Cimmerian Rage(86)

Chieftains lived for more than their personal honor at times. But only to a certain pass.

“You go too far, woman.”

She had. Twice now. Bitter insults she made him swallow for the sake of his people. Holding the blade of Clan Callaugh’s strength at his back. “And I say you do not go far enough. None of us did before he came.”

“We do not follow that mongrel.” There were nods, but fewer shouts of agreement. A few eyes shifted from one side to another. “Bloody spear or nay.”

Ros-Crana’s voice, when she spoke, was icy calm. “But was it Kern Wolf-Eye or Clan Callaugh who carried a bloody spear to your lodge hall table?” she asked simply.

He opened his mouth to speak, then paused. It was that small delay, she knew, that undid him. None of his own people could see the sudden pain that flared in his once-powerful gaze. They all stood behind him. But she saw. And he knew. And others heard the weakness as he conceded the point.

“You brought it, Ros-Crana Callaughnan.”

“And what clan staved off starvation among Corag’s people when Vanir burned your winter stores two years back?”

He swallowed. Hard. “Your clan.”

“Who was first to send warriors, and offered to help you hunt Ellai’s tormentors to their death or his own?”

“Your brother.”

“What did T’hule Chieftain offer you then?”

“Nothing.”

Now she stepped a solid pace closer, sword still raised across her body, until only an arm’s length separated her and Wellem Chieftain. Either one might slash out now and break the fragile peace. “And who has a greater war host now camped ’round your walls, Wellem, than the Vanir ever set against you?”

Some fire returned to his eyes, but it wasn’t the same argent fury she had once known in him. “You would not—”

“I would!” Third insult. Interrupting him. “My people have spilled blood and gone hungry for you, and when we call for your support you grovel for the scraps thrown by T’hule Chieftain instead?” She felt her blood heating up, rising color in her face. “I will have your loyalty, or I will spend every last man sworn to me on that hillside to raze Corag to the ground. Look carefully, Wellem. Standards from five villages hold over that war host. Villages from every direction, surrounding you.

“Where is T’hule Chieftain now?” she asked.

Sword points lowered among a few of Wellem’s kin. One man actually turned and shuffled away!

The other chieftain stared in open surprise at her vehemence. “The hatred you have for me and mine must run deep.”

Stupid, self-centered mule! “The hatred I have for you, Wellem, is mere annoyance compared to the fury I know for Grimnir and the pain he has visited on us for far too long. I am merely willing to destroy you. But for Grimnir and the chance to strike at him one last time I would burn your village to the ground, tear Mount Crom apart stone by stone, and chase him across the poisoned desert and round and round the northern wastes before I give him up again.”

The rage fueled her. Drove her. Picked up her voice and flooded strength to her arms. It wasn’t until she managed several calming breaths that she saw she had taken the last few steps into Corag, backing Wellem up against a wall of his own people, leaving him looking stunned. Overwhelmed.

He nodded. Just once. A signal of surrender. “You will ask me to lead out how many warriors?” he asked.

“I’ll ask you to name a war leader who will bring twenty strong arms under Corag’s eagle’s talon. You are so worried for your walls, stay with them. I have set a protector over Callaugh, and he will answer if either the Vanir or Clan Conarch press from the north.”

One of the larger men, who had come out at Wellem’s side, stepped forward and out from beneath his chieftain’s shadow. “I will lead them,” he said. And looked at Ros-Crana. “If you will trust my arm at your side.”

There was a touch of defiance in his voice, of overconfidence, but she nodded, and so did Wellem. Neither of them missed the fact that the new war leader of Clan Corag had simply named himself. That coming back from battle, if he came back, there would be no keeping him from replacing Wellem as chieftain. He knew it. And maybe—the idea strutted across his face so plainly—it was a good thing he would be home to shore up his weakened base and take a stronger hold over Corag.

“If that is all?”

But one weak leader lessened all the clans, and Ros-Crana was not through. Ruthlessly, she quashed any measure of pity she might feel for her cousin and forced one last burden at him. “There were four arrows shot at my feet,” she reminded him. She had one more, to even things up. “Three of them might still be good. Mayhap my war host will need every last shaft.”