The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars #5)

The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars #5) Page 314

Stronghand did not smile. He no longer needed to make explicit threats, to puff himself up, to make himself appear bigger and fiercer for, in truth, Quickdeath was far more impressive in appearance than he ever could be. “You mistake caution for cowardice because you do not understand it. A cautious man watches and guards, and uses forethought, a skill I do not think you have yet mastered.”

Quickdeath snorted disdainfully and hefted his ax, knowing he had the advantage in numbers. The blood of his men was hot with victory. Before them, Stronghand seemed so small.

“Yet it is true that any leader needs a reward,” continued Stronghand. “Let this precious jewel serve to reward you as you deserve, for the victory you have achieved this day.”

“Do you think to bribe me?” asked Quickdeath, but like any Eika warrior, he hesitated.

Last Son brought the chest, carved out of ivory, banded with gold, and ornamented with cabochons of pale aquamarine and dark red garnets, and placed it on Stronghand’s thighs, then retreated to stand by the others.

“I will not have it said I give grudgingly to those who fight in my army.”

Quickdeath flashed a smile, leaped forward with a laugh, and grabbed the chest off Stronghand’s lap. “Now both your army and your treasure will be mine!” he cried as he flipped open the lid.

Stronghand’s men knew this as the signal. They froze in place, as did Stronghand, knowing stillness was his weapon now.

The rash ones did not understand caution, or stillness.

The ice wyrms were deadly, but fragile. Even starlight burned them. They were sightless, but Quickdeath’s startled movement offered target enough. He dropped the chest. The tiny ice wyrm scuttled across the dirt to the closest thing that moved. And stung.

Quickdeath’s scream pierced the heavens themselves. His warriors scattered in fear, except for two bold and loyal dogs who jumped growling into the fray, but the sun had already blasted the tiny creature to dust. Stronghand signaled, and Last Son struck down the dogs while Quickdeath twitched and croaked in agony as the venom coursed through his body. Their blood spattered his writhing body.

“Leave him,” said Stronghand, rising. He picked up the ivory chest and frowned at it while two of his brothers collapsed his chair and made ready to leave. “A pretty thing,” he said, “but the knowledge possessed by the craftsman who made it is worth far more than the object itself, however brilliant these gems shine.”

The chieftains approached.

“Did you know he would challenge you?” asked Ironclaw.

“I knew he was rash, and scorned caution. That was all I needed to know.”

“How did you come by that ice wyrm?”

Stronghand bared his teeth to show the jewels drilled there, as sharp as starlight. “Any one of us may brave the sands where the ice wyrms dwell.”

“Yet how many would think to do so? And survive the attempt?”

Stronghand let the chieftains think this over. Quickdeath’s warriors would return in time, although by losing their war leader they had lost claim to their victory. They had learned their lesson. They would not rebel again.

“Come,” he said. “I will see what remains of the town.”

The detritus of battle looked much the same whatever country he was in. The Salian dead cast into the river bloated just like any other; their blood stained the waters with the same hue. Their famished children bawled and whimpered in the same fashion as any freshly orphaned waif cleft so suddenly from its parent. Flames ate wood regardless, and the drought that had plagued Salia all summer encouraged the conflagration and made it burn even hotter so that by the time he reached the town gates, most of the buildings inside were on fire, smoke and ash rising into the sky to paint it a boiling gray. The gates had been razed, an impressive feat of destruction, and the defenders had created a second barrier with a jumble of carts and wagons, but these, too, had been smashed and pathways cleared through their remains where Quickdeath’s troops had made their charge.

“Blow the horn,” he said to Last Son when he had tired of walking among the dead. “I want all of our warriors to withdraw from within the walls.”

He gave orders that the last refugees were to be allowed to depart with whatever goods they could carry, stipulating only that any man carrying a sword was to be killed. Ash dusted his bone-white hair and coated his face and torso. The air stank of burning and death, yet it was not death that bothered him but the loss of this town’s useful purpose, its craftsmen and storehouses, its gardens and tanneries, its merchants and smithies and marketplace.