As the humid fog began to disperse, around midday, the tribe on Razaad gathered in the large meeting area. Sizzling embers left trails of warm-scented smoke in the air, to be sucked in by the mouths and nostrils of a few hundred people. The entire village could not fit in one place, but they crammed the roads and houses around to hear the speech of their leader.
Arn stood in their midst, his hair damp from the morning spirits. His hands hung at his sides, brushing the handle of the metal sword with anxious trembles. Logern stood amongst his fishermen and Keeya leaned on a spear amidst her craftspeople. Joroth and the builders seem divided, with many rejoining their friends among the other bands—his band being the newest assembly of people amidst their tribe. The hunters were led by Coniran now, a balding man with three, mangled bite marks in place of his right ear. The man had survived the venom of a water scale when his face had been bitten, but his months of recovery had set him back in the race for leadership. He watched Arn cautiously, with hunters familiar and unfamiliar on either side.
“Health to you all,” Arn called out. A few voices drifted from the back of the crowd, as his words were repeated to those who could not hear it. It was a whisper at the edge of his senses. Arn turned in a circle to face them all, and kept turning. “As you have heard, we have built more rafts.”
Another hubbub followed his words, like an echo he had not voiced. It was not a contesting repetition, but something else. To his surprise, the crowd felt more alive—it was a reverberation of impulse, a motivation, a thrill. “We have a choice, as a people,” he told them. “We can stay on Razaad. Our people will begin to starve soon, and we will dwindle for many years before recovering. Or we can brave the Deep. Brave the monsters that lurk beyond.”
If a drop of rain had fallen onto that packed gathering ground, Arn could have sworn he would hear it. Even Logern watched quietly, with a blank, observant face.
“I will order the band leaders to support my plan. I will order a crossing to Scoa, a hunt, and, if it comes to it, a fight with the tribe there,” he declaration, and quickly raised his hand to halt any reaction. “You have a choice, as a people—to heed me or to harm me. I urge you all to put aside your pride, your fear, and your schemes. Act together, and act with me.”
Was it a blunder to tell them their choices? Arn hoped he wasn’t giving them an easy way to side against them. But Joroth was nodding. And Taran, at Logern’s side, showed a small smile as he listened. The echo of Arn’s words went back, and a hum of excitement returned like a lapping wave.
“How many will die?” Keeya asked. Her voice overpowered the murmurs easily enough, and returning the gathering to a stoic silence.
“Does it matter?” Arn asked. He smiled to Taran, the champion fighter. “We kill each other on Razaad—will that really change? Unlikely. But I fought the Deep and I fought screechers on Scoa. Look at my face and doubt my strength!”
An agreeing cheer passed through the crowd, to be subdued when Coniran spoke up. “It is not your strength we doubt,” said the hunter in a raspy voice.
Arn blinked, his shrewd eyes picking Coniran apart in his mind. The hunter had seen his strength, enforced upon Thalla or Stone Spear. He had not seen Arn’s sanity. “You think me mad?” Arn asked, stepping closer. Coniran stepped back. “While you all schemed about which band leader you should overcome, I schemed to raft across the Deep. My cunning outdid any of yours. Scoa is proof.”
“Scoa!” cried at least one person from the crowd. It sounded like Shar’s nasally tone. It sank into a swamp of discussion. A few others called out the word, to voice their opinions.
“I will follow your orders,” Joroth said, quietly. It was almost lost to the ruckus.
“Thank you brother,” Arn replied, loudly enough to draw attention to his brother’s announcement.
Logern stepped forward. “And I,” he said. Jorik the Embalmer stepped into the circle in stride with the fisherman. The two had always been close—perhaps they had already decided together how to respond to Arn’s plans. Taran was quick to follow on his master’s heel, folding his arms and joining those who would obey.
“Thank you, thank all of you,” Arn replied. “I promise triumph for you. Triumph and fame to outlast the years.”
Begrudgingly, the other band chiefs stepped forward, and the people began to chant Scoa, Scoa, Scoa. Arn raised his hands, feigning emotional delight for them. It was a good show, because inside, Arn felt nothing at all. The cold calculation was back; his words and actions and face were controlled by his goals once more.
And his goals lay on the straight, grey horizon.