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x The village of Shadowcat Fang lay twenty miles northeast of Eagle’s Beak Point.
It stood in a clearing beside a lake, surrounded by a double palisade of ironwood twenty feet high.
More than a dozen watchtowers rose within the wall.
Outside it, a man-made ditch joined the lake and turned the whole village into a small island.
It was no noble castle, but it was strong.
“Who goes there?” On a watchtower, a wild man drew a bow and aimed at the figure before the gate.
Since the survivors of Eagle’s Beak had returned, the village had been tight with fear.
The defeat had cost Shadowcat Fang most of its young strength.
For the tribe, it was a wound close to ruin.
“It is me.
Keman.” At the familiar voice, the guard lowered his bow and opened the gate.
He entered without a word.
“Where is my father?” “When he heard of the defeat…
he took ill.” Keman nodded, his expression unreadable.
“Take me to him.” A servant led him to a small hut by the lake.
A brazier burned inside.
Saru, the tribe’s shaman, was throwing strange plants into the flames and murmuring prayers.
Smoke curled thickly in the air.
Through it, Keman saw his father lying on a bed, his body covered with fangs from beasts of the mountains.
“Leave us.” The shaman hesitated, then led the servants out.
At the sound, the old chieftain opened his eyes and looked at the son beside his bed.
His cracked lips parted.
“Why only you?
Where are Keka and Kemu?” “Dead,” Keman said.
The old man closed his eyes in pain.
His body trembled.
It took him time to master himself.
“Then write in my name to the fourteen tribes nearby.
Tell them the Reachmen have come into the deep mountains the gods gave us.
If they do not wish to be driven from the homes of their fathers, they must unite and—” “Father.” Keman cut him off.
“Do you still mean to make our warriors bleed?” The old chieftain opened his eyes in anger.
“One defeat stole your courage?” Keman met his gaze.
“This is not about courage.
You fought Reachmen when you were young.
You know where the difference lies.
Are our warriors less brave than theirs?
No.
What we lack is bread and dried meat piled high enough to feed an army, steel weapons properly forged, knights born for war, and castles that cannot be broken.
Without those things, we can gather every wild man in the mountains and still lose.” The old man coughed hard enough to shake the bed.
“Then what do you want?
To surrender?
To become their slaves?” “Not slaves.
Subjects.” “Subjects?” The chieftain laughed until the laugh became another cough.
“Have you seen the smallfolk under noble lords?
How are they different from slaves?” “And our people?” Keman asked coldly.
“Do they live better than the slaves you imagine?” “You…” The old man forced himself upright, then doubled over coughing again.
The coughs tore through him as if they meant to bring up his heart and lungs.
Keman watched without moving to help.
“You are old, Father,” he said.
“Your stubbornness will drag Shadowcat Fang into the abyss.” “Be silent!” the chieftain gasped.
“You think you can decide the tribe’s future?
Wait until I am dead, and then—” “Very well.” Before the sentence ended, Keman snatched the shadowcat pelt from the bed and pressed it over his father’s face.
The old man thrashed.
Keman held him down.
The flames in the brazier leapt and shuddered, throwing their shadows against the walls.
At last, the old chieftain stopped moving.
Keman laid the pelt back over him and returned the scattered fangs to their places.
Then he stared at his father’s face for several breaths, rubbed hard at his own stiff cheeks, and forced panic into his voice.
“Father!
What is wrong?
Father!
Get Saru!” The shaman rushed in.
“Look at him.
He fainted suddenly.” Saru bent and checked the old man’s breath.
His face tightened.
He turned and found Keman’s cold eyes waiting.
Understanding passed between them.
Saru lowered his head.
“Forgive me, young lord.
The chieftain has returned to the gods.” “Father!” Keman threw himself across the corpse and wept loudly.
Outside the village, on a rise overlooking the palisade, Todd Flowers spoke in a low voice.
“My lord, you should not have accepted Keman’s fealty.” Samwell watched the movement inside the village.
“What kind of man is Keman?” “A kinslayer.” Todd’s voice was grave.
“A man who can murder his own blood can do anything.” Samwell pointed toward the village.
“How many soldiers would you need to take that place?” Todd frowned, thrown by the question.
“Five hundred, perhaps.” “And the losses?” “Heavy.” “Keman,” Samwell said, “can give it to us without costing us a single man.” Todd still looked troubled.
“Why must we take it at all?
After the battle, neither Shadowcat Fang nor the other tribes nearby will dare attack us.
We could build in peace.” Samwell sighed inwardly.
There were things he could not tell Todd.
Peaceful growth would be too slow, and chaos was coming too quickly.
He did not have time.
He needed people.
Absorbing the mountain tribes was the fastest path.
Shadowcat Fang was the strongest and most respected tribe in the area.
If he took it, the rest of the mountains would feel it.
The gate opened.
Seven or eight wild men emerged and walked toward the rise.
Keman led them.
When he reached Samwell, he knelt and lowered his head to the ground.
“Lord Greenhand, as the new chieftain of Shadowcat Fang, I submit on behalf of all my people.” Samwell stepped forward.
“I, Samwell Greenhand, in the sight of the gods, accept the people of Shadowcat Fang as my subjects.
From this day, CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.