The Lonak woman brought a dozen or so more Sentar to hear the story, squatting around the fire as Kiral translated Dahrena’s tale. The presence of Wise Bear and Iron Claw was an obvious source of discomfort but apparently not sufficient to assuage the desire for a new tale. They sat, clearly fascinated as she related her dim memory of the destruction of her village. Some became agitated when she mentioned the wolf that had borne her through the forest, but they all stayed until she finished, relating how Lord Al Myrna had found her and made her his daughter, nodding and grunting in appreciation as she fell silent.
“They liked it,” Kiral said, a note of relief in her voice. “A good story means much to my people.” She tensed somewhat as Alturk stepped from the shadow of a nearby crag, arms crossed and gaze fixed on Dahrena.
“You lived as Merim Her,” he said. “But your arms are adorned with Seordah trinkets.”
“I am both Merim Her and Seordah,” she replied evenly. “In soul if not in blood.”
Alturk grunted something that might have been a laugh. “Lonak blood doesn’t weaken so easily. You may feel it swell again before this tale is done.” He growled something at the onlooking Sentar and they quickly scrambled to their feet before disappearing into the shadows. “Be sure to wake before dawn,” he told Vaelin, stalking back into the night.
• • •
The first attack came the following day as they traversed a deep canyon half a day’s march from the plateau. A group of some two dozen Lonak appeared out of a cave mouth to launch a volley of arrows before hurling themselves at the Sentar, clearly intent on fighting their way through to the hated Merim Her. Only one managed to breach the cordon, the others being clubbed down or speared in short order, seemingly without any loss to the Sentar. The lone warrior ran directly for Vaelin, screaming madly with war club raised, then skidding to a halt as Iron Claw lumbered into his path. The Lonak stared, eyes wide in horror as the bear bellowed his challenge, rising to his full height. The warrior dropped his club, apparently now unreasoned by terror and numb to the arrow that punched through his chest a second later. Kiral walked to the corpse, bow in hand, kicking his legs to make sure before kneeling to reclaim her arrow.
They were attacked again three nights later, though this time their assailants were content to linger in the shadows and loose arrows at the campfires, claiming the life of a Sentar who had stepped in front of the glow at the wrong moment. Alturk gathered together twenty warriors and led them into the darkness, returning a little while later with bloodied clubs and lance points. Their efforts seemed to have been enough to ensure an untroubled night and a group of Sentar soon appeared at their fire in search of a story in what was becoming a nightly ritual.
“I’ll take a turn,” Orven said. “The Tale of Lord Vaelin’s Charge at the Battle of Alltor.”
Vaelin got to his feet with a groan. “Spare me.”
“But they want a story, my lord,” Orven said with a small grin.
“I, however, do not.” He walked away from the fire as Orven began the tale, moving through the camp where the other Sentar greeted him with cautious eyes or studied indifference. He found Alturk sitting alone, wiping a buckskin rag over his war club, a recently sharpened knife placed close to his side.
“I come to ask more of your son,” Vaelin said. “I hope my actions had no part in his death.”
Alturk didn’t look up, grunting, “Your hope is wasted.”
“You killed him for disobeying the Mahlessa?”
The Lonak’s eyes rose from his work, bright with warning. “My clan killed him. His death was right and just. And I’ll speak no more of it.”
Vaelin moved to the fire, squatting down to extend his hands to the warmth. The nights grew ever colder, the northerly winds stiff with ample warning of what lay ahead. “My queen told me men are forbidden the company of your Mahlessa,” he said. “You have never met her, yet you follow her word without question.”
“Do you question your queen?”
Vaelin grinned a little. “Not openly.” Alturk failed to respond, putting his war club aside and settling his gaze on the fire. Vaelin saw that the years had aged his face if not his body, lines etched deep into the ink around his eyes.
“You should know,” he told the Lonak, “I believe few of us will return from this journey. Those not claimed by the ice may well fall in battle.”
Alturk sat in silence for several minutes, watching the fire with his aged eyes. Finally, as Vaelin made to leave, he said, “A man already dead need fear nothing.”
• • •
