The Scorched Earth (The Chaos Born) (25 page)

“I spoke to Norr,” Terramon told her.

Of course you did. You know he doesn’t trust you, but that won’t keep you from trying to get close to his ear
.

She wasn’t surprised her father had already cast her aside. He was scrambling to forge new alliances, trying to secure his position so he could slowly rebuild his sphere of influence under the new chief’s rule.

Norr wasn’t a vengeful or spiteful man; at least he hadn’t been when she knew him. He wouldn’t openly speak out against Shalana or take any action against her or her supporters. But the Stone Spirits would still see her as his rival. Though technically still part of the clan, she was a fallen and defeated adversary in their midst, and anyone befriending her would be looked at with suspicion.

Eventually she could regain her status among the clan by proving herself in battle and through loyal service to Norr and his thanes. But it would take time—months or possibly even years. Until then she would be ignored and shunned, a pariah among her own people.

If that is what must be, it must be
.

“I made Norr an offer,” her father explained. “He accepted.”

What kind of offer?
Shalana wondered, though she didn’t say the words aloud.
And why would Norr accept?

Norr had grown up under Terramon’s reign. He knew what kind of man her father was: ambitious, ruthless, cunning. Age had stripped him of his warrior’s skills, but he could still use political manipulation to bring an enemy low. Surely Norr had to recognize that Terramon was the single biggest threat to the continued loyalty of the thanes. The glow of the Red Bear’s triumphant return would fade in a few months. As winter settled in and the day-to-day realities of life washed away the luster of the new chief, there would be whispers of unrest. There would be questions about his long absence, his unexpected return, and his strange Outlander companions.

And what about Hadawas’s Conclave?

The leader of the Sun Blades—a clan even larger and more powerful than the Stone Spirits—had called a meeting of all the clan chiefs. If not for Norr’s arrival and unexpected challenge, Shalana and her thanes would already be making preparations for the journey.

Such a request was not made lightly; it had been forty years since the last Conclave: the time of the Purge in the Southlands. Hadawas was well respected among all the clans. The other chiefs knew he must have had a good reason to call them together in the last few weeks before winter gripped the East in her icy fist: some looming crisis or disaster.

Whatever it was, Shalana had no doubt it would be the first real test of Norr’s leadership. And if he stumbled in any way, she had no doubt Terramon would try to turn the situation against him.

So whom will you back this time, Father? Who among the thanes will you chose to be your next puppet?

“You need to speak to Norr, too,” Terramon continued when Shalana—lost in her own convoluted thoughts—failed to respond. “Tomorrow, if you are well enough.”

“He doesn’t need to hear from me,” Shalana spat out, suddenly angry.

You destroyed me with your manipulation and your games. Now you’ll try to destroy Norr. He doesn’t deserve this!

“All the thanes are paying their respects to the new chief,” Terramon reminded her.

“I’m not a thane.”

“Not yet. But Norr will name you to his council if you come to him.”

Shalana blinked in surprise.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because I told him I would step aside if he chose you as my replacement.”

“I … I don’t understand.” Shalana’s head was spinning as she tried to wrap her mind around his words.

“Norr promised to bring you to the Conclave,” Terramon continued. “He has sworn to give you a position of honor and importance among his supporters.”

“This is madness,” Shalana gasped.

“Norr doesn’t trust me,” her father explained. “But he still admires and respects you. He always will. He wants you to be on the same side. He still has not learned the lesson I tried to teach you both.”

“I won’t betray him,” she said, her voice cold. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Terramon shook his head. “Why not? He turned his back on the clan and abandoned you when he left.”

That was your fault
.

“Now he has returned and taken away what is rightfully yours. He humiliated and shamed you in front of everyone.”

“He won the duel,” she muttered. “He earned the right to be chief.”

“Don’t be a fool,” her father spat. “We both know he cheated!”

Shalana didn’t answer right away. She didn’t think Norr was capable of something so dishonorable … but she hadn’t thought he would simply vanish five years ago, either.

“Do you have any proof for these accusations?” she asked.

“I saw what happened in the duel,” he answered. “The victory was yours, and then it was somehow snatched away.

“The masses may be blinded by the legend of the Red Bear,” he continued, “but I still see clearly enough to know he had no hope of beating you on only one leg. And yet, somehow, he was the victor. It was … unnatural.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Terramon was right. Something odd had happened in the duel. But whatever it was, it wasn’t something she could explain. Or prove.

“Even if you are right,” she told him, “nobody will listen.”

“No,” he admitted. “Not without evidence to back our words. But Norr still has feelings for you. He will be looking for someone he knows and trusts to help him lead the clan. He will bring you into his confidence.

“Wait. Watch. Listen. In time, you will uncover his treachery. And then you can take back your birthright!”

“I don’t want to play your games anymore,” she said, rolling over so that her back was to him. The pain caused her to grit her teeth, but she managed not to cry out.

“This is not a game,” Terramon said after several long seconds of silence. “When the truth is revealed, you will realize Norr is not worthy of being chief. It will be up to you to bring him low.”

Shalana didn’t bother to answer.

Her father endured the crushing silence for several long seconds before adding, “I know you better than you know yourself. You are my daughter; you are my blood. You will do what is necessary to keep the clan strong.”

Then she heard him pull aside the hide flap and step out into
the night, moving slowly while leaning heavily on his cane for support.

Shalana lay motionless in the darkness of her tent long after he was gone, her mind too busy thinking about what Terramon had said to notice the aches and pains in her body, until she finally drifted off to sleep.

S
URROUNDED BY HER
dogs, the Pack Master raced across the snow-covered plains with long, loping strides, her body hunched so low the tips of her fingers grazed the frozen earth. The wind whistled in her ears and her long, dark hair trailed out wildly behind her. Her breath came in ice-fogged clouds as she panted heavily, her pounding heart pumping hot, eager blood through her veins to ward off the chill in the air.

She had no trouble keeping pace with her four-legged brethren; she had learned to run with them shortly after she had learned to crawl. Like all the Pack Masters, she could go days without stopping or slowing. To run with the pack was freedom; it was life.

Dusk was approaching; their third straight day away from the rest of the clan. Her pack had ranged many leagues, hunting for meat and patrolling the far-reaching borders of Ice Fang territory. As it always did a day or two after leaving the other humans of her clan behind, her mind had slipped into a semiferal state. She was one with her dogs, her identity subsumed yet also augmented by her inclusion in the pack.

The wind shifted, bringing new scents and smells to her eager nostrils. There was something foreign coming from the west, something
unclean
. The rest of the pack smelled it, too—she felt their unease, their fear. She felt the hair on her neck stand up and some of the younger dogs growled low as they ran, hackles raised.
But their fear was held in check by the strength of the pack and overridden by the deeply ingrained instinct to protect the clan and defend their territory.

She gave two low whistles, and as one the pack changed direction, moving toward the unfamiliar and unsettling scent. After several more miles they topped a small ridge, and the entire pack pulled up short.

Below them stretched an army of humans: thousands of interlopers marching slowly but steadily eastward. The shock snapped the Pack Master from her blissful semiprimal state, her rational, human identity rising to the surface.

She knew right away this was not some rival clan—none of the Eastern tribes could field an army of this size.

Not human
, she thought, recognizing the same slightly alien scent of the strange young man traveling with the Outlanders they’d ransomed to the Stone Spirits.
Danaan
.

The odor rising from the distant horde wasn’t the smell she’d noticed earlier; it wasn’t the one that made her want to cower in fear or run away. That smell had faded, swept away by another shift in the cold winds.

She studied their slow but relentless progress for a few minutes, noting their general direction and numbers. The Danaan ranks were spread thin: rather than a single mass, they traveled in small groups of roughly a dozen individuals clustered closely together. These smaller units moved with varying speed, their relative positions constantly changing as some pressed forward and others fell back. The seemingly random ebb and flow reminded her of the subtle, shifting patterns of a pack on the run—a formless, freeform mass that somehow held together as a whole.

It didn’t take her long to realize that the army’s path would inevitably bring them to the clan’s most recent campsite. She had no illusions about what would happen if the Ice Fangs crossed paths with the invaders.

And then she was spotted. The main force of the army was still on the plain below the ridge, but several scout patrols had already made their way to the top. One of them had emerged over the crest of a small hill, unnoticed while she had been studying the army below. Seeing the dogs, they let loose with a series of horn blasts.

From a distance, another series of calls signaled back. Based on where the sounds were coming from, the Pack Master realized some of the advance patrols had already forged many miles ahead—far enough that they could circle around and cut off the pack’s retreat.

She gave three quick whistles: sharp, short, and high-pitched.
Danger! Home!
In response, the pack whirled around and set off in the opposite direction at a full sprint. The Danaan behind her set off in pursuit, but she knew they could outrun them. The real danger lay in front.

More horns rang out. The response came from multiple directions up ahead, and the Pack Master realized the net was closing in on them. Within seconds the enemy began to materialize in the distance: gray, shadowy shapes in the rapidly fading twilight.

Another whistle sent her pack scattering, spreading out in all directions in the hope that one or two might escape to warn the clan. The enemy responded with more horn blasts, and the patrols ahead fanned out to block their escape.

The Danaan were light on their feet, but their speed couldn’t match the Pack Master or her dogs. For an instant she thought they all might make it. But she hadn’t counted on the archers.

The air was split with the sharp twang of bowstrings, and a second later a rain of arrows engulfed them. Dogs yelped and squealed as the deadly projectiles pierced their fur and flesh. The first volley dropped nearly half the pack though the Pack Master herself wasn’t hit. The second volley changed that.

She didn’t hear the second twang; her ears filled only with the cries of her dying pack. But she felt the impact as the first arrow thudded into her shoulder, knocking her off stride and spinning her half-around. The second caught her thigh, taking her down. Another buried itself in her stomach, and she grunted in pain and shock.

Unable to rise, she looked up from the ground to see that all but two of her dogs lay dead or dying around her.

It only takes one to warn the clan
, she thought, clinging to a last, desperate hope.

She saw the survivors break through the enemy ranks, running hard. Another volley of arrows took one down as he fled, impaling him through the back of the neck. But by some miracle the last—a young bitch, strong and fierce—wasn’t hit. The archers fired again, but by this time she was out of range, and the arrows fell harmlessly to the earth well short of her.

Go!
the Pack Master silently screamed, the world beginning to fade and tilt as her life oozed out from her wounds.
Go!

Suddenly another shape appeared from over a nearby hill, far too large to be Danaan or human. It was nearly as wide as it was tall; standing upright on two legs but hunched forward to help brace its bulk with the knuckles of its forelimbs.

She didn’t know what the creature was, but she recognized the stench coming off the mountain of dark, putrid flesh—this was the scent that had so unnerved the pack. The monster turned its massive head to the side, yellow eyes glowing in the fading light as it fixed them on the fleeing dog. It gathered itself for an instant, muscles coiling then exploding into a fury of action as it gave chase with unnatural, unfathomable speed.

The creature was little more than a blur as it raced across the plain, eating up the distance between it and its quarry in mere seconds. As its charge overtook the fleeing dog, the beast swung
its meaty fist down like a hammer, pulverizing the canine’s spine. The dog shrieked—a sound something between a human scream and a howl that ripped at the Pack Master’s rapidly faltering heart.

The last thing she saw before she slipped away forever into darkness was the beast lifting the squirming, still-struggling dog up to its maw and beginning to feed.

K
EEGAN DIDN
’
T SO
much wake up as grudgingly claw his way back to consciousness. He couldn’t remember how many flagons of ale he’d downed during Norr’s victory celebration, but clearly it had been more than his body could handle.