Sitting in a circle with a dozen tribesmen, Ranjar Sargos was shaking all five of the knucklebone dice for one last roll. He made his throw, hoping his luck would change and he would win the pile of silver coins and quarter-cut ingots spread before the campfire. While the dice were still in the air, his youngest son, Larkander came crashing into the clearing, knocking over wine bags, mead kegs, silver coins and dice alike.
Before Sargos had time to raise his voice, his son began to talk excitedly, his voice breaking with both eagerness and the first changes of manhood. "Father! The Badger Tribe has arrived! Many of the warriors are hurt or missing. Old Daron sent me to tell you that it's time for the Clan Council. Come, father!"
Vanar Halgoth placed his hand gently on Larkander's arm. "Calm down, son. There can be no meeting without the Silver Fox Tribe."
Larkander shook his head. "Old Daron says the Silver Fox Tribe is no more. They were driven from their lands by the Grassmen from across the Great River. The few survivors have joined with the Badger Tribe. So the Council is going to begin as soon as everyone arrives. Can I go? My initiation is only a few moons away!"
Sargos shook his head. "You are still not a man. When you are, you will have a place at the Clan Council."
Larkander looked down at the ground.
Another tribe lost, thought Sargos to himself, that made two this season. The Clan had shrunk from nine tribes to seven since last winter. Eight tribes, if you counted the Burgduns, who had lost all their men, except for less than a single handful of warriors, two of whom were permanently crippled from the injuries taken when their tribe had been attacked by the Grassmen.
"Come with me," he told his tribesmen. "Larkander, you find your brother and send him to the Council." Bargoth had spent most of his days, since arriving at the Clan Gathering, sitting outside the maiden's long-house, trying to gain Althea's notice. So far he'd been rebuffed, along with half a dozen other young bucks, but it hadn't lessened his determination to win her favor. Occasionally, Sargos had found himself stealing glances over at the maiden's longhouse where she resided. Once they had met accidentally at the river and he couldn't tell who was more uncomfortable when their eyes met.
The Clan Council, which included all the adult males of the Tymannes, met in a large hollow in the shape of a cup. The shape reminded Sargos of the Rathon amphitheater, where he had spent all his gold after two years of hard campaigning in the Trygath. He had only gone to the Games twice, and for the most part had found the staged sword fights between criminals unworthy. Not only did they have no honor, but also few had any skill with weapons other than the knife. Most even died badly.
Only one of the staged contests had been entertaining, but in an unexpected manner. That day the Games had featured wild animals and in one event, he witnessed a remarkable contest, a mother bear and her cub were set on by a small pack of wolves. The bear, trying to protect her cub, had taken the worst of the initial attack, until one of the larger wolves had gutted the baby bear. The mother bear had gone berserk, turning into a killing machine and dispatched the wolves as though they were cubs. Then, when the pack lay dead around her, their blood dripping from her snout, the bear had jumped-without warning-over the inner wall and into the crowd! The wall had been taller than Halgoth and Sargos had never seen a bear jump so high, nor had he seen so many people move so quickly. Even those nowhere near the bear stormed the tunnels to leave. He and Halgoth were laughing so hard they had fallen out of their seats, as they watched the city people in all their finery scramble every which way to escape the bear they had been taunting moments before.
The bear had finally been hunted down and killed by guards, but not before it had killed two score of revelers. Not having lived among so many people before, Sargos was surprised to find that ten times more of the city dwellers had perished in their blind flight to safety, than had been mauled to death by the mother bear. This had sworn Sargos off towns and cities and he had returned to the Raven Tribe never to leave again.
As befitted his station as Warchief of his tribe, Sargos stood near the grassy bottom, where the carved-stone Judgment Table stood. His sub-chiefs and the rest of the Raven warriors stood to his rear. He was shaken when all the Clansmen arrived and he saw with his own eyes that several of the tribes had shrunk by half their number. He had realized many old friends were missing, but not this many. The Raven Tribe was larger by three than any of the other tribes.
The Clan Chief stood before the Judgment Table, and, when the last few stragglers had arrived, he said, "Welcome men of the Tymannes." He gave a sharp look toward the Raven Clan and Sargos wondered why, until he turned and saw Althea standing behind him with her uncle Halgoth. Her unwavering eyes met his and he shrugged his shoulders. Althea had earned her place, woman or not, at this Gathering.
"Clansmen, look around at your fellow clansmen and you will see these are Times of Trouble. Many clans and tribes and all their multitudes have crossed the Great River and it is said that many more wait behind! Two of our tribes, the Horse Tribe and the Silver Fox Tribe are no more. May the gods watch over them! The Horse Tribesmen were ambushed on a hunt by bandits, hundreds of tribeless men brought together by the lust for loot and battle. All but two of the Horse Tribe were killed and the women and children were taken by the lawless. The Silver Fox Tribe was attacked and run off their lands by Grassmen, who hunted them down like cattle! Other tribes of the Tymannes, as you can see by their thin ranks, have taken their own losses. Another bad year like this and the Tymannes will be no more!"
There was a great moan from the assembled warriors.
"It is time to fight, or leave these lands for new ones. We need a Warlord now to lead the Clan. I call Chief Mordar of the Longhorn Tribe to the Table."
Chief Mordar limped up to the Table. Mordar had been a tall, large man only a few years ago, but now, over sixty winters old, he was shrunken by age and the flux. It had been fifteen winters since the Tymannes had called upon a Warlord and much had changed since then, including the former Warlord.
Chief Mordar stood before the Judgment Table, trying to stiffen his bowed back. "I have served before as Warlord in the Time of Troubles, when the Vargox Clan invaded our lands. I will give the Clan the benefit of my many years of war and soldiering among the Lower Sastragath-"
One of the clansmen, from the Dog Tribe, yelled out. "When was your last fight old man? The Longhorn tribesmen hid in the hills when the Grassmen came!"
"Yes, truth," cried several others.
"We want Sargos!"
The Clan needs his war magic!"
"Warlord Sargos!" All two hundred warriors of the Raven Tribe, including the sole woman at the Gathering, quickly joined the chant.
"Quiet!" the Clan Chief shouted. "Who will make the claim for Ranjar Sargos, Chief of the Raven Tribe?"
"I will," Althea said, her woman's voice quieting the assembled tribesmen as if a huge hand had been cupped over the hollow.
Sargos heard one voice off to the left, from the ranks of the Longhorns say, "I hear the woman is a witch. It is said she slew twenty of the Grass-men with only her knife!"
Voices erupted from every camp.
"By what right is this woman allowed to speak!" Mordar shouted; his arms and thighs may have withered, but his voice was still big.
But not as big as the presence of Vanar Halgoth. "By the right oivergelt! This maiden, my niece, has blood right on her side. Althea lost her entire family to the Grassmen and by her own hand cut five of their throats!"
There was a rumble of amazement and surprise.
With her uncle by her side, Althea strode to the Judgment Table, her long blonde hair following like a banner. As he watched her, Sargos thought to himself, this is what we are fighting for, the safety and protection of our women and children. They are the future of all the Tymannes.
She paused to make sure she had everyone's attention before speaking.
"My tribe was slain by the Grassmen. They attacked our camp while our men were at the hunt. They did unspeakable things to our women and killed all our boys over the age of six winters."
This brought forward a collective gasp. Most Tymannes had heard the story around the campfire, but the tale became truth to the warriors, when spoken at the Council by a survivor.
"When our men returned, they were ambushed and killed, by those coyotes in human form, the Grassmen. If it were not for Warchief Sargos, our tribesmen's ghosts would still be seeking their vengeance. Warchief Sargos led a surprise night raid upon their camp and all the Grassmen were killed, their women taken prisoner and all their horses taken."
Even though the Raven Tribe's raid had been talked about for days, there was still a moment of silence as the assembled tribesmen thought about the hundreds upon hundreds of horses that had swelled the Raven's herds to unheard of size.
Althea's eyes locked upon Sargos own as she said, "I think there can be only one choice for Warlord of the Tymannes and that man is Warchief Ranjar Sargos!"
The bowl erupted with thunderous applause and shouts of agreement.
"It is unanimous then," the Clan Chief said, despite the frowns on Mor-dor's face and that of his subchiefs.
Chief Mordor spit on the ground and walked away with all the dignity he could muster.
"The new Warlord of the Tymannes has been chosen. Ranjar Sargos is your Warlord. Come, Ranjar Sargos and speak to your people." The Clan Chief looked as if he were relieved to be able to shift the responsibility for the clan's survival to someone else's shoulder, and at that moment Sargos felt as if he were carrying every clansman-man, woman and child-on his back. The look upon Althea's face as he passed by her somehow made it all worthwhile.
Warlord Sargos stood before the Tymanni warriors. "I make a mighty oath to protect our Clan and our women! I swear this by the Raven Hag of War! Death to all our enemies. Our Clansmen who have died will be avenged!"
The Raven flag was hoisted before Sargos and waved vigorously. The big black bird, with a red morsel in it's beak, appeared to take flight as the flag flapped, and when a flock of crows flew overhead it was called a mighty portent. "The Hag herself rejoices in our Warlord!"
As Sargos watched the big black birds, the scavengers of battlefields, the new Warlord wondered whom they came for? The Tymannes or their enemies? Sargos had a feeling deep in his bones that the answer would not be long in coming.