Albanon’s relief shriveled again. Belen caught his eye as they settled onto woven mats in front of Turbull’s hut and gave him a confident little nod. She still had things under control.
Cariss and Hurn sat with them, along with two other warriors summoned by Turbull so that hosts and guests were in equal numbers and seated in an alternating pattern. Albanon found himself between Cariss and Turbull, with Tempest beyond Cariss and Belen beyond Turbull. Roghar sat beside Hurn and the two big men glared at each other. Albanon threw a warning glance at Uldane, willing him to actually behave for once, but it seemed as if the halfling was already intimidated. He sat quietly, looking around with darting glances.
Food came swiftly-smoking pieces of meat fresh from the fire, bowls of a thick vegetable stew, and some sort of weak beer that smelled of berries. It was presented in belly-filling quantities but Albanon saw more than a few Tigerclaws eyeing it hungrily. He leaned behind Cariss to look questioningly at Belen.
The first thing she said to him was “Sit up. It’s rude to talk behind people’s backs.” Then, once they were both leaning in front of the shifter woman, she added, “Eat what you want. We’re guests.” She nodded to Cariss. “They don’t know.”
Cariss grinned at Albanon, her teeth no less sharp than Tempest’s but somehow more disturbingly predatory. “Eat what you will and leave the rest. Nothing will go to waste.” She picked up a morsel of meat with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.
They ate and drank mostly in silence. Belen was the only one who talked much, discussing the weather and travel conditions with Turbull and Cariss. Albanon and the others limited their interactions to nods, shared glances, and a few nervous words with the other Tigerclaws. After a little while, it occurred to Albanon that the barbarians were just as uncertain around them. That put him a bit more at ease but he remained wary.
When most of the food and drink had been consumed, Belen bent a little closer to Turbull. “The Cairngorm Peaks are an unusual place to find Tigerclaws. Is Scargash expanding the territory claimed by the tribe?”
Turbull sighed before answering. “Scargash does not expand the Tigerclaw territory,” he said. “The Abyssal Plague ravages the Winterbole Forest just as I hear it ravages the southern Nentir Vale. Scargash’s answer is to call the clans together for defense. I believe another tactic is necessary.”
He gestured around them. “The plague demons haunt Winterbole, spreading their disease and their numbers. Here there are no demons. If we remain vigilant, the Thornpads will be safe.”
“We run and hide like rabbits,” Hurn grumbled into his stew.
“Even hunting cats know when to run from a fight they can’t win,” Cariss said sharply.
“Peace,” said Turbull. He looked back to Belen. “Not everyone agrees with my decision.”
“It wouldn’t be popular. But the hunting seems good at least.”
“It is enough,” Turbull said with a shrug.
“Have you considered moving farther into the mountains?” Roghar asked abruptly. “This place is good, but a mountain valley with limited access would be more defensible.”
Hurn paused in the act of reaching for another bowl of stew. The other Tigerclaws froze as well, though Turbull at least recovered quickly enough that it could have passed as a moment’s hesitation. “We have been considering that. There is a place we are scouting that is almost ideal.”
“Almost?” said Roghar.
Turbull waved the question away. “It is Tigerclaw business. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” He looked around the gathered circle. “But now tell me of your travels. Where you’ve been. Where you’re going.”
The change of conversation was so abrupt it left Albanon with a bad taste in his mouth. As Belen, once more taking the lead, launched into an abbreviated version of their adventures, he looked around at the Tigerclaws. All of them seemed to be listening to the story, but except for Turbull, none were actually looking at Belen. Or him, Roghar, Tempest, or Uldane. They’d all suddenly found great interest in their food. Albanon was willing to guess that Tigerclaw tradition frowned on lying to guests, but had no qualms about omitting information. The clan was hiding something.
But then so was Belen. Although her tale was rambling and artless, she hid most of their experiences with Vestapalk and certainly their involvement in the origins of the Abyssal Plague, describing the dragon only as their enemy. Suitably for a warrior, the bulk of her story focused on the details of their battles and that seemed more than enough for her barbarian audience. Her description of the events at Winterhaven brought the attention of the Tigerclaws back to her. They grunted appreciatively-even Hurn-at Roghar’s decapitating Vestagix with the edge of his shield, drawing a nod and the first smile Albanon had seen in days from the dragonborn.
Belen minimized the role he had played in the end of the battle, describing the madness of his lightning storm merely as a powerful spell and hinting that the devastation of Winterhaven had been the fault of the plague demons. When she had finished, Turbull sat back and nodded to the other Tigerclaws. “Learn from this,” he said. “Our enemies won’t always come at us in packs.” Then he sat forward again, his eyes on Albanon. “But what of this urge that draws you north? What have you learned from it?”
Belen hadn’t been able to leave out everything. She had, however, recast the urge planted in Albanon by Tharizdun and his lie about the valley as a vision granted to him by Ioun. Albanon took a breath and did his best to extemporize without actually lying any more than he already had. “Just that whatever we find at the end of the journey will aid us against Vestapalk and the Abyssal Plague. The vision itself is vague. I know there’s a mountain valley and a rock face.”
Turbull looked at him expectantly and Albanon realized that he was waiting for more details. “A… a tall rock face.” As he spoke, the image became more real in his mind. A strange feeling spread through him, as if what he described really was what they were searching for. “Taller than a castle tower. A cliff of pale gray stone.”
“How long is it since you first saw this vision?” asked Cariss.
“A few weeks now. A month perhaps, but no more. I denied it for some time.”
“Why? A call from the gods isn’t something to be ignored.”
Albanon cursed silently. He’d said too much. Why would anyone deny a vision from Ioun? “After the plague demon attack on Fallcrest, I just wanted peace.”
“Peace and denial are luxuries from another time,” said Turbull, “but sometimes they are still possible. You will have peace tonight-you will stay with the Thornpad and continue on your way tomorrow.”
The pronouncement brought two reactions. The Tigerclaws, Hurn and Cariss especially, growled and complained to Turbull, while Albanon and the others glanced uneasily between themselves. Roghar actually rose to his feet. “We should move on,” he said bluntly.
Turbull held up a hand to silence the members of his clan. “Hospitality has been offered. It cannot be called back.” He looked at Belen. “A tent will be prepared for you and later a feast.”
The warrior woman’s confidence seemed shaken. The offer to stay must not have been something she expected. Her eyes went to Albanon.
Tigerclaws take hospitality seriously, she’d said-and as much as Albanon mistrusted the situation, he liked staying on the barbarians’ good side better than offending them. He smiled at Turbull. “We would be honored to stay the night,” he said. “And perhaps you could share your knowledge of the land we’re entering.”
Turbull returned the smile. “Of course.”
They lingered over the food-now cold-for a little longer while a hide tent was erected for them. If the meal had begun with uncertain silence, it ended in uncomfortable quiet. With the exception of Belen and Turbull, conversing in broken fragments to satisfy the demands of etiquette, neither party was in the mood to talk. All Albanon wanted to do was go somewhere private so he could discuss their situation with the others.