Thunder roared and shook the rooftree of Ranjar Sargos' temporary longhouse. For a few moments it drowned out the squeal of horses and the babble of more tongues than he had heard in all his days. Not since the time of his grandfather twice removed had such a great wave of humanity flooded over the Great River and spilled its way into the Sastragath. Like flotsam tossed by the River, Sargos and his tribe had been picked up and pushed up into the Lydistros Valley.
Yet, as a flood replenishes the land it destroys, there was good which came with this river of humanity. Since few of the chiefs knew these lands, the Plainsmen had been forced to rely upon the knowledge of those who did. Ranjar Sargos, having spent four years of his youth as a mercenary in the Army of Gyroth, knew more about the Trygath than all but a few headmen in the great war band. This, along with Sargos' renown as a warrior, had placed him at the forefront of this human tidal wave.
Now only the constant pressure of the Black Knights gave the wave its form and kept it from dispersing into hundreds of separate war bands. Once that push was gone the horde would break up and lose its cohesion, whereupon they would all be destroyed piecemeal by the Trygathi iron hats and their allies. The time had arrived for a great warlord to guide the horde and Ranjar Sargos knew that there lay his own destiny-for had not his own dream vision foretold of such triumphs? So it had and much more!
Sargos took several deep breaths, held them, and waited until Thanor's banging upon his great anvil in the sky had ceased, then he spoke again to the assembled Plains headmen and Sastragathi chiefs. "The gods have allowed the Black Knights to take the field. They have allowed the demigod Kalvan of Hostigos to enter the Trygath-"
"Demigod or daemon, this Kalvan is no friend to the Trygathi, less so to the Black Knights," Chief Alfgar interrupted. "Let all three of them fight one another, I say. This is what the gods intend. Then let us pick the bones of the survivors!"
"Or Nestros and Kalvan swear brotherhood and pick our bones," Sargos snapped, his voice growing in volume. He had never been even-tempered and knew it. He also knew that since the Tymannes had left their ancestral hunting grounds he had grown even sharper of tongue.
"By Thanor's Hammer, that is as the gods will-" Chief Alfgar began.
A wordless muttering interrupted him, as Headman Jardar Hyphos once more tried to form words with a mouth and jaw yet unhealed from the blow of a Knight's mace. His son held his ear against Hyphos' mouth for a moment, and then nodded.
"My father says he doubts the gods have willed it that we come so far only to fall to our pride as well as our enemies."
"You yapping puppy!" Chief Alfgar roared. "Your father is a man. You are-"
"Silence," Sargos bellowed. He did not know what this would do, except perhaps make all the chiefs angry at him rather than at one another. That could be a gain, if he were able to do something with their attention.
"To be proud is the mark of a warrior, as all are here," Sargos began. "To let everything yield to that pride is the mark of a fool. More than four hands worth of tribes in this great warband have set aside their pride and sworn to follow me. The gods have not punished them. Why should you fare otherwise?"
"Witlings and women," Alfgar muttered just loud enough that Sargos alone could hear. Sargos decided for the moment to ignore him and willed his blood to slow its pounding beat.
"How many of those tribes are now north of the Lydistros, fighting as they please?" Chief Rostino asked. Of all those present, he seemed to have the most Ruthani blood as well as the most dignity.
Sargos chose an equally dignified answer. "I am not a Great King, with a host of armed slaves to punish disobedient warriors as if they were children.
I am Warchief over the Tymannes, and those who swear to follow me as Warlord do so by choice."
"Well, then," Chief Alfgar said. "It is my choice not to swear any oaths to Ranjar Sargos, nor any other sachem or chieftain. We of the Sea of Grass have held that each chief was his own master since the Great Mountains rose from the earth. Maybe the dirt scrapers and log builders of the Sastragath are more accustomed to following at the heels of their masters like curs!" Alfgar punctuated his words by slamming his hands against his bone vest, making a sound like that of a shot being fired.
The hands of about half of the two score of chieftains inside the long-house streaked for their knives, the only weapons allowed inside during the parlay. Sargos was glad that Althea had obeyed his request to stay in their hut. He hadn't had to explain to Althea that her presence would a strike against his leadership by the more hide-bound Grassmen and clansmen. He also knew that she would not only have drawn her knife, after Chief Alfgar's insult, but used it as well!
Sargos signaled for attention. "This is not the time to hurl baseless insults nor fight among ourselves. There is great treasure to be won and much glory to be gained in fighting our real enemies, not each other.
Most of the chiefs sat back down and nodded their agreement to this sage advice.
But Hyphos' son held his ground. "You have not fought Kalvan, Alfgar. We have fought others like him many times in the Trygath and we have learned that to win we must stand as one-like wolves, not curs."
"You, a milksop not long from you mother's teat, dare instruct me!" Alfgar replied, with his face twisted into an ugly leer. "What has Sargos given you, that you take his word about the Daemon Kalvan, whom he has never seen?"
Hyphos' son would have drawn his knife if his father's arm had not been sounder than his jaw-the bronzed arm gripped the young man's wrist and twisted. He gasped and dropped his knife.
"See! How the Sastragathi lick their master's hand. When Sargos nods his head, the old rein in the young. This is not the way of the Plains!"
Rage flowed into Sargos, lifting him like a giant's hands-or perhaps the hands of the gods. Certainly he had never felt their presence more strongly, even in the sweathouse of his manhood rites.
"Let us submit this matter to the judgment of the gods." Sargos drew from the hides of his chieftain's chair the sacred ax of the chiefs of the Tymannes. "With this ax and no other weapon I will fight Chief Alfgar, this day, in this place. He may use any weapon his honor allows him."
"No!" Chief Ulldar exclaimed. Next to Sargos, Ulldar Zodan was the wisest man in the room in the new ways of warfare. Two of his sons had served Chief Harmakros in Kalvan's wars and told him much. They had also brought him a tooled and engraved horsepistol that was the envy of every chief in the longhouse. "The gods have taken away Chief Alfgar's wits. What if they have taken away his honor as well?"
Several of Alfgar's fellow chiefs had to restrain him from trying to kill Ulldar with his bare hands. When the uproar had subsided, Alfgar had found his voice again. "I will fight with the handspear against your ax, you godless son of a she-bitch who weaned you on stinkcat piss!"
"Let it be done, then," Sargos pronounced. His rage was already fading, and in its place were doubts that he was really in the hands of the gods after all. If he fell-and Alfgar promised to be a formidable foe-neither he nor his son would ever see the Tymannes great longhouse again.
Why not be hopeful? he thought. If I win, it will prove the gods' favor and my own prowess as well. Then all the chiefs and clan headmen assembled here will proclaim me Warlord, and those lesser chiefs who are not here will quickly follow. Cast the bones and let the gods see to where they fall-by Thanor's Hammer!
Sargos led the chiefs and headmen out to the square in the middle of the longhouses. The rain was still falling and what had already fallen made the square a sea of foul-smelling mud. Sargos judged this would be to his advantage: Alfgar, a plainsman, could seldom have fought on foot, on a slope and in mud up to his ankles.
Sargos' hopes quickly faded, as Chief Alfgar lost not a moment in charging-his spear point passing only a few fingers from Sargos' thigh. Mud splashed high, but Alfgar seemed as fleet as a boy. Again, Sargos avoided the Alfgar's jabbing spear thrusts, While Alfgar danced away from his return strokes with the ax.
So it went for a half-score of passes. Sargos quickly realized that he had one advantage. Alfgar was so confident of his greater youth and strength that he was careless of what fighting in mud would do to them. If the time ever came when Alfgar could not move away in time-
As if to warn Sargos against hopefulness, on the next exchange Alfgar drew first blood. It was barely more than a thorn prick and on Sargos' left arm, but it held an arrogant message: I can do this at will. The next time, who knows where it will be?
Both warriors' friends had been shouting threats and promises. If Alfgar won, there would be a permanent broach between the Grassmen' and Sastragathi chiefs. At this first blood, all fell silent and remained so. Althea watched with a stubborn set to her jaw and one hand on her knife's handle. At that moment he knew, that even if Alfgar killed him, his rival as Warlord would not be far behind in going to Wind.
Sargos said nothing at all. He had better uses for his breath.
In time the rain stopped. Both men now bled in five or six places, though nowhere seriously. Sargos began to wonder if he would have breath for any use at all before long. Beyond any doubt Chief Alfgar was spending his strength freely. Alfgar's feet began to slip, and Sargos used this opportunity to bring his axehead down to Alfgar's torso. The plainsman used his spear butt to ward off the blow, but at the cost of two of his fingers-taken off at the second joint.
Alfgar's hand was bleeding and his energy was slowing, but he'd had rather more than Sargos to begin with. The mud, it seemed, might not be the gods' way of saving Ranjar Sargos. Nor could he trust to his luck in avoiding a crippling wound much longer. Alfgar made a thrust that would have disemboweled him had he not jumped in time, slipping in the mud. Sargos had to use all his arts in war while he still had the strength and speed to use them.
Silently he prayed to the gods, Aram One-Eye, Thanor, Fryga, Yirtta, Tyron, Myrr: Guard my folk and my son. Send them wisdom and courage, if there is justice in you. And if you sent Kalvan to be as a wolf to the flocks, then you are not the true gods and my spirit will tell my sons to worship something else!
"Pray for an honorable home for your spirit, old man," Alfgar sneered. "It will soon need one."
Then he sprang forward so fast that if Sargos had not been prepared, both in mind and body, for the final grapple he would have been doomed. As it was, he had already begun to turn when Alfgar closed, presenting his left thigh to the thrusting spear.
Offered a target, Alfgar thrust hard, forgetting that his target was mostly bone. As his spear point grated on that bone, Sargos' long arms whirled His left gripped the spear, jerking it from Alfgar's hand. In the blink of an eye, Alfgar slipped his knife out of its sheath.
Sargos' right arm brought the ax down hard on Alfgar's knife hand, as it leaped toward Sargos' groin. For an instant the gods might have turned both men into stone. Then the knife splashed into the mud.
The spear whirled in Sargos' hand, then struck Alfgar's belly, which instantly sprouted a curious red bloom. The knowledge of what had just happened was just dawning in his eyes when Sargos' ax came down upon his head, crushing his left cheek and jawbone.
"The gods have spoken," Sargos gasped. He hoped if more needed to be said, the gods would say it themselves. Neither his wits nor his wind seemed to be fit for the task, and, as for his legs, he prayed they would not tumble him into the mud beside his foe.
Ranjar, son of Cedrak, you are too old for this and so you will learn the next time not to confuse the voice of the gods with the memories of your own youth.
Egthrad and Old Daron, chiefs of his own Clan, ran forward to aid him, but were pushed aside by Althea. "Stop treating me as though this was my first wound!" he growled. "It's more like my tenth, and one of the least." In truth, it would need some care, and he would be riding more than walking for the next moon quarter. But only the flesh hurt.
In his ear, Althea whispered, "You own them now. It was a magnificent victory."
Meanwhile the crowd around him had grown and was beginning to chant, "Sargos! Sargos! Warlord Sargos!" He wasn't sure if his own Clansmen had started the chant or if it was a spontaneous outburst; regardless, he knew how to grasp the moment and squeeze it with both hands. He stepped back and raised his arms.
Together, Headman Jardar Hyphos and his son stepped forward and lifted Alfgar's motionless body.
Behind them came Chief Rostino. He knelt before Sargos and pressed his forehead against Sargos' hands. "The gods have truly spoken. What do they wish, Warlord Sargos? That we swear to you?"
Had it been a Sastragathi chieftain making this pronouncement rather than a Plainsman, there might have been jeers and catcalls-as it was there was naught but silence.
"The gods ask little," Sargos panted. He took several deep breaths until he found that he could hope to speak instead of gasp. At least I will ask little. The gods will not help a man who asks for more than those who follow him are willing to give.
"Little indeed," Sargos repeated. "Only that you follow me in war and peace, save when I ask for war against blood-brothers or peace with blood-enemies. And that you yourselves are bound by this oath until I release you or Wind take you."
"I swear-" Chief Rostino began, but Sargos stopped him, extending his hand to help him to his feet.
"Rise. I will have no brave warriors swearing anything to me on their knees. That is more pride than the gods allow."
There was a boisterous round of oath-taking as many of the assembled chiefs, who had not already done so, swore their allegiance to Ranjar Sargos as Warlord.
After all the oaths had been given, Sargos said, "Let us take a visit to the bathhouse, while the women heat us some beer. Or there is wine if any of you wish it."
Sargos could not tell what drew more enthusiasm, the gods'judgment, the baths, or the prospect of a good drinking party.