All the chiefs of the Tymannes sat in the clan's Council Hut. Old Daron had his son with him, a middle-aged man with too much belly and watery eyes. Why, if the gods had to take a son, couldn't they have taken one such as this? Sargos shook his head to help clear his thoughts; then he rose to make the opening prayers so the gods might bless the Folk in this year of great trial.
When the rituals were finished, Sargos had Ikkos called into the hut.
"We traveled five days until we reached the banks of the Great River. Many times we had to hide from strange tribes and war parties. Many of the camps we passed were burned out or deserted. At the camp of the Lyssos we discovered only the dead; the entire tribe had been massacred, even the women and children."
There was a collective shriek at this news. The Lyssos had long been allies of the Tymannes and all had lost friends and kin in their unclean passing. To kill unarmed women and children was against the will of the gods.
"At the banks of the Great River we saw many Grassmen crossing on rafts, some so large they could hold the entire clan! We saw little fighting there, but the river was clogged with the bodies of the dead. Whether from some earlier battle, or one upstream, we never did learn.
"Downstream we came upon a great battle. The Black Knights were attacking a large village, ten times the size of our own camp. They burned the palisades and used great fire tubes to knock them down. When the walls collapsed they stormed the village, killing everyone who did not flee and burnt everything left behind. We too ran for fear they might attack us as well!
"Later we talked to some of the villagers who escaped and they told us the Knights were burning and destroying every village and camp in the Sastragath. They claimed the end of the world was coming. They left us to flee north where they hoped to join up with others of their people. After that we left to return to the valley, when three days later we were ambushed by the Grassmen." Ikkos went on to detail the ambush and their fight against overwhelming odds.
Hearing about the ambush brought the emptiness back again, but Sargos brushed it aside. Little new was told during the questioning so Sargos pondered over the death of his son and the vision he had been gifted with three nights ago. Was his son the gods' price for leadership over all the clans, or was it some jest?
Before he could make sense of all this, his other son, Larkander entered the hut. The boy's eyes were red and Sargos felt his stomach drop like a stone. Sometimes Larkander resembled his mother so much it took him back over sixteen winters ago when he had brought the Zarthani maiden, the daughter of a Trygathi merchant, back with him to the Tribe. She had named Larkander after her favorite uncle.
"Father more riders have returned… They brought Bargoth's body back with them. They say he died with honor, surrounded by the bodies of the slain. Why, Father, why?"
Before this son embarrassed them both, he ordered, "Sit. The time has come for you to prepare for your place in the tribe."
Larkander took control of his emotions and sat down with all the dignity his fourteen winters-no fifteen winters, now!-could muster. Not for the first time, Sargos was proud of his young boy-no, almost a man now. His voice had already broken and he was halfway through his last growth. The time had come for him to take on a man's duty and responsibility.
Sargos rose to speak to the clan Headmen. "Where there is one army of Black Knights, there are more. Either they or the Grassmen will soon come to drive us from our lands. We have two choices: we can stay and fight and die, since our foes are in number like the summer grass. Or we can join the other tribes and clans and move up the Pythagaros Valley. How do you vote?"
There was little discussion. The clan leaders agreed to move north as their Warchief had suggested. The women and children would go into the hills with the warriors of Old Daron's tribe to protect them.
As they left the Clan Hut, Larkander moved close to Ranjar and asked, "Father, may I come along with the rest of the warriors?"
Ranjar Sargos looked down at this youngest son, now his only son. Was this to be the price of his visions? Both sons' dead? He shook his head.
"But Father, I can ride a horse and shoot a bow as good as any man in this camp."
Sargos knew this was no idle boast. "Larkander, you are my only son now. I need you safe. Someone has to watch the womenfolk."
"Not all the clanswomen. I heard you tell Althea she could come!"
Sargos bit down so hard that he cut his tongue and tasted the salty tang of his own blood. "Son, you still haven't passed your manhood rites."
"Will it be safe in the hills with the women and children? If it is my time, I can die anywhere. After all, I am only a few moons from my manhood rites. It is time I learned how to lead our people, and where better than at my father's side?"
Sargos clenched his hands. "If it is your wish, you can go. But it is up to you to tell your sister."
Larkander let out a loud whoop and took off at a run. At another time it might have lightened Sargos' spirits, but at the moment all he could see in his mind were the countless dead bodies drifting down the Great River. The gods were capricious: sometimes they gave a man great gifts, but, in payment, they often took much more in return. If the god who had favored him, was-as the witch woman said-the Raven Hag of War, the price would be high indeed-both for him and his Clan.