The whispering of the camp had changed again, as it had changed many times around the cookfires on Razaad. Arn lifted a roasted chop of screecher meat to his nostrils and inhaled its oily smell. It was his third slice. Jorik’s blend of spices did wonders for the meat that Arn had once lived upon for a few Moons. He chewed on the meat and tried to listen to what they were saying.
Words were too faint to hear, of course, but the eyes that glanced his way seemed to shout at him. Logern was among them, peering across the leader’s fire at Arn and scowling. He, at least, had reason for it—Arn had killed his closest friend and ally. But Coniran, of the hunters, gave him that same scowl, tracing his gaze along the scar that marred Arn’s face. And even the Embalmer stared over at him with disdain.
Arn stood up to take a piss. He listened to the quiet chirp of woodland rodents, the groan of the straight wide-leaf trees, the dribble of his spray on the foliage and moss. When he went back to the camp, surrounded by the log buildings they had built, a different sort of silence had fallen onto the Razaad.
Logern stood between the fires. His spear was set in the ground beside him, held in his right hand at an angle to his body.
“Oh, by the stars,” Arn muttered. “What do you want?”
“You led us across the Deep like you said,” Logern said. “But then you kill us too? Who will fight for you after Taran?”
Arn shrugged. “Who will dare not to?”
“I will,” Logern said. “I will kill you in his name.” His voice broke on the last word. There were tears sparkling in his eyes. Had Taran really meant so much to him?
“You know you won’t,” Arn said. He had expected further contention, but Logern? He thought the man had better foresight—or stronger emotions. “Taran was a fighter. He knew he might die, and he fought anyway. More spilled blood is what he would not want.”
Logern wavered.
The metal sword at Arn’s waist rasped free of its scabbard. “We can fight to the death, you and I. But that will just make the Scoa stronger. Put down your spear.”
“The war will cost us just as much,” Logern said.
The tribe was listening. “But let it not be at our own hands. I have led you all here to hunt, not to squabble.”
Coniran stood up and Arn’s stomach sank. The balding man crossed his arms. “There is no strength in contesting a duel. Fight him to prove your place or step aside.”
Arn had been afraid of that. He would lose respect talking Logern down. He shrugged and took a step forward, raising the sword. So be it. Logern stepped back from him, raising his hand. Would he withdraw still?
Then Jorik the Embalmer spoke. “Stone Spear would have declared a Blood Peace, not more killing. You have cost our tribe so dearly, Arn. Step aside, please.” The old man’s face was a skew of emotions. It was like Arn’s whole council was pleading with him, each from their own vantage.
“Where is your strength!” Arn shouted at Jorik. “And you, your sense of the hunt! I am not your prey!”
More men and women were standing up to join the opposition. The hubbub of voices would draw the attention of screechers, or the Scoa, or both. The only man who did not stand was Shar, and Arn started to chuckle. Something had clicked inside of him, after everything he had done. After all the lives he had taken. All the bruises he had given Thalla. He had broken Shar’s will to exist, and the man was the only one to support him now? He spun around, swinging his sword as he looked at each of his subordinates.
“I was a scrawny little boy when I saw my first duel. I remember it clearly. I remember realizing that it wasn’t about strength or strategy. It was a sport. You all want me to dance, just for you. Jorik, I’m not going to coddle your friends who choose their fights. Coniran, I won’t show you my strength, not after I practically skinned the two cowards you sent to find me when I trained. And Jorik, don’t tell me about the Blood Peace, when we are at war!”
His rant subsided and their camp was as quiet as ever, a silence that cut right into the depth of Arn’s yielded purpose. The moon fell through the tree branches onto that moment of change, lighting Arn’s fallen shoulders. The shoulders shrugged, and Arn looked at Logern. “No, I am done.” Then his voice, like a gentle wave, crashed onto a rocky shore and slashed them to scraps: “I hope the Scoa kill all of you!”
Two men couldn’t get out of Arn’s way fast enough and elbowed the first. The bump on the bottom of his sword sent the other reeling away, and he trampled over the mossy tree roots as he headed into the forest.
The beach was blissfully empty. Arn’s brisk walk covered it in moments and he put his arms against the side of his first raft, dragged up onto the shore. Then, remembering his hope for the fools in the forest, he chose the biggest raft instead. He shoved it toward the water until the splashing, chilly water was up to his thighs.
“Arn,” a voice cried, nearly lost in the spray of water. It was Shar, limping along the beach. “Take me with you!”
Arn put his backside on the edge of the raft, and looked back at the poor man. His sword and a small pack he had grabbed from a cache on the edge of the woodland were already tossed into the middle of the raft.
“I brought supplies,” Shar said, holding up another pack. “Please, Arn.”
The man on the raft had not even made up his mind until that moment. “I’m not going back to Razaad,” he told the cripple.
Shar stumbled, but then patted his leg as though to blame the stagger on his old wound. He held out his hands from his sides and called, “Then, why would I?”
If anything could have made him smile that evening, then it was a question like that. He laid back onto the boards of the raft and laced his fingers behind his head. The stars twinkled like tiny little eyes watching Arn’s inevitable surrender.