The Broken Pieces(73)
“You would deny my right to speak at my own Gathering?” asked Redclaw, playing along with the farce.
“No,” Warfang said, stepping out from the ring to stand beside the fire. “You may speak. I only tell you that none will listen, for that is not why we came. That is not why we gather. We gather so you may be judged.”
“Judged? Why am I to be judged?”
“Because you are not faithful! You are weak. You are cowardly. You dishonor our god, and dishonor the gift given to you. I call upon the pack to cast you out and let a new pack leader be chosen.”
Warfang was whipping the wolf-men into a frenzy, and never one to let a bleeding enemy recover, he continued.
“You are why we were defeated last day. You are why our strength failed against the armor and blades of the humans. All here with eyes can see it, and all with noses can smell it. Bow your head and run, Redclaw, run from this shame until the moon shines in the day.”
They were ashamed of their defeat and at a loss for how to mourn their dead. Warfang twisted the guilt his way, using the Gathering to pin all the blame on him. They howled it all out, demanding blood, demanding retribution. Redclaw let them howl. He wanted their emotions high. He wanted them to remember who they were, and to revel in the old traditions they now invoked. For Cyric would crush every single one of those traditions if he had his way.
“You would have me run in shame before being judged, before speaking my tongue, and before demanding a challenger?” Redclaw bared his teeth at Warfang. “You seem to forget our ways. You are all too eager for power. I demand a challenger to face me before I accept judgment from the pack.”
Every wolf there knew who the challenger would be, but they cried out the name anyway.
“Warfang! Warfang!”
The enormous wolf-man grinned.
“They have named him,” Warfang said. “I am the pack’s champion, and I call you coward. I will serve our god truer. I will serve him as he should be served.”
“And that is where you are wrong,” Redclaw said. “Cyric is not to be served at all. Wolf should never serve man!”
The last cry was like a thunderbolt, and the following silence was delicious to Redclaw’s ears. He’d startled them now, awoken them to the truth that had been naked before them all along.
“You would deny the moon made flesh?” asked Warfang. He didn’t have to roar. His voice carried with ease in the calm.
“I deny Cyric,” Redclaw said. “I deny the moon. I deny everything we bow to, for we should never bow. We are strong. We are proud. But that human would make us slaves. We follow orders. We slay armies for lands we will never have. We die for a god who is only a man. This ends tonight. I am your pack leader. I am your champion. Hear me now, and listen. Let us, this night, declare ourselves free.”
“And go where?” asked Warfang. There was no hiding his incredulousness. “Would you have us flee to the Wedge? Would you have us give up all we might have?”
“Our numbers are too few. I would have us live, even if it must be in the Wedge.”
The first of many growls and calls came from the wolf-men around him. Convincing them to obey Cyric in the first place had been a difficult task. To now revoke their fledgling faith? Dangerous. Unpredictable.
“You, his champion, the one blessed with his power, would deny him?” Warfang asked. “You would have us all die rather than serve. That is what you say. Your shame is great, Redclaw, greater than your pride. You do not deserve that power.”
“No,” Redclaw said. “And I do not desire it. If you would have it, Warfang, then take it. I give it to you. Step into the fire, and know Karak’s blessing.”
Warfang clearly sensed a trap, but the eyes of the pack were upon him. Could he act afraid, now that he had lorded over Redclaw so mightily?
“Promise me,” Redclaw whispered so he might calm his fears. “Promise you will let those who follow me escape without giving chase.”
The other wolf-man slowly nodded.
“Very well,” said Redclaw. “You heard my command. Step into the fire.”
As the five hundred howled and stomped the ground, Warfang put a foot into the fire that burned in the center. It was small, the flames no higher than Warfang’s knee. Still, it was enough to burn, and with considerable control the wolf-man ignored the pain. The other foot stepped inside. Flesh cracked, and with clenched teeth he looked to Redclaw and demanded the promised gift.
“I would say you would not enjoy it,” said Redclaw. “But that is a lie. Go to Cyric. He is the perfect mate to your bloodlust.”
His right arm lashed out, his claws digging into Warfang’s chest. The other wolf growled, believing betrayal, but then the power hit him. As Cyric had promised, Redclaw had gradually gained control of the gift he’d been given. And then, all throughout the night, instead of sleeping he’d been practicing the removal of it completely, of rejecting every bit of the gift that made his fur burn like embers and made his blood feel like flame. And now, with his claws embedded into flesh already blessed by Cyric, he banished the rest of it.