“I also saw Grimnir raging in pain. I saw the monster bleed!” His words calmed most of the rest of the arguing. The Aquilonian looked to Ros-Crana, then to Kern, holding his gaze steady.
“If it bleeds, it can be killed.”
Kern toasted the Aquilonian, tipping his tankard at him, then slugged down several bitter gulps. The ale stung at the back of his throat and filled his nose with the scent of fermented barley. It left a cloudy taste on his tongue, the only help for which was another draught.
Ros-Crana caught him in the middle of his second pull.
“You have been quiet, Kern Wolf-Eye.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “You battled Grimnir to a standstill on the high bluff. You are the only warrior I know to have come against the Terror, and lived. A Ymirish not of Grimnir’s host.” She was doing Kern no favors, pointing out the oddness which followed him. Which told in his pale skin and dead-frost hair and the gold, wolflike eyes he shared with other Ymirish. And with Grimnir. “You do not call for Grimnir’s death?”
“I called for it, yea. Weeks ago. And I hunted his trail, losing it to the south.” South . . . not north. “Since then, I have had wounded warriors to consider. But now they are better.”
“And so? What will you do?”
She had quickly and effectively isolated Kern from most of the clansmen, reminding everyone of his differences as well as his victories. And as a chieftain, she could hardly be expected to follow an outcast. Even the youngest man or woman in Callaugh held more standing at lodge than he.
His anger returned, that Ros-Crana refused to recognize the need for what had to be done. Just as T’hule Chieftain of Conarch—as many of the western clans—did. Why did Clan chieftains so often treat him as a threat? He was not the one leading war hosts into Cimmeria!
He shrugged, belying the warm rage building inside him.
“What I promised,” he said. He grabbed the broken spear with one large fist, thrust it out at Ros-Crana as if offering it to her again. But he was not. “I will carry the spear to other clans. And hope they recognize the dangers we still face.” They must. Bearing a spear to the many chieftains should bring them. It was tradition, and carried the force of any outside law.
“The spear must be sent by a chief or war leader.” It was Gard Foehammer who cautioned him this time, twisting about, searching for Kern through the cloth bandages wrapped over his eyes. The blisters that Ymirish sorceries had raised on his face had retreated, leaving pale, white scars like frosted tears on his cheeks, his brow.
“Who will you carry the spear from?” he asked.
A good question. Sláine Longtooth had departed back for Conall Valley and the fortress village of Cruaidh. Narach Chieftain was dead and Ros-Crana indecisive. And T’hule Chieftain of Conarch . . . he wanted less to do with Kern and the other outcasts than most anyone else.
Suspicious of each other, relieved that the Vanir war host had been shattered, the leaders had all fallen back on their own problems, their own needs.
“I will carry it from the first chieftain to step forward and lead,” Kern promised, casting the dregs of his ale into the snapping flames. There was a savage hiss from the fire, and many dark looks from those seated around it as he toed a very thin line, close to insulting Ros-Crana as Callaugh’s chieftain and war leader.
He stood, and, across the way, Nahud’r rose as well. Mogh he felt move up behind him, immediately guarding his back. Dropping his tankard on the floor where he’d sat, hearing its hollow, metal ringing, he released himself from Ros-Crana’s hospitality.
Her protection.
Then Reave was at his side, with a hank of venison in one hand and his other one on Kern’s shoulder in a direct show of support. Desagrena and Daol shouldered over near Nahud’r. No one had drawn a weapon. Kern doubted anyone would. But his people had learned to safeguard each other’s back first and worry about the forms of tradition last.
It was the way of outcasts.
“Strength to you and your clan, Ros-Crana Chieftain.” Kern nodded curtly, once. Then he stepped back from the fire, drawing his pack of warriors after him, around him, like wolves protecting their leader.
“Kern? Kern! WOLF-EYE!” Ros-Crana’s voice cracked like a whip.
Kern waited, looked back. She stood over her bench, face flushed red in anger and a dangerous gleam in her twilight eyes. But finally she came to him, pushing one of her guards back with a quick shove and glaring her way past Reave and Nahud’r, who both backed off a full step.
Tall and strong, she looked every stone’s weight a chieftain and a leader of warriors. There was no doubt or hesitation in her face. No weakness in her voice, though she approached him with nothing more than a whisper as half of the lodge watched the confrontation. Hands slipped to sword hilts and daggers.