“I was part of the Fallcrest Guard,” said Belen. “On the rare occasions when representatives of Tigerclaw Chief Scargash visited Fallcrest, I was their escort.”
“You kept watch on them to ensure they behaved in civilized lands,” said the hard voice of Hurn.
“No,” Belen answered and although Albanon didn’t dare turn to look at her, he could hear strain in her voice. “I kept watch on the civilized people of Fallcrest to be sure they didn’t offend the Tigerclaws.”
A couple of the unseen Tigerclaws chuckled at that. Cariss gave the ghost of a smile. The point of her spear retreated slightly, allowing Albanon to look around at last, and she gestured for the warrior keeping Tempest down to let her up. Albanon met Tempest’s gaze as she turned and recognized the considerable control it was taking to keep her temper in check. Cariss appeared to have dismissed both of them already. Her attention was on Belen, who seemed to have taken on the mantle of leader of their party. “Do any of you carry the taint of the Abyssal Plague?”
Belen blinked. “No.”
“How do we know that’s the truth?” demanded Hurn. He was a shifter like Cariss, but taller and wider with a nasty scar that twisted his mouth into a permanent scowl.
Belen nodded to Roghar. “He’s a paladin of Bahamut. He’ll swear it.”
All of the Tigerclaws looked to Roghar. The dragonborn lifted his head. “We have fought plague demons from Fallcrest to Winterhaven. We are enemies of the one that spreads the Abyssal Plague. In Bahamut’s name, we will destroy him.”
Albanon winced at that grandiose declaration, but it seemed to satisfy Cariss. She looked back to Belen. “And why do you need to cross our territory to do it?”
“We need… We’re going…” Belen looked at a loss for words. Albanon came to her rescue.
“We’re looking for aid and think it lies not far beyond your camp,” he said, praying that Cariss wouldn’t ask for any further details.
His prayers were not answered. “Where?” asked the shifter.
Albanon tried to put on an air of confidence as he dredged his mind for a response. Something innocent. Something generic. A picturesque image popped into his imagination, vaguely familiar like a half-remembered drawing. “In a valley,” he said, “below a mountain’s stone face.” He pointed in the direction of his urge. “That way.”
This time, Cariss was the one who blinked. The other Tigerclaws stirred and Albanon felt a sudden unease. Had he just described some site sacred to the barbarians? Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
But then Cariss silenced the others with a swift gesture of her spear-and lifted the weapon away from him. Her catlike features broke into a smile. “Travelers, you are honest,” she said. “Come with us and meet Turbull, leader of the Thornpad clan. He will be interested to hear your story.”
“That’s not necessary,” Albanon said hastily. “We can just be on our way. We don’t need to bother-”
His words ended in a gasp of pain as Belen put her hand over his and squeezed hard. She returned Cariss’s smile. “We are pleased to accept the honor of your invitation.”
Albanon’s hand was still throbbing as they descended into the Tigerclaw camp, leading their horses and escorted by the six warriors. Cariss and two others went ahead, while Hurn and the remaining two followed. Albanon was certain he could feel the scarred shifter’s glare on the back of his neck.
“I think you might have broken something,” he muttered at Belen. “Was that necessary?”
“Tigerclaws take hospitality seriously,” she muttered back. “What was that about a mountain valley?”
“I needed to say something and it was the first thing that came into my head.”
“Well, try not to say anything else. Just follow my lead.”
“Did you really learn all this from escorting Tigerclaws?” asked Uldane. “We hardly ever saw them in Winterhaven-I never knew they went all the way to Fallcrest.”
“For now, let’s say I did and not talk about it anymore.”
Her tone cut off further questions. Tempest reached down and discretely put a hand over Uldane’s mouth before he could say anything else. He shook it off and scowled at the tiefling, but kept silent. Roghar barely even seemed to register the exchange. He just kept staring straight ahead.
Albanon let his aching hand drop to his side and looked around as casually as he could manage. Most of the clan seemed to have come out to stare at the new arrivals. From what Albanon knew of Tigerclaw barbarians, they didn’t interact with outsiders often, at least not in their home territory in the Winterbole Forest. The more he looked around the camp, though, the more he began to suspect that the Thornpad clan hadn’t occupied this area among the Cairngorms for long. The bent wood frames of the hide tents were green enough that they still oozed sap. The lashing was hardly weathered at all. The ground between the tents didn’t have the hardpacked appearance of long wear.
There was something in the faces of the barbarians as well. Warrior and crafter, women with babies on their hips, even now-silent children-all looked tired, afraid, suspicious, and more than a little haunted.
Albanon had seen the same look on the faces of the refugees crowding Fallcrest.
Some of the watching warriors came up to stride alongside their escort, exchanging quiet words with them. Hurn noticed and shouted them off. The warriors scowled and fell back with hard glances at Albanon and the others.
Cariss led them to a tent that was smaller than others but covered entirely in dark hides. An older shifter, apparently alerted to their approach, waited outside for them. A heavy gold chain hung with talismans of bone, feather, and stone lay against his chest, and his thick gray hair was pulled back and bound by another gold ornament. His arms were bare and criss-crossed with the scars of battle. Two short-handled warpicks with polished steel heads and handles inlaid with ivory hung from his belt. Cariss left them to Hurn and the other barbarian warriors and went to speak with the older shifter in low tones. Albanon tried to catch what they said, but couldn’t hear anything. The watching Tigerclaws were pressing closer and murmuring to each other. Hurn glared around and drove them all back a few paces with a fierce snarl.
The older shifter approached with Cariss half a pace behind him. “I am Turbull of the Thornpad clan of the Tigerclaw tribe,” he said without preamble. He gestured. “Cariss. Hurn.”
“I am Belen of Fallcrest.” The warrior introduced each of them in turn and then added, “We didn’t know the Tigerclaw were here or we would have brought gifts. This is all I can offer.”
Belen drew her sword with a swiftness that brought a cry of surprise from Uldane and set Roghar ducking behind his shield. Albanon instinctively put his back to Tempest’s, ready to defend against reprisal, but the Tigerclaws were staring more at them than they were at Belen. She shook her head at them as she offered her sword to Turbull.
He inspected it and chuckled. “You do know our ways,” he said. “A warrior’s offer of her weapon is always an honorable gift-and one that must always be returned because it belongs to her clan, not her.” Turbull handed the sword back to her. “A fine weapon. You said you escorted representatives of Chief Scargash in Fallcrest. Who?”
Albanon bit his tongue. If Belen’s claim was the lie that it seemed, she was almost certainly going to be caught out now. Miraculously, though, she had an answer. “Asheye of the eastern forests, his son Vinya, and some of their warriors. It was some years ago.”
And to Albanon’s surprise, Turbull nodded. “I have heard that Asheye had Scargash’s trust. He has been dead for three winters. Vinya leads their clan now.”
“Seasons change,” Belen said. “Is a warrior named Dutt still serving Vinya?”
Turbull shrugged with casual indifference. “I hear tales of certain warriors. Dutt is not among them, but maybe he has yet to make a name for himself.” And with that, to Albanon’s immense relief, the leader of the Thornpads appeared satisfied with Belen’s claim-or at least unwilling to admit he didn’t know much about a distant clan. “Come,” he said. “We will eat and you’ll tell me about your journey.”