This is madness! There has to be another way!
And then suddenly it hit him. He stopped packing, his hand clutching some extra clothes he had been about to shove into a small sack.
“Hurry up,” Jerrod said, noticing him standing there frozen in place.
When he didn’t move, Keegan came over to him, and asked, “Vaaler, what’s wrong?”
He opened his fingers and let the clothes drop to the snow-covered ground at his feet.
“I’m not going,” he declared.
“What?”
“I’m not going,” he repeated. “I’m going to stay with the clans and advise them on military strategy.”
Keegan’s jaw gaped. “I … I don’t understand.”
“This war is partly my fault,” Vaaler told him, speaking quickly. “I know the ways of the Danaan. I can help the clans. Give them a fighting chance.”
“You come with us,” Jerrod said flatly, overhearing his words. “Your place is with Keegan.”
“No,” Vaaler informed him. “It’s not. I’ve done everything I can for him; he doesn’t need me anymore. But if I stay here, I can save lives. Lots of lives.”
“You have to teach Keegan to control his power,” Jerrod insisted. “You have to continue the training he began with Rexol.”
“He’s gone far beyond anything Rexol ever taught him.”
“He’s right,” Keegan said. “About everything.”
Jerrod shook his head. “Your destiny is bound with Keegan’s. If you abandon us now, you put the entire world in peril!”
“You don’t know that,” Vaaler shot back, suddenly sick of the monk’s stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t suit his own plans.
“How many times have you reinvented your prophecy since I met you?” he demanded. “How many times have you been wrong about something? You’re just as lost as the rest of us; you just can’t admit it. Not even to yourself.”
“I have never wavered from my belief in Keegan’s destiny!” Jerrod said, his normally calm and even voice betraying more emotion than Vaaler expected.
“You keep talking about Keegan’s destiny, but what about my destiny? Maybe I have my own path to walk!”
Jerrod opened his mouth to say something else but closed it when Keegan put a restraining hand on the monk’s arm.
“He’s made his decision,” the young man told him. “Nothing you say will change his mind.”
Realizing it was true, Jerrod simply turned away from them both and resumed his packing. Keegan cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the monk, then shrugged apologetically.
“Don’t worry,” Vaaler told his friend. “Scythe and Jerrod will take care of you.”
“I’m more worried about you,” Keegan said. “You’re right about this. I know you are. But will the chiefs even listen to you?”
“Shalana might,” Vaaler said after thinking about it.
“What if she’s not the one in charge?”
“Then I’ll probably be executed as a spy.”
The hall was very crowded and very loud. The echoes of the chiefs’ angry shouts, protests, and arguments echoed off the stone walls, causing Shalana’s head to ache.
By the time they had all gathered, most of the chiefs had heard rumors of what the meeting was to be about. But when Roggen addressed them and spoke of the mystical Sword of Daemron, scornful bedlam had erupted.
“Our people are being slaughtered, and you speak of fairy tales?”
“Has Hadawas finally gone senile?”
“Myths and legends won’t stop the Tree Folk army!”
Shalana knew there was nothing to do but let their anger run its course. Eventually they’d realize that no matter what they thought of Hadawas and the Sword, it did little to change the stark reality of the situation.
After several minutes the shouts and curses began to die down, and Roggen once again dared to address the group.
“Whether you believe in Hadawas or not is up to you,” he told them. “I know his mind is right; I know he would not speak of such things without good cause. But that is not why you are here.
“The Danaan army is real—on that we can all agree. We cannot stop it alone. Our only hope is to join together against this common enemy.”
“You mean join together under the Sun Blades!” a voice called out from the crowd, causing another round of angry shouting.
Roggen held his hands up, pleading for silence that grudgingly came.
“Hadawas is still the Sun Blade Chief, and he is not here. You must choose another from among your ranks to lead you.”
This time the reaction was so loud it actually made Shalana wince and turn her head away from the cacophony of voices, as every man and woman in attendance tried to shout out the reasons for their own candidacy.
This won’t end well, she thought.
There was no love lost among any of the Eastern tribes. Stronger clans used violence and threats to extort tribute from the weak, but the tribute brought no loyalty or allegiance with it. It was hard to imagine any of the smaller tribes willingly following a chief from the Sun Blades, Wind Walkers, or even the Stone Spirits—being forced to bow down to them had bred too much resentment and mistrust. On the other hand, none of the larger clans would ever follow a chief from one that was smaller and weaker—it was an insult no warrior would accept. And the medium-sized clans were either growing, which made them too ambitious for others too trust, or shrinking, which made them desperate.
Listening to the dozens of arguments raging all around her, Shalana realized that some of the chiefs were trying to form alliances. But the wounds of generations of discord ran deep, and the negotiations failed time and time again.
It wasn’t just ego that got in the way, however. Whoever was chosen to lead them would decide where the warriors from the various clans would be placed during battle. There was a legitimate fear that the chief in charge would put the safety of his or her own people above all others.
How could any war party function if the warriors had no confidence in their leader? How could they fight without fear and doubt if they believed that the chief valued the lives of some more than others … or even more than victory?
Maybe Norr is right, Shalana realized as an idea began to form. Maybe I am the only one who can unite them.
The shouting had fallen to a dull roar as the chiefs slowly wore themselves out. Knowing she would have only one chance to win them over, Shalana decided the time was right to act.
Striding quickly to the center of the room, she jumped up on the long, waist-high table. Tilting her head back, she placed two fingers against her teeth and blew a long, shrill whistle. The piercing wail reverberated through the hall, causing nearly everyone to bring their hands up to their ears.
“Do you think the Tree Folk generals waste their time fighting like dogs over a bone?” she called out in the moment of silence that followed. “Do you think their army will wait idly by while you bicker like children?”
She braced for a scathing response, but her words had momentarily shamed the others into speechlessness. Seizing the advantage, she charged into the breach.
“This is not about honor. This is not about clans. This is about survival! The Danaan do not want tribute; they want our lives!
“If we do not pick someone to lead us tonight—this hour—then everyone you know and love will die! Do you fools understand this?”
“You are not even a chief,” someone called out. “Why are you even here?”
“You all know me!” Shalana shot back. “I am Terramon’s daughter. For five years I ruled the Stone Spirits, and I never lost a battle!”
“You lost to the Red Bear,” another voice called out.
“The Red Bear is gone,” Shalana told them. “He has gone with Hadawas to find Daemron’s Sword. He would rather chase after a myth than listen to the pathetic mewling in this room!”
Shalana snapped her head from side to side, her icy glare daring anyone else to
speak up.
“None of you is worthy of leading us against this foe,” she spat. “You are blinded by prejudice and self-importance, and your duty to your own clan. That is the burden of being chief—I know for I was once like you.”
She paused, waiting for someone else to speak.
“But I am not a chief anymore. I have been humbled. I have been brought low. I have been shunned by my own people. That is why you must choose me to lead the clans.”
Another angry roar rose up from the crowd. Shalana let it rage for several seconds, then killed it with another ear-shattering whistle.
“If you choose me,” she told them, “I promise the Stone Spirits will be on the front lines of every battle, and I will be at their head. If a life must be sacrificed, it will be mine or one of my people.
“I make this vow to you because I know this is the price of victory. If I am not willing to risk my own life, then all our lives will be forfeit. Can any of you make the same promise?”
There was a long, heavy silence in the air. Then Qarr, Chief of the Black Wings, climbed up on the table to stand beside her.
“When we refused to pay tribute to the Stone Spirits,” he said in a deep voice, his words carrying to the farthest reaches of the hall, “Shalana and her thanes broke our ranks.
“She could have punished us for our defiance. She could have doubled or tripled our tribute and left us to starve through the winter. But she did not do this. Instead, she showed us mercy.”
He turned to face Shalana, then dropped to one knee.
“The Black Wings owe you our lives. I pledge my clan to you.”
On the floor just in front of the table where Shalana stood, a broad-shouldered woman dropped to her knee, and declared, “The Moon Eyes will follow you.”
Beside her, the Wind Walker chief did the same. “My clan is yours.”
As if on cue, every chief in the room dropped down, their voices rising up one after the other as they all pledged themselves to Shalana.
Elated as she felt, Shalana knew there wasn’t time to relish her victory.
“Rise, my thane-chiefs,” she told them, inventing the new title on the spot. “Go to your camps and tell your thanes what has happened. Send runners to spread the news to all the clans.
“Tell your people who cannot fight—the mothers and children, the artisans and craftsmen, the old and infirm—to head to Giant’s Maw at the foot of the mountains on the easternmost borders of our land. Tell them to bring food, tents, blankets, and any other supplies they can carry. As much as possible. The Maw will be our place of final refuge, a camp far from the path of the invading horde where they can seek shelter through the winter.
“But tell your warriors to gather here at the Conclave,” she added, her voice rising slightly. “Tell them to bring their weapons and courage! Tell them all the clans will fight side by side. Tell them the battle for our land has begun, and we will drive the Tree Folk back into the forests!”
A great cheer rose up from the chiefs, and they saluted her with raised fists and chants of her name for several seconds before they began filing out of the hall. Shalana stayed on top of the table, watching them go until only she and Roggen were left.
“An impressive performance,” he told her, holding out a hand to help her down from the table. “I did not believe it could be done.”
Shalana ignored his hand and jumped down to the floor beside him.
“Would you rather see us all ground under the boots of the Danaan?” she asked.
“On behalf of Hadawas, I pledge the Sun Blades to you,” he said in answer though he didn’t bother to drop to his knee.
He turned to go, then suddenly stopped. Without looking back, he said, “They will hold you to your promise, you know. The Stone Spirits—and you—must lead us into battle.”
“The Stone Spirits will lead you,” she replied.
Satisfied, he walked out the exit, leaving her alone. Or so she thought until she noticed Vaaler sitting in the farthest corner of the hall, half-hidden by the shadows.
“How long were you there, Spy?” she asked.
“Long enough,” he said, getting up and coming over. “Norr said the chiefs would pick you. I’m glad to see he was right.”
“Why are you still here?” she wanted to know. “I thought Hadawas and the others had already left.”
“They have,” Vaaler said. “But I’m staying with you. I know the Danaan ways. I can help you.”
“The others won’t like it,” she warned him.
“That’s why I waited until everyone was gone to tell you.”
“Be honest with me, Vaaler,” she said, noting the young man’s eyes go wide upon hearing her use his real name. “With your help, can we defeat them?”
“No,” he said sadly. “Probably not. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t fight.”
Chapter 29
IT HAD TAKEN two days for Hadawas and his entourage—six handpicked warriors, plus Scythe, Norr, Keegan, and Jerrod—to reach the edge of the mountains. The entire way, they’d fought a steady headwind: an endless wave of frozen air rolling down the mountains and across the plains. The temperature steadily dropped until even the exertion of their march couldn’t keep Scythe from shivering.
As they drew closer, the jagged rock faces looming ahead seemed to shoot straight up into the air. Scythe could see that halfway up the smaller peaks the gray rock turned white with a covering of ice and snow. On the taller mountains the top simply vanished into the thick clouds high above.
According to their guide, the Sword lay on the other side of this formidable range. The old man had ridden on a sled for the journey, just as Norr had done earlier. But no amount of rest could heal old age, and as they made camp at the mountain’s base she wondered what would happen with their guide as the way become too steep and rugged for the sled.
With night falling, the small group huddled around a hastily dug fire pit, positioning Hadawas’s sled to block some of the wind. They’d brought extra clothes for the journey: heavy gloves, blankets, and bits of cloth they could wrap themselves in from head to toe. But even wearing so many layers that she could hardly move, Scythe still felt the sting of the cold.
Norr tossed a small brick of peat moss into the pit, and one of Hadawas’s warriors lit it with his flint and tinder. Scythe and the others pressed in close, eagerly absorbing the dull heat while ignoring the heavy, cloying smoke curling up.
“We will never be able to climb these peaks,” Jerrod noted once everyone had settled in. “Even if the weather holds.”
Scythe didn’t normally agree with the monk, but in this case she felt the same way.
“There are passes through the mountains,” Hadawas informed him. “Narrow, treacherous, and well hidden. But I know where to find them.”
“And what about the Sword?” Jerrod pressed. “Where is it?”
“For centuries it has been hidden away in a small cave, watched over by the Guardian—the last surviving servant of the Old Gods.”
Of course, Scythe thought. Why wouldn’t there be an ancient, magical protector taking care of the Sword?
A few months ago she would have dismissed the Guardian as an imaginary character in a folktale. Now, given all she had seen, she would actually be more surprised if the Guardian weren’t real.
“How do you know all this?” Jerrod demanded.
“Most clans have forgotten the tales of our forefathers,” Hadawas said. “But some—like the Sun Blades—have kept the history of the East alive. These stories were told to me by my mother, who learned them from her father. They have been passed down generation to generation since the Cataclysm, preserving the ancient knowledge.
“I have spent many years gathering the stories from any who preserve and protect the knowledge of our past. This is how I learned of the Sword and its protector.”
“So do you know how we can defeat the Guardian?” Scythe asked.
“Maybe we don’t have to,” Norr suggested.
“Keegan is destined to save the mortal world. Maybe if we explain this, the Guardian will give him the Sword willingly.”
“Perhaps,” Hadawas said, though he clearly didn’t think that would happen.
From somewhere far away and high above them a strange cry echoed through the night, sending a shiver down Scythe’s spine. The sound fell somewhere between a howl and a scream before trailing off in a maniacal, throaty laugh.
“What was that?” Keegan asked, clearly as unsettled by the strange noise as Scythe, though she did a better job of hiding it.
“Yeti,” one of the warriors whispered.
“Twisted half-human monsters that stalk the mountains,” Hadawas explained. “Legends hold that they were once a clan who sought Daemron’s Sword shortly after the Cataclysm split the world, though they never found it.
“The power of the Sword changed them, transforming them from men and women into beasts while driving them mad.”
Another of the bizarre howls rang out, answering the first. Though it was difficult to pinpoint a location, it clearly came from another direction than the first.
“How many of those things are there?” Keegan wondered.
“Nobody knows the yeti numbers,” Hadawas said. “Maybe a few dozen. Maybe hundreds. Maybe more.”
Several more cries echoed over the peaks. Despite what Hadawas had said about the yeti’s origins, Scythe heard nothing intelligent or human in them. Even the cackling laughter at the end was bestial and unnatural.
“Should we post a guard?” Jerrod asked.
“The yeti never leave the mountain,” Hadawas assured him.
“What about once we enter their territory?” Scythe wanted to know.
“The yeti do not hunt humans,” the old chief stated confidently. “They will not bother us.”
Despite his reassurances, Scythe barely slept that night, shivering uncontrollably even with Norr’s great bulk pressed close against her and snapping awake each time a yeti howled.
The camp woke next morning to a light snow flurry; large flakes swirled around them, dancing in the air that had dropped another twenty degrees.
The Scorched Earth Page 29
