In the course of his explorations, he came across a variety of goods of a more civilized make than the Tigerclaw would likely have crafted for themselves, yet of sufficient wear that they weren’t likely acquired through trade. Maybe these were the Tigerclaws that had scavenged the area around Winterhaven after all. They were probably building up resources in the face of the Abyssal Plague, if Turbull’s story of leading his Thornpad clan into hiding was true. He was disappointed to find only two of the massive saber-toothed cats that were the Tigerclaws’ almost legendary war-mounts, but then if the Thornpads had slipped away in secret, maybe they hadn’t been able to bring any more of the cats with them. Or maybe they hadn’t wanted to. It probably took a lot of hunting just to keep the beasts, penned up in a small but stout stockade behind the camp, fed and happy.
Unlike their barbarian masters, the great cats raised their heads and looked straight at Uldane as he stood watching them. They didn’t roar or growl, though, and Uldane wondered if maybe they saw him as less of a threat and more of a bite-sized morsel.
“If you show up at Turbull’s feast,” he told them, “I’m running, no matter what Belen says.”
One of the cats put its head down on its immense paws. The other yawned hugely, exposing fangs longer than Uldane’s entire hand, then, without taking its green eyes off him, slowly licked its muzzle. A little shiver ran up Uldane’s back and he decided it was time to move on.
All in all, the Tigerclaws and their camp were less exciting than he’d hoped they would be. It was really no more interesting than skulking around Fallcrest or Winterhaven and watching people go about their business. Less even because of Belen’s voice nagging in his head. Guests have duties to the host, too.
“Goblin kisser,” Uldane muttered under his breath, kicking at the ground. He’d circled the camp several times and dusk was approaching. Time to head back to the others, he decided. At least he could report what he’d found out about the camp. Maybe he could even try to slip back into the tent and his bundled cloak without being noticed.
Then he noticed something odd.
Most of the tents in the camp were large communal structures, more like longhouses really. A few were smaller, like Turbull’s tent or the one that had been set up for Uldane and the others. The halfling stood at the far end of the camp, facing a very similar small tent-similar except for the hunter who dozed outside the door and for the lack of tall weeds around its walls. The well-trampled plants in the vicinity were only just springing back to life, as if the tent had been erected in just the last couple of days.
Another new tent and one that was, unless Uldane was wrong, under guard. His curiosity was aroused.
One quick look, he told himself. He made his way around to the back of the mysterious tent, looking for the same type of low spot he’d used to escape theirs. He didn’t find one, but the hides in one spot were loose enough that he could pull them up from the ground. He listened for any sound from inside the tent and, hearing nothing, twitched up the loose hides and wriggled his head and shoulders through. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside, but when they did-
“Goblin kisser!” said Uldane again.
CHAPTER TEN
I will kill him,” snarled Belen. “I will chop him up into little pieces and make halfling sausages.” She stomped-again-on the empty blankets that should have been wrapped around Uldane.
“Quietly,” Tempest reminded her. The tiefling was all for an angry rant but as Belen had said, a tent was not a cottage. Tempest peered through the narrow gap of the tent door. Twilight had fallen and the busy camp had become restless again as the Tigerclaws waited for the feast to begin. Her tail flicking, she scanned the gathering shadows and the half-concealed hiding spots for any sign of Uldane. “Still nothing,” she said.
Belen ground Uldane’s blanket under her heel. “I shouldn’t have trusted him. If he gets caught…”
“He won’t get caught,” said Albanon. “He’s better than that.”
Belen’s response was less of a word and more of an indelicate body noise. Albanon twitched slightly, but kept a calm expression. His thumbs, however, folded and unfolded rapidly. Tempest knew him well enough to recognize the signs of strain. She let the flap of the door fall and turned back. “We all should have known better than to trust him,” she said. “But Albanon’s right. Uldane won’t get caught. He’ll come back. He’s not entirely stupid-he knows the danger.”
“I’m not certain he does,” said Belen. “The Tigerclaws pride themselves on creative punishment. Ferocity is just one side of their totem spirit.”
“If the Tigerclaws try anything, we can defend ourselves,” Roghar said. He had his sword out, and was occupying himself by polishing the blade.
“Really? Against the whole tribe? Because that’s what we’d be fighting.”
Roghar gave the sword a final buff and slid it back into its scabbard. “If we have to,” he said.
Tempest’s tail twitched again as the conversation she’d had with Albanon just before they’d stumbled across the barbarian camp came back to her. There was definitely something wrong with Roghar. She’d never known the dragonborn to run from a fight, but she’d never known him to seek one out either. “I don’t think we want to do that if we can help it,” she said. “We’re not in trouble yet.”
The words had barely left her mouth before Albanon raised his head and said sharply, “We might be. Listen.”
All four of them paused. In the quiet, Tempest could hear women’s voices raised in song. Belen’s breath hissed. “I know that song. It’s a serving prayer. The feast will start soon.”
Tempest risked another glance through the tent flap-and jerked back. Uldane had run out of time. Outside, Cariss and Hurn were striding together through the camp toward their tent. “The Tigerclaws are coming for us!” she whispered.
Roghar growled and grabbed for his shield as he surged to his feet. Belen cursed. Albanon’s face tightened, but he leaped across the tent and snatched Uldane’s blanket from under Belen’s feet. He shook it, throwing a cloud of dust into the air, then quickly tucked it into the same bundled shape that the halfling had used to trick them. “We tell them Uldane is sick,” he said, standing up.
“That’s not going to fool anyone,” said Roghar.
Albanon’s eyes narrowed in concentration and the long fingers of one hand flicked in the pattern of a simple spell. The blanket began to rise and fall as if a small figure within was breathing. The fingers of his other hand sketched another sign and a piteous moan emanated from the blankets. Albanon looked to Roghar. The dragonborn wrinkled his snout and gave a grudging nod.
And just in time. “Guests of Turbull!” came Hurn’s gruff voice from the other side of the tent door. “Come out!”
Cariss didn’t seem interested in waiting for a response. The tent flap jerked as she pulled it aside. Tempest found herself staring eye to eye with the shifter. Cariss bared sharp teeth. “Try something, tiefling.”
It took effort, but Tempest swallowed her instinct to meet aggression with aggression and stepped back. Cariss scanned the interior of the tent. “Leave your shield,” she said to Roghar. “You won’t need it.” Her gaze came to rest on Uldane’s twitching, moaning blankets. “What’s wrong with the halfling?”
Relief rolled through Tempest. “He’s sick,” she said. “Something he ate didn’t agree with him. Can he just stay here?”
Cariss frowned and started into the tent. Tempest’s relief turned into panic and she glanced at Albanon-just in time to see the wizard narrow his eyes again and twitch his nose. The phantasmal moaning rose to a pained gasp before giving way to the loud and sudden breaking of wind. A horrific stench billowed through the tent, strong enough to make Tempest’s eyes water. Cariss recoiled.