by Jim Butcher
Doroga came to his feet at the same time, eyes blazing, and though he remained silent, the sudden basso bellows of dozens of gargants rolled like thunder through the winter sky, in tandem with the more distant screams of uncounted horses.
Marat sprinted to the stones at the hilltop, though none of them stepped within their circle, pressing close, eyes wide and excited, gripping weapons, crowding to get close to see—and even so, they split themselves into three separate groups: slab-shouldered, heavily muscled Marat of Clan Gargant; Clan Wolf, silent and fang-toothed and hungry-looking; and Clan Horse, tall and lean with their hair shaved into wind-tossed white manes. The isolated hilltop transformed into the center of a seething mob, excited murmurs, brandished weapons, and threatening glances. Tension and violence rode on the air like leashed lightning, pent-up and straining for release.
Doroga moved then, standing atop his stone, and held his arms above his head. “Silence!” he roared, and his voice smothered sound atop the hill. “Silence, on the horto! Silence as a question is brought before The One!”
Tavi stared around him at the reaction his words had caused and discovered that he had turned and pressed his back to Fade. His limbs shook with reaction. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Fade had assumed that same distant expression as before, eyes focused on nothing, though he had clasped one arm across Tavi’s chest, fingers gripping the opposite shoulder steadily.
“Fade,” Tavi whispered. “Are you all right?”
“Quiet, Tavi,” Fade whispered back. “Do not move.”
Silence stretched over the hill, the sound of moaning wind the only noise. From the corner of his eye, Tavi could see Skagara, crouched before his stone, staring at Tavi with something very like hatred. Some instinct warned Tavi not to make eye contact, that it would only set the Marat into a killing rage — and that all of Clan Wolf would follow their headman, turning the ring of stones into a blood-spattered slaughterhouse.
Tavi did not move. He barely breathed.
“We-the-Marat,” Doroga said, turning in a slow circle. “We are the One-and-Many people, under The One. We prepare to march against the Alerans. We go to war at the words of Atsurak of the Sishkrak-ha. Atsurak the Bloody.” His words spat the next words, and Tavi heard the insolent contempt in them. “Atsurak the Whelpkiller.”
Snarls bubbled in the throats of dozens of Marat Wolves on the hilltop, and once again came the low, harsh howls of direwolves from somewhere down the slope and out of sight.
Doroga turned to face Clan Wolf without turning away from them, no trace of fear showing in his face. “Our law gives him that right, if none step forward to call him mistaken. To call him to the Trial of Blood.” His finger swung to point at Tavi. “This Aleran calls Atsurak mistaken. This Aleran says that his people are no enemy of the Clans.”
“He is not of the Clans,” Skagara snarled. “He has no voice here.”
“He stands accused with his people,” Doroga shot back. “And the accused have a voice at the horto.”
“Only if the headmen of the Clans decide that they do,” said Skagara. “I say he does not. You say he does.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at Hashat. “What says Clan Horse?”
Hashat only then unfolded from her relaxed slouch on her stone, rising and facing Skagara without speaking for a moment, the wind tossing her mane out to the side like a banner. Then she turned, took a step into Doroga’s shadow, and folded her arms. “Let the boy speak.”
Excited murmurs ran through the Marat atop the hill.
“Fade,” Tavi whispered. “What is happening?”
Fade shook his head. “Don’t know. Careful.”
Doroga turned to Tavi and said, “Speak your belief, valleyboy. Bring it out before The One.”
Tavi swallowed. He glanced back at Fade and then slipped away from the slave, standing as straight as he could manage. He looked around the circle, at the Marat all staringat him with expressions of curiosity, contempt, hatred, or hope. “M-my people,” he began, and choked, coughing, his stomach fluttering so nervously that he abruptly became certain he was going to sick up again.
“Hah,” spat Skagara. “Look at him. Too afraid even to speak. Too afraid to bring what he believes before The One.”
Doroga shot the Wolf headman a narrow-eyed glance. Then looked back at Tavi and said, “Valleyboy. If you would speak, now is the time.”
Tavi nodded, swallowing a sour taste from his mouth, and straightened again. “I am not your enemy,” he said. His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. This time it came out stronger, ringing clear among the stones again. “I am not your enemy. My people have sought no quarrel with the Marat since before I was born. I don’t know who this Atsurak person is — but if he says that we want to hurt your people, he’s a liar.”
The words rang among the stones and fell on an odd and puzzled silence. Tavi glanced over at Doroga and found the Gargant headman staring at him with his head cocked to one side. “Liar.” Doroga frowned, and lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “I do not believe Atsurak has mated with any of yours. If that is what you mean. He does not lie with Alerans.”
“No,” Tavi said, nervous flutters coming back into his stomach. “A liar. He’s telling lies.”
Doroga blinked again. Then nodded, as though in sudden comprehension. He raised his voice again and said, “You believe he speaks mistakenly.”
“Yes,” Tavi said. “Wait, no! No, a lie is different than a mistake —”
But Tavi’s words went unheeded as a shout rose up from the Marat around the hilltop.
Skagara leapt atop his rock and raised his arms for silence. “Let him challenge! Let this Aleran whelp test his beliefs before The One! Let him face the Trial of Blood with Atsurak and end this matter!” Skagara sneered toward Tavi. “Atsurak will split his belly open before he can scream.”
“Atsurak is not here,” Doroga said, lifting his chin. “I am the eldest headman present. And it is thus my duty to take up the challenge to Atsurak’s belief in his place.”
Skagara’s eyes widened. “Atsurak,” he said, “would not approve.”
Doroga bared his white teeth. “Atsurak,” he repeated, “is not here. I will defend his belief as is proper.”
Skagara growled. “As well. The strength of Doroga is well known. He will break the Aleran in the Trial of his Clan, even as Atsurak would do in a Trial of Blood.”
“That would be correct,” Doroga said, “if I faced the trial myself. This will not happen.”
“Only you, I, or Hashat may stand for Atsurak,” Skagara snarled.
“Unless,” Doroga said, “I invoke the right of my heir to stand in my place in any Trial before The One.”
Skagara stared at the Gargant headman in stunned silence.
“Kitai,” rumbled Doroga. “Step into the horto.”
The boy that had cut Tavi before appeared nervously at the head of the crowd — from behind the ranks of Clan Horse, Tavi noted. Doroga saw it as well and scowled. “Get in here, whelp.”
Kitai hesitated at the edge of the stones, then hurried inside, steps carrying him lightly over to stand on the ground beside Doroga’s stone.
Doroga put his hand on Kitai’s shoulder. “In this, I ask you to stand for me. Will you?”
Kitai swallowed and nodded, without speaking.
Skagara snarled. “Then draw the circle. Bare the contestants. Let the spawn of Doroga show the strength of the sire. The Aleran is no match in a Trial of Strength, even for your whelp, Doroga.”
“The trial of Clan Gargant is the Trial of Strength,” Doroga said. “But Kitai is not yet Bound to a Clan. And the trial of Clan Fox, the Clan of my whelp’s mother, is the Trial of Wits. Kitai may accept challenge in either. And I decree that in this the Fox Trial best serves the interest of the Marat.”
Hashat frowned at Doroga, as though she didn’t fully understand, but she said, “I second Doroga’s opinion. Let us bring the question before The One.”
“No,” Skaga
ra spat. “The Fox Clan is no more.”
Doroga spun toward Skagara again and advanced a step on the other man. His hands closed into fists with a rippling crackle of popping knuckles, and his jaws bulged where he clenched them. He came to a stop, across the pool from the Wolf headman, shaking with a visible effort to restrain himself.
“I think,” Hashat said, quietly, “that Doroga believes you mistaken, Skagara. I think he wishes to bring the matter before The One in the Blood Trial of the Wolf Clan.”
Skagara gave one glance to Hashat and then stumbled back and off of his rock. “I will not forget this, Doroga,” he said, voice strained, high. “Atsurak will know how you have perverted our laws for your purposes.”
“Get out of my sight,” Doroga said in a quiet, dreadful voice.
Skagara retreated, behind an uneasy wall of warriors of Clan Wolf and down off of the hilltop.
Uneasy talk broke out among the Marat watching, but Doroga turned in a circle, speaking to them. “Go back down. Hashat and I will arrange the trial. We will let The One help us decide what path we will walk.”
The Marat departed then, peaceably, though there continued to be much talk among them, and though the Wolves seemed to retreat down the hill cautiously, many fangs bared, low growls warning away those who came too near.
A few moments later, Tavi and Fade stood with the three Marat alone. Doroga gave his shoulders a shake and blew out a long breath. “Very well,” the Marat said. “Hashat. What do you think is an appropriate trial?”
The Horse headman shrugged her shoulders. “The usual for this horto.”
Kitai drew in a quick breath.
Doroga grimaced. “You know what I’m trying to do.”
“The Wolf is right about one thing. You challenge tradition with this, if not the law. If you stretch things too much, you will lose the support of your own Clan, and mine. Best, I think, if you stay close to tradition wherever you can now.”
Doroga looked at Tavi, then at Kitai. “Are they old enough?”
Tavi stepped forward. “Wait just one second, here. I did what you said you wanted me to do, Doroga. What have I gotten myself into?”
Hashat turned to Tavi. “Aleran. You are alive, and not a meal. For that, you should give your thanks to Doroga, and be silent.”
Tavi snapped, “I don’t think so. This place almost exploded today. I’m being used. I think it’s polite to at least tell me how. And why.”
Hashat narrowed her eyes and laid a hand on the hilt of her saber, but Doroga shook his head. “No. He is correct.” Doroga moved back to his stone and sat down, heavily. “Valleyboy, you have agreed to a Trial of Wits with Kitai. The victor in the trial will be considered to hold the favor of The One in the question you raised.”
Tavi frowned. “You mean, if I win, then I’m right, and my people are not the enemy of the Marat.”
Doroga grunted assent. “And my Clan, and Hashat’s, will refuse the leadership of Atsurak, who moves against your people.”
Tavi’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. Half the Marat horde just vanishes? Just like that?” He turned to look at Fade, his heart beginning to pound. “Fade, did you hear?”
“You haven’t won the trial,” Kitai said, spitting the words. “Nor will you.”
Doroga frowned at his whelp and then said to Tavi, “It is my wish that you should win. I can take my people from this conflict. But it may not be the desire of The One.”
“I know it isn’t mine,” Kitai said. The young Marat nodded to his father and then said to Hashat, “Is your offer still open?”
The Horse headman glanced at Doroga. Then nodded to Kitai. “Of course.”
Kitai nodded at that and then stepped close to Tavi, multicolored eyes narrowed. “Wits or strength, it doesn’t matter to me, Aleran. I will beat you.” Then he shot Doroga an angry glance and stalked off down the hill.
Tavi blinked. “But . . . I would have thought he’d want to help you.” He glanced at Doroga.
The Marat shrugged. “My whelp will try to defeat you. As it should be. It is a good trial before The One.”
“But . . .” Tavi swallowed. “Trial of Wits? What is it?”
Doroga said to Hashat, “See to it that they are prepared.” Then he turned and walked down the hill after his whelp.
Hashat folded her arms over her chest and eyed Tavi.
“Well?” Tavi asked. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You will leave this night, to return with the Blessing of Night from the Valley of Trees,” Hashat said, simply. “Who returns with it first is the victor of the trial. Follow me.” The Marat started off down the hill, lean legs taking long steps.
“Blessing of Night, Valley of Trees. Right, fine.” Tavi turned to follow her, but stopped as Fade caught at his shirt. Tavi turned to the man, frowning. “What is it?”
“Tavi,” Fade said. “You must not do this. Let me face the trial.”
Tavi blinked. “Uh. Fade. It’s a Trial of Wits, remember?”
Fade shook his head. “Valley of Trees. Remember that.”
The boy frowned, turning to Fade. “What do you remember?”
“It is what the Marat call the Wax Forest.” Fade looked past Tavi to the retreating Hashat, his scarred face haunted. “One of you will surely die.”
CHAPTER 27
Fidelias stopped, panting, as he and Aldrick emerged from the heavily forested regions northeast of Bernardholt and reached the causeway that led down the Valley and ultimately to Garrison. His feet, though he had wrapped them in strips of his cloak and urged his furies to ease his way, had worsened. The pain alone was nearly enough to stop him, even without the fatigue from too long spent walking, castingback and forth in a fruitless effort to catch the wily Steadholder.
Fidelias sank onto a flat stone beside the causeway, while the swordsman paced restlessly out onto the road. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why don’t you just zoom us along like before?”
“Because we haven’t been on a road,” Fidelias said from between clenched teeth. “Riding an earthwave along a road is simple. Using one in the open countryside, without intimate knowledge of the local furies is suicide.”
“So he can do it, but you can’t.”
Fidelias suppressed a sharp comment. “Yes, Aldrick.”
“We’re crowbait.”
Fidelias shook his head. “We’re not going to catch him at this rate. He left a half dozen false trails behind him and waited until we bought one of them before he raised his wave and went.”
“If we had the horses—”
“We don’t,” Fidelias said bluntly. He lifted his foot and unwrapped some of the cloth.
Aldrick paced over to him. He stared down at his feet and swore. “Crows, old man. Can you feel them?”
“Yes.”
Aldrick knelt and unwrapped a bit more of the cloth, assessing the injuries. “Getting worse. There’s more swelling. If you let this go, you’re going to lose them.”
Fidelias grunted. “There’s still time. We need to—” Fidelias looked up to see Etan dancing frantically in the nearest tree. He cast his eyes down the road west of them. “Aldrick,” Fidelias said, keeping his voice low. “Two men on the road coming toward us. Legion haircuts, both armed.”
Aldrick drew in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment, “All right. Legionares?”
“No uniforms.”
“Age?”
“Young.” Fidelias touched the stones of the road with one foot, reaching out for Vamma. “Using the road to help them run. Moving fast. They’ve got some training in war-crafting.”
“How do we do it?”
“Wait for me to say,” Fidelias said. “Let’s find out whatever we can first.” He watched the pair of young men come running toward them along the road and managed a pained smile as they approached and slowed their pace. “Morning, boys,” he called. “Have you got a minute to help a couple of travelers?”
The young men slowed, and Fidelias took in the
details as they came closer. Young, both of them—less than a score of years of age. Both were slender, though one was tall and already seemed to be losing his hair to a receding hairline. They shared similar long, lean features — brothers, perhaps. Both were panting, though not heavily, from their run along the road. Fidelias tried to smile again and offered them his water flask.
“Sir,” panted the taller of the young men, accepting the flask. “Much obliged.”
“You hurt?” asked the shorter. He leaned a bit closer, peering at Fidelias’s feet. “Crows. You’ve really gotten them torn up.”
“The storm forced us off the road last night,” Fidelias said. “There was a flood, and I had to kick my shoes off to swim. Been walking without them all morning, but I had to stop.”
The young man winced. “I’ll bet.” He accepted the flask from his brother with a nod, took a quick drink, and offered it back to Fidelias. “Sir,” he said, “maybe you’d better get off the road. I’m not sure it’s safe here.”
Fidelias glanced at Aldrick, who nodded and made himself look busy redressing Fidelias’s injured foot. “Why do you say that, son?”
The taller of the pair answered. “There’s been problems in the Valley, sir. Last night there was a big uprising of furies—local furies from holders, that is. And my youngest brother spotted what he swears was a Marat scout by our steadholt—that would be Warnerholt, sir.”
“A Marat?” Fidelias gave the young man a skeptical smile. “Surely your brother was having some fun at your expense.”
The Warnerholter shook his head. “Regardless, there’s been trouble in the Valley, sir. Me and my brothers came home to help my father with a local matter, and it got out of hand. There was a fight, almost some killings. And we saw smoke coming from out east, near Aldoholt. Put together with last night, and this sighting, we decided it would be best to put the word out.”
Fidelias blinked. “My. So you’re off to warn Garrison of trouble?”
The young man nodded, grimly. “Head back down the road the way we came a piece, and look for a trail to the south. It will take you to Bernardholt. We’d best not stay here, if you’ll pardon us, sir. Sorry we can’t help you.”
