Valorian

6

For the second time in his life, Valorian slept past noon the following day. He woke slowly, luxuriously, on his pallet of furs to find his wife had left a bowl of meat and some hard bread by his blankets. He ate ravenously, washing down the food with long swallows of ale until the bowl was scraped clean.

When he rose to dress, he discovered his clothes had been cleaned and mended and left for him by the sleeping curtain. Outside, he could hear the noisy activity of the clanspeople breaking camp. He dressed quickly, for there was one more thing he wanted to do before he went to work. He wanted a shave.

Valorian stretched his right hand and fingers, wondering if he could handle a shaving knife. He felt better than he had in days, but his hand was still rather numb and difficult to use. He wondered if he would ever regain the feeling in his hand or shake the strange heat that warmed his body. Now that he could remember the lightning strike, he knew where the strange injuries to him and the burn on Hunnul’s shoulder had come from. He was sure it was only because of Amara that the damage wasn’t any worse. He also realized how his sword had been ruined.

Out of curiosity, he found his sword hanging in its customary place on the center tent pole. He drew it from the sheath and studied it carefully. On closer examination, he noticed that the point wasn’t completely melted. It was simply rippled, and the metal itself seemed to be stronger and more pliable. With some careful polishing and sharpening, he thought perhaps he could save the weapon. It would look strange, but anything would be better than a Tarnish blade.

Valorian was about to return the weapon to its sheath when Kierla came in with a bowl of warm water. She smiled in delight. “Good day, my husband.”

He stared hard at her, for she seemed different somehow. Her step was lighter and her eyes glowed with a new light of bliss and triumph that he had never seen before.

She saw him staring at her and surprised him by blushing. She had wanted to wait to tell him until there was proof of her pregnancy, but she couldn’t contain her joy before him. With a quick step, Kierla stood before her husband.

“I cannot prove to you yet that what I say is true,” she said breathlessly, her wide-mouthed smile radiant, “but after last night, I am carrying your son.” Valorian was dumbfounded. After so many years of disappointment, he had never imagined she would tell him this.

“How—how can you know so soon?” he asked.

“Amara told my heart.”

Amara. Valorian felt happiness and gratitude well up inside him until he grabbed his wife by the waist and whirled her around the small tent. Of course, Amara. The goddess had wrought this miracle in thanks. If he had received nothing else, this gift of a child alone was worth the journey into Ealgoden.

Valorian set Kierla down, hugging her in his powerful embrace.

With a laugh, she pushed him away. “Your beard scratches. It has to go!”

She picked up the warm water, took out her knife, steered Valorian to their small stool, and proceeded to shave off the dark growth of beard. When she finished, he rubbed his jaw in appreciation and kissed her firmly.

Kierla pulled him off the stool. “That was my time alone with you. The rest of the camp needs you now.” She hesitated a moment, her eyes downcast. “Valorian, I have told you my secret because I knew you would believe me, but I would rather wait to tell the rest of the family when Mother Willa confirms it.”

He understood and agreed. The Clan was going to find the news hard to believe, even with proof. At least this would silence the skeptics who advised him to turn her out. He chuckled. It was too bad he couldn’t tell his father.

Still grinning to himself, Valorian left Kierla to pack their belongings and went outside to help tear down the camp. Two of his dogs sprang up to greet him at the tent entrance. He rumpled their ears as he looked around at the noisy activity. A great deal had been accomplished while he slept. Most of the tents were already struck and loaded on the two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts. The goat pens, the larger corrals, and the baking ovens had been dismantled and the bare patches of earth covered with loose dirt, leaves, and pine needles. Several of the older boys stood guard in the meadow over the small herd of horses and another herd of sheep and goats. Valorian could see his grandmother, Mother Willa, stirring the coals of the big central fire while her youngest grandson dumped dirt on the dying embers. Adults hurried through the disappearing camp, trying to get organized, and children and dogs ran everywhere.

The clansman heard a nicker close by and turned to see Hunnul beside the tent. The stallion’s shaggy winter coat had been curried to a shine by someone who had also combed his mane and tail and treated his burn. He had been fed, too, for a few telltale wisps of hay hung unheeded from his mouth.

Valorian scratched the stallion’s neck lovingly. He decided not to ride Hunnul today—the horse deserved a rest. Instead, the black could guard the brood mares while the family moved camp.

Hoofbeats caught Valorian’s attention, and he watched Alden and Ranulf come riding into camp, looking dirty, sweaty, and tired. Both riders spotted him and rode to greet him.

“It’s done,” Aiden announced, sliding off his mount. “If the Tarns ever find the bodies, they’ll think the fools got caught in a rockslide.” He slapped some dust off his leggings. “We got rid of the horses, too. We had to bury one with the soldiers for authenticity, but we turned the others loose high in the mountains.”

“What about Sergius?” Valorian asked quietly.

His brother grimaced. “We had to bury him somewhere else. There was no disguising the burn on his chest.”

Valorian barely nodded, his face set and unreadable.

“Unfortunately,” Aiden went on, “we couldn’t find his horse. I’m afraid it bolted for home.”

“Then we’ll have to take our chances that the Tarns will assume Sergius fell off and got lost.”

“The sooner we put some distance between this place and ourselves the better.” Aiden tipped his head in a thoughtful manner and asked, “But why Fearral’s camp? That old dotard won’t help us with anything.”

Valorian’s jaw tightened. This was a running argument he had had with Aiden for years. “He is our lord chieftain. Give him the respect his title deserves.”

“When he earns it,” muttered Aiden.

Valorian ignored that and added, “I don’t want to ask for help. I need to talk to him.”

“About the pass?”

“Yes.”

The younger man threw up his hands in disgust. “Why waste your time? He’ll never listen. That old man would rather die and take the Clan with him than ever risk leaving Chadar. His feet have turned to stone! Why, he hasn’t even bothered to move camp in three years. He just drinks his wine, hides in his tent, and grovels twice a year to General Tyrranis.”

While Valorian listened to his brother’s impassioned words, his attention had fallen on Ranulf, who was standing silently and bashfully behind Aiden. Ranulf was Kierla’s cousin, a shy, withdrawn young man who preferred solitude to the busy camp. Valorian knew he had been horrified by his negligence on guard duty and would do anything to help erase his shame.

“I know Lord Fearral’s weaknesses,” Valorian said sharply to Aiden. “But I’m going to try to convince him anyway.” He turned to Ranulf. “Of course, I could use some help.” The young man started in surprise. “I know the pass is somewhere south of here. Someone should go look for it so we can tell Lord Fearral exactly where it is.”

Ranulf leaped on the dangled opportunity. “Please let me go, Valorian. My horse and I can find it and be back before you reach Stonehelm.”

“I doubt that,” Valorian said, pleased nevertheless by Ranulf’s willingness. “The journey will be long and difficult, but if you are willing to try, I would be deeply grateful.”

Ranulf whooped with relief and sprang on his horse to go gather his gear before everything was packed.

Aiden watched him go. “Even if Ranulf finds that pass, it won’t change Fearral’s mind. Then what?”

Valorian clapped his brother on the back. “One step at a time, Aiden. That’s how you climb mountains.” With that, he strode off.

Sometime later, when the afternoon sun was slanting through the trees, the clanspeople gathered for the last time in the meadow. The priest and priestess for the Clan deities recited the prayers for the breaking of camp and blessed the entire caravan. As soon as they were through, Valorian rode to the front of his family, where he turned to face them. He held up his hand for silence.

“All of you heard my tale last night,” he began, “and some of you may even believe it. You have also seen the power Amara granted to me and the deadly effect of its force. It is a Power that could do great good for the Clan or great damage. Until I know why the Mother of All has given me this gift, I ask all of you to swear to silence. When the time comes that my duty to Amara is understood, I will reveal the Power as it was intended.” He looked around at their faces and was satisfied. He knew he didn’t need to say anything about the killing of the four Tarns. For the sake of their own lives, no one would breathe a word anywhere about that.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “we have a chance to escape this land of oppressors and find a realm of our own. To do that, I must convince Lord Fearral to accept my plan to leave Chadar once and for all. He wouldn’t be very cooperative if he thought I had had dealings with gorthlings.”

The clanspeople chuckled at that remark, for Lord Fearral was notorious for his superstitious nature. Although the family members themselves were leery of Valorian’s new power, they couldn’t help but be proud that one of their .own seemed to be in the light of Amara’s grace. Those who understood the implications of Valorian’s belief in a new life for the Clan also understood the nearly impossible task he faced of persuading Lord Fearral to agree. Most of Valorian’s group accepted his desire to leave Chadar and were willing to follow him wherever he chose to go, but the rest of the Clan didn’t know of his plan, and they would be hard to budge without Fearral’s approval.

With loud voices, Valorian’s family swore on the light of the sun and the honor of the Clan that they would not speak of Valorian’s experiences until he was ready. Their leader nodded his head in thanks.

Drawing his sword, Valorian galloped his horse to the head of the caravan and gave a shout to start the wagons on their way. The people echoed his cry; dogs barked, horses neighed, and children yelled until the valley meadow rang with noise. Flanked by armed riders, the wagons followed a narrow trail upstream several leagues to a place where the valley broadened and a wide, treeless hill offered an easy way out. More guards, other riders, and the herds of stock brought up the rear.

By evening, the camp in the meadow had vanished. Only a close observer would have noticed the faint rope marks on trees, the disguised bare patches where the tents had stood, or the tracks leading out of the valley.

For nine days, the caravan traveled north through the Bloodiron Hills at a leisurely pace. Now that they were safely away from their old camp and a possible search by the Tarns for the four missing men, they took their time moving their herds and wagons along trails only the clanspeople knew.

Spring went with them in all her warmth and delicate colors. The days were dry and pleasant and breezy, making the journey a joy. Only the nights were still cold enough for cloaks, furs, and fires.

Kierla had repaired an old cloak to replace Valorian’s lost one, but he rarely used it. It seemed to him that when he was struck by the lightning, some of its intense heat had remained in his body. Even when the winds blew cold from the snow-capped mountains, he was still comfortable in merely a tunic. He hated to think how he would feel in the heat of summer if this strange condition didn’t wear off.

Late in the afternoon of the ninth day, Valorian’s caravan spotted Stonehelm, the huge, rounded dome of white granite that sat like an upside-down bowl in the midst of the meadows, hills, and scattered woods. They, in turn, were seen by one of Lord Fearral’s sentries. A long note from the guard’s horn signaled the camp on the outcropping, and by the time the caravan reached the edge of the fields surrounding the stone hill, people were coming down to welcome them.

Because of its position on top of the natural fortress and Lord Fearral’s status as lord chieftain of the Clan, the camp at Stone helm was different from the camps of the other nomadic family groups. It looked much like a fortified village. It had a wide variety of huts, wooden sheds, stalls, workshops, and stables, all surrounded by a ring of palisades. Near the back of the town was the only permanent temple to the Clan deities and the natural spring that supplied the town with water. A small, crude market sat by the gate, and in the center of town stood Lord Fearral’s wooden hall.

The population of Stonehelm was much larger and more diverse than the other groups, too, since it tended to draw in the smaller families and unattached people who desired the safety of numbers. Unfortunately the greater number of people in one place put a heavy strain on the natural resources of the area, and some clanspeople, for the first time, were attempting to plant crops in the fields at the base of the hill—a time—consuming occupation the nomadic people had never tried before.

Valorian shook his head when he saw the changes Lord Fearral had been making. It had been a long time since he had seen his wife’s uncle, and in that time, the roots of Stonehelm had spread deeper and wider. This growing permanence wasn’t going to make his task of moving the Clan any easier.

He helped settle the caravan in an open, grassy field not far from the road to town. As was customary in the Clan, their hosts brought firewood and offerings of food to welcome the visitors to their camp. Valorian set up his tent and tended to Hunnul. Then he, Kierla, and Aiden went to pay their respects to the lord chieftain.

They found Fearral in his hall, sitting in judgment over a man caught stealing a horse. The newcomers gaped in surprise at the large hall while they waited for Fearral to finish.

“What is he trying to do?” Aiden hissed to Valorian. “Compete with General High and Mighty Tyrranis?”

Valorian had to agree. The wooden hall was larger than anything the clanspeople had ever built, and he wondered if Fearral had brought in Chadarian craftsmen for the job. The design of the building certainly looked suspiciously similar to Chadarian architecture. The raftered ceiling had the typical timbered construction of lowland houses, the row of pillars down the center of the hall used the same popular fluted carvings, and Fearral had even hung weapons, cave lion pelts, and a Tarn—made tapestry on the walls.

“How did he pay for all of this?” Kierla whispered.

Aiden curled his lip in contempt, crossed his arms, and glared at the ceiling.

The three clanspeople had to wait a long while to see Fearral. The case against the accused horse thief wasn’t clear, and since the punishment for guilt was death, the chieftain wanted to be certain of the facts. A number of people came forth to stand up for the man, but in the end, too’ much proof was piled against him.

“Guilty,” Lord Fearral finally pronounced, and over the sudden wailing of the man’s relatives, he ordered the customary sentence. The man was to be taken to the fields at dawn, where he was to be staked out on the ground and trampled to death by a stampede of horses.

Valorian nodded once in agreement. The sentence was harsh, but in a society whose survival depended upon horses, the animals had to be protected for the good of all.

Slowly the large hall emptied of the clanspeople there for the trial. Lord Fearral’s two daughters and several other women began to set up trestle tables for the evening meal while a boy lit the fire in the central hearth. The smell of roasting meat wafted in from an outside kitchen.

Valorian waited until Lord Fearral was finished talking to two men before he approached the old chief. When he drew closer, he was surprised at how much the chieftain had aged since he had seen him last. Fearral’s long hair was totally white now, and his beard was thin, gray, and stained around the mouth. His eyes were rheumy and bloodshot; his hands trembled noticeably. Red patches high on his cheeks and on his nose colored his weathered skin. In the midst of the new changes, Valorian was also rather surprised to see an amulet bag hanging around Fearral’s neck. The bag was an ancient Clan custom that most people had given up.

Keeping his expression bland, Valorian greeted his wife’s uncle with grave respect.

“Valorian!” Fearral greeted him warmly. “How good to see you.” The chief kissed Kierla on the cheek with affection and accepted Aiden’s negligible salute. “You’re moving early this spring. We haven’t held our Birthright yet.”

“Neither have we, Lord Fearral, but I—”

Fearral cut him off brusquely. “Oh? Well, then, stay and celebrate with us.” He glanced over Valorian’s shoulder at the doorway as if he was in a hurry to get away.

“My lord, I really need to talk—”

“Be glad to,” the chieftain interrupted, unable to stifle his anxious expression. “We’ll be having our evening meal soon. Stay and we can talk later.”

Before the three clanspeople could say another word, the chief hurried out the door.

“Drunken old goat,” Aiden muttered. “He’s probably going to his nearest wineskin.”

Valorian made a sound of irritation deep in his throat. “Whatever you think of the man, Brother, he is still our lord chieftain. We must give him our support and obey our vow of fealty, or what’s left of the Clan will fall apart.” He grunted. Who was he trying to convince, Aiden or himself?

“I know, I know,” Aiden replied. “But Fearral makes it very difficult.”

The three began walking to the entrance. “What I would like to know,” Kierla said, stopping by the wide double doors, “is how he got all of this.” She pointed to the Tarnish tapestry on the opposite wall behind the chieftain’s big carved chair. “And did you see his clothes? Lowland weave with ivory buttons. How could he buy something like that?”

“Easily,” a new voice answered her from just outside the door. Mordan, one of Lord Fearral’s personal guards, stepped in to join them. “First he sold off all our excess stock animals and suggested we take up farming.” He laughed at the grimace on Aiden’s face. “Then our lord began selling our breeding stock: goats, sheep, the few cows we had, even the horses. Do you know,” he added, leaning against the doorframe, “that we have no pure-blooded Harachan horses left here? Our last stallion went to pay for that tapestry and the Chadarian craftsmen who finished this hall.” His narrowed eyes watched the other three for their reactions.

“That’s outrageous!” Kierla cried. “What is he going to do when there are no more animals?”

An ironic smile twisted Mordan’s rugged face. “We wonder the same. The only things of value we have left are the women and children. I suppose we could borrow from some of the other families. Unfortunately, everyone has already paid his chieftain’s gifts for the year and won’t have anything else to spare until next year.”

Valorian remained silent while Mordan talked. He was stunned by the suggestion of such a betrayal. The Harachan horse was the only true Clan—bred horse in existence and was one of the finest, most sought—after animals in the Tarnish Empire. The Clan had survived as long as it had by hoarding its remaining stock of purebreds and selling or trading the foals for taxes. Without good breeding animals, the Clan families wouldn’t be able to pay their tribute to General Tyrranis, who was looking for the slightest excuse to be rid of the Clan once and for all. For a lord chieftain to deliberately betray his people like that for his own comfort was unbelievable.

Mordan must have seen the disbelief in Valorian’s face, because he straightened up and touched his chest with two fingers, a sign that he was swearing to the truth. “Valorian, we don’t know each other well, but I have been watching you for the past few years, and I know you seek what is good for the Clan. Look around this camp. Study the people. Ride through our empty fields. Then come talk to me.” He nodded to Kierla and stalked off, his dark blond hair swinging like a horse’s tail under his helmet.

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.

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.