Sargos heard the hand clap of one of his subchiefs seeking entrance to his quarters. Unlike the single men who lived in longhouses, Sargos had his own private hut. "Enter," he said.
Subchief Ikkos, the youngest of his advisors, came in followed by One-Eyed Red and Vanar Halgoth, who appeared to have someone trailing after him. Halgoth was the largest man in the Raven Tribe, for that matter, in the Tymannes Clan, or any other clan in the Lower Sastragath. The only men he'd seen larger had been in the Trygath, when he and Halgoth were young and foolish, fighting for now dead and forgotten Trygathi princes. The two of them were the last of the tribe's survivors of those freer and wilder days of his youth.
"Come in, all of you. Who is that behind you, Halgoth?" Halgoth grinned widely, showing two rows of nubbed and missing teeth. The other subchiefs scooted away from him, as if he were on the edge of a berserk. Out of the shadows stepped Althea. Sargos was surprised to hear his heart skip a beat, but this maiden had a most commanding presence. He disciplined himself by remembering the two wives he had lost in childbirth. After his last wife had gone to Wind, two years ago, he had promised himself there would be no more wives. He had grieved enough for two men, and had no desire to take that path again.
"It is against tradition to bring a woman to a War Council. You know that, Halgoth. Why have you brought Althea?"
"It's her fight, too, Sargos."
The long limbed maiden pushed her way past her massive uncle. "I made him, Warchief Sargos. Do I not have a right to vergelt-blood vengeance? It was my family who died at the hands of the Grassmen and my body they used. There are no kinsmen left in my Tribe to redeem my honor. I demand to be included in this party, as my Clan right."
Sargos shook his head. Technically, there was nothing in the Law that said a woman could not seek vergelt, but he could remember no other time when a Tymanni woman had claimed this right. The winter Clan Gathering was still a moon or more away, so he could not ask the Clan Elders.
He nodded to show that she was within her rights. Of course, by Law she was not a Tymanni, but he was not one who played the bagpipe of the Law until it squeaked his tune. He had met such men in the Trygath, but he had not enjoyed their company. Althea was of Tymanni blood and the Burgduns were Urgothi, too, a cousin clan to the Tymannes. It was also true that survivors of the Wolf Tribe were now joining his tribe. It would not show proper respect-even in their reduced state-to stop them from seeking vengeance, even at the hands of a woman. And, Althea was correct; there were no men left in her tribe to avenge her, or take vergelt upon the Grassmen invaders.
"This is not right-" Ikkos began, before Sargos cut him off.
"Be silent, pup! I am the Warchief and it is I who decides what is right in the eyes of the Law." Ikkos was of the new generation, only four winters older than Bargoth. Sargos knew full well the problems of depending upon untested youth, but the clan needed more war leaders and he and Halgoth already had passed fifty winters. Maybe this Time of Troubles would temper the best of the younger generation. It had to or this Time of Troubles would see the Tymannes go to Wind, like so many clans before them.
Ikkos stood stiffly with a sour expression, which Sargos ignored. Open defiance he would deal with swiftly, insolence-just don't let it go on too long-
As though reading his mind, as was frequently the way among comrades who had fought many battles together, Halgoth put his huge hand on Ikkos shoulder, and played gently with the ball of his shoulder. Ikkos looked as if he'd just stuck his hand into a panther's mouth. Sargos had to resist the impulse to laugh.
"Althea, you may join the war party. I will loan you my knife."
The young maiden gave him a look that could have melted stone. "Thank you, Warchief Sargos, but I still have the knife that sent the Grassmen to the Undercaverns of the Dead. I will bring one of my Uncle's bows, as well."
Sargos knew that Halgoth was a master archer; he spent most of the winter teaching the younger warriors how to improve their shooting. He suspected that Althea might share her uncle's gods given gift; if so, she would be a welcome addition to the war band. The Tymannes would be heavily out-numbered in this attack and the Tribe would need any, and every, advantage it could get.
"When do we blood these Grassmen, Warchief?" One-Eyed Red asked. His flame-red hair came out of his cone helmet in two thick braids.
"Tomorrow night. We will avenge our clansmen and fill the Undercaverns of the Dead, with these Grassmen."
"At night!" One-Eyed Red, scrunched his remaining eye. "It's not honorable to attack foes at night time."
If there was one thing a lifetime of warfare had taught Ranjar Sargos, it was, there was no such thing as an honorable war. It was always the victors who pronounced what was honorable, after the war was over.
He addressed One-Eyed Red as though he were addressing a multitude, and in effect he was, since every word said here would be repeated many times this evening over the tribe's campfires. "Honorable war is only for those who would fight with honor. These Grassmen know no honor."
He heard a growl of fury escaping Althea's lips, as she expressed her agreement.
"These grasseaters, who are less than men, are despoilers of our clanswomen and the butchers of children. Would you accord them honor?"
One-Eyed Red drew back in alarm. "No, Warchief! Let us butcher them as we do the wolf packs that cross our lands."
An expression that Ranjar would hesitate to call a smile played upon Althea's lips. He would not want to be one of the Grassmen, if she and her knife were within an arm's reach. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the enemy.