The Eye of the Chained God (20 page)

Albanon winced at that grandiose declaration, but it seemed to satisfy Cariss. She looked back to Belen. “And why do you need to cross our territory to do it?”

“We need … We’re going …” Belen looked at a loss for words. Albanon came to her rescue.

“We’re looking for aid and think it lies not far beyond your camp,” he said, praying that Cariss wouldn’t ask for any further details.

His prayers were not answered. “Where?” asked the shifter.

Albanon tried to put on an air of confidence as he dredged his mind for a response. Something innocent. Something generic. A picturesque image popped into his imagination, vaguely familiar like a half-remembered drawing. “In a valley,” he said, “below a mountain’s stone face.” He pointed in the direction of his urge. “That way.”

This time, Cariss was the one who blinked. The other Tigerclaws stirred and Albanon felt a sudden unease. Had he just described some site sacred to the barbarians? Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

But then Cariss silenced the others with a swift gesture of her spear—and lifted the weapon away from him. Her catlike features broke into a smile. “Travelers, you are honest,” she said. “Come with us and meet Turbull, leader of the Thornpad clan. He will be interested to hear your story.”

“That’s not necessary,” Albanon said hastily. “We can just be on our way. We don’t need to bother—”

His words ended in a gasp of pain as Belen put her hand over his and squeezed hard. She returned Cariss’s smile. “We are pleased to accept the honor of your invitation.”

Albanon’s hand was still throbbing as they descended into the Tigerclaw camp, leading their horses and escorted by the six warriors. Cariss and two others went ahead, while Hurn and the remaining two followed. Albanon was certain he could feel the scarred shifter’s glare on the back of his neck.

“I think you might have broken something,” he muttered at Belen. “Was that necessary?”

“Tigerclaws take hospitality seriously,” she muttered back. “What was that about a mountain valley?”

“I needed to say something and it was the first thing that came into my head.”

“Well, try not to say anything else. Just follow my lead.”

“Did you really learn all this from escorting Tigerclaws?” asked Uldane. “We hardly ever saw them in Winterhaven—I never knew they went all the way to Fallcrest.”

“For now, let’s say I did and not talk about it anymore.”

Her tone cut off further questions. Tempest reached down and discretely put a hand over Uldane’s mouth before he could say anything else. He shook it off and scowled at the tiefling, but kept silent. Roghar barely even seemed to register the exchange. He just kept staring straight ahead.

Albanon let his aching hand drop to his side and looked around as casually as he could manage. Most of the clan seemed to have come out to stare at the new arrivals. From what Albanon knew of Tigerclaw barbarians, they didn’t interact with outsiders often, at least not in their home territory in the Winterbole Forest. The more he looked around the camp, though, the more he began to suspect that the Thornpad clan hadn’t occupied this area among the Cairngorms for long. The bent wood frames of the hide tents were green enough that they still oozed sap. The lashing was hardly weathered at all. The ground between the tents didn’t have the hardpacked appearance of long wear.

There was something in the faces of the barbarians as well. Warrior and crafter, women with babies on their hips, even now-silent children—all looked tired, afraid, suspicious, and more than a little haunted.

Albanon had seen the same look on the faces of the refugees crowding Fallcrest.

Some of the watching warriors came up to stride alongside their escort, exchanging quiet words with them. Hurn noticed and shouted them off. The warriors scowled and fell back with hard glances at Albanon and the others.

Cariss led them to a tent that was smaller than others but covered entirely in dark hides. An older shifter, apparently alerted to their approach, waited outside for them. A heavy gold chain hung with talismans of bone, feather, and stone lay against his chest, and his thick gray hair was pulled back and bound by another gold ornament. His arms were bare and criss-crossed with the scars of battle. Two short-handled warpicks with polished steel heads and handles inlaid with ivory hung from his belt. Cariss left them to Hurn and the other barbarian warriors and went to speak with the older shifter in low tones. Albanon tried to catch what they said, but couldn’t hear anything. The watching Tigerclaws were pressing closer and murmuring to each other. Hurn glared around and drove them all back a few paces with a fierce snarl.

The older shifter approached with Cariss half a pace behind him. “I am Turbull of the Thornpad clan of the Tigerclaw tribe,” he said without preamble. He gestured. “Cariss. Hurn.”

“I am Belen of Fallcrest.” The warrior introduced each of them in turn and then added, “We didn’t know the Tigerclaw were here or we would have brought gifts. This is all I can offer.”

Belen drew her sword with a swiftness that brought a cry of surprise from Uldane and set Roghar ducking behind his shield. Albanon instinctively put his back to Tempest’s, ready to defend against reprisal, but the Tigerclaws were staring more at them than they were at Belen. She shook her head at them as she offered her sword to Turbull.

He inspected it and chuckled. “You do know our ways,” he said. “A warrior’s offer of her weapon is always an honorable gift—and one that must always be returned because it belongs to her clan, not her.” Turbull handed the sword back to her. “A fine weapon. You said you escorted representatives of Chief Scargash in Fallcrest. Who?”

Albanon bit his tongue. If Belen’s claim was the lie that it seemed, she was almost certainly going to be caught out now. Miraculously, though, she had an answer. “Asheye of the eastern forests, his son Vinya, and some of their warriors. It was some years ago.”

And to Albanon’s surprise, Turbull nodded. “I have heard that Asheye had Scargash’s trust. He has been dead for three winters. Vinya leads their clan now.”

“Seasons change,” Belen said. “Is a warrior named Dutt still serving Vinya?”

Turbull shrugged with casual indifference. “I hear tales of certain warriors. Dutt is not among them, but maybe he has yet to make a name for himself.” And with that, to Albanon’s immense relief, the leader of the Thornpads appeared satisfied with Belen’s claim—or at least unwilling to admit he didn’t know much about a
distant clan. “Come,” he said. “We will eat and you’ll tell me about your journey.”

Albanon’s relief shriveled again. Belen caught his eye as they settled onto woven mats in front of Turbull’s hut and gave him a confident little nod. She still had things under control.

Cariss and Hurn sat with them, along with two other warriors summoned by Turbull so that hosts and guests were in equal numbers and seated in an alternating pattern. Albanon found himself between Cariss and Turbull, with Tempest beyond Cariss and Belen beyond Turbull. Roghar sat beside Hurn and the two big men glared at each other. Albanon threw a warning glance at Uldane, willing him to actually behave for once, but it seemed as if the halfling was already intimidated. He sat quietly, looking around with darting glances.

Food came swiftly—smoking pieces of meat fresh from the fire, bowls of a thick vegetable stew, and some sort of weak beer that smelled of berries. It was presented in belly-filling quantities but Albanon saw more than a few Tigerclaws eyeing it hungrily. He leaned behind Cariss to look questioningly at Belen.

The first thing she said to him was “Sit up. It’s rude to talk behind people’s backs.” Then, once they were both leaning in front of the shifter woman, she added, “Eat what you want. We’re guests.” She nodded to Cariss. “They don’t know.”

Cariss grinned at Albanon, her teeth no less sharp than Tempest’s but somehow more disturbingly predatory.
“Eat what you will and leave the rest. Nothing will go to waste.” She picked up a morsel of meat with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.

They ate and drank mostly in silence. Belen was the only one who talked much, discussing the weather and travel conditions with Turbull and Cariss. Albanon and the others limited their interactions to nods, shared glances, and a few nervous words with the other Tigerclaws. After a little while, it occurred to Albanon that the barbarians were just as uncertain around them. That put him a bit more at ease but he remained wary.

When most of the food and drink had been consumed, Belen bent a little closer to Turbull. “The Cairngorm Peaks are an unusual place to find Tigerclaws. Is Scargash expanding the territory claimed by the tribe?”

Turbull sighed before answering. “Scargash does not expand the Tigerclaw territory,” he said. “The Abyssal Plague ravages the Winterbole Forest just as I hear it ravages the southern Nentir Vale. Scargash’s answer is to call the clans together for defense. I believe another tactic is necessary.”

He gestured around them. “The plague demons haunt Winterbole, spreading their disease and their numbers. Here there are no demons. If we remain vigilant, the Thornpads will be safe.”

“We run and hide like rabbits,” Hurn grumbled into his stew.

“Even hunting cats know when to run from a fight they can’t win,” Cariss said sharply.

“Peace,” said Turbull. He looked back to Belen. “Not everyone agrees with my decision.”

“It wouldn’t be popular. But the hunting seems good at least.”

“It is enough,” Turbull said with a shrug.

“Have you considered moving farther into the mountains?” Roghar asked abruptly. “This place is good, but a mountain valley with limited access would be more defensible.”

Hurn paused in the act of reaching for another bowl of stew. The other Tigerclaws froze as well, though Turbull at least recovered quickly enough that it could have passed as a moment’s hesitation. “We have been considering that. There is a place we are scouting that is almost ideal.”

“Almost?” said Roghar.

Turbull waved the question away. “It is Tigerclaw business. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” He looked around the gathered circle. “But now tell me of your travels. Where you’ve been. Where you’re going.”

The change of conversation was so abrupt it left Albanon with a bad taste in his mouth. As Belen, once more taking the lead, launched into an abbreviated version of their adventures, he looked around at the Tigerclaws. All of them seemed to be listening to the story, but except for Turbull, none were actually looking at Belen. Or him, Roghar, Tempest, or Uldane. They’d all suddenly found great interest in their food. Albanon was willing to guess that Tigerclaw tradition frowned on lying to guests, but had no qualms about omitting information. The clan was hiding something.

But then so was Belen. Although her tale was rambling and artless, she hid most of their experiences with Vestapalk and certainly their involvement in the origins of the Abyssal Plague, describing the dragon only as their enemy. Suitably for a warrior, the bulk of her story focused on the details of their battles and that seemed more than enough for her barbarian audience. Her description of the events at Winterhaven brought the attention of the Tigerclaws back to her. They grunted appreciatively—even Hurn—at Roghar’s decapitating Vestagix with the edge of his shield, drawing a nod and the first smile Albanon had seen in days from the dragonborn.

Belen minimized the role he had played in the end of the battle, describing the madness of his lightning storm merely as a powerful spell and hinting that the devastation of Winterhaven had been the fault of the plague demons. When she had finished, Turbull sat back and nodded to the other Tigerclaws. “Learn from this,” he said. “Our enemies won’t always come at us in packs.” Then he sat forward again, his eyes on Albanon. “But what of this urge that draws you north? What have you learned from it?”

Belen hadn’t been able to leave out everything. She had, however, recast the urge planted in Albanon by Tharizdun and his lie about the valley as a vision granted to him by Ioun. Albanon took a breath and did his best to extemporize without actually lying any more than he already had. “Just that whatever we find at the end of the journey will aid us against Vestapalk and the Abyssal
Plague. The vision itself is vague. I know there’s a mountain valley and a rock face.”

Turbull looked at him expectantly and Albanon realized that he was waiting for more details. “A … a tall rock face.” As he spoke, the image became more real in his mind. A strange feeling spread through him, as if what he described really was what they were searching for. “Taller than a castle tower. A cliff of pale gray stone.”

“How long is it since you first saw this vision?” asked Cariss.

“A few weeks now. A month perhaps, but no more. I denied it for some time.”

“Why? A call from the gods isn’t something to be ignored.”

Albanon cursed silently. He’d said too much. Why would anyone deny a vision from Ioun? “After the plague demon attack on Fallcrest, I just wanted peace.”

“Peace and denial are luxuries from another time,” said Turbull, “but sometimes they are still possible. You will have peace tonight—you will stay with the Thornpad and continue on your way tomorrow.”