. The collector laughed and signaled again to his men. Systematically the soldiers cut out the required number of animals, a good many of which were from Valorian’s herds. Sick at heart, the clansman could only watch. He didn’t dare protest or fight back for fear of attracting more attention to himself and his family.
“That should do it,” said the tax collector at last. “For now. Fearral, you must be more prompt with your payment. I don’t like having to gather it myself.” He yanked his horse around, then turned his head. “By the way, General Tyrranis is not pleased with your little town up there. The palisades must go.”
His horse cantered down the road to join the soldiers, and the whole troop began herding the livestock away.
Valorian didn’t bother to wait for an apology or an explanation he knew would not come. In cold anger, he sent his horse galloping back to his camp. “Round up what’s left of the herds!” he shouted to the men. “Pack the camp. We’re leaving.”
A short while later, Valorian and his family left the granite hill and its village behind.
From the gateway of his struggling town, Lord Fearral watched the little caravan disappear into the trees below, then he turned away, feeling cold and utterly sick at heart.
7
How many did we lose?” Aiden asked two nights later. He settled comfortably into his cushion and watched his brother. For once, Valorian was the one who was pacing angrily.
“More than we can afford,” Valorian said between clenched teeth. “Twelve mares and geldings; eight goats, including our last breeding male; and sixteen of the best wool sheep and their lambs.” He walked faster, but he could only go a few paces in the tent before he had to turn around.
Aiden whistled. The loss cut deeply into the family’s already meager resources. He took a sip of wine and waited for Valorian to cool down.
Aiden, Kierla, and Valorian were gathered in the tent in the cool spring evening. The caravan had arrived that afternoon at the high alpine meadow of Black Rock, so named for the single spire of black stone that rose like a spearhead out of the meadow grass. Aiden and the boys had been glad to see them and pleased to report that Hunnul and the brood mares were well. Many of the mares had already delivered their foals; two others, the Harachan mares, were due anytime. Unfortunately the good news had done little to abate Valorian’s sense of betrayal.