Mercedes Lackey - Owlknight

I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.

Shandi eased Karles over to Darian’s side, and nodded at the Blood Bear contingent, who made up nearly half of the left flank. “Is that who I think it is?” she asked, in a voice that cracked a little.

“It is.” He didn’t take his eyes off the Shaman. If there was a single person commanding this force, it was this Shaman, and his control was absolute. After the fighters arrayed themselves in two ranks, they remained in place, and when one or two stirred restlessly, the Shaman quelled them with a single spearing glance.

Only when all of his troops had settled into immobility did the Shaman send his gaze questing over the Raven defenders. When his eyes locked with Darian’s, it was clear enough who he had been looking for.

Darian returned his gaze somberly, determined not to show a hint of weakness or fear. You want to start a staring contest? Be my guest. I’d rather we tried to stare each other down than started flinging arrows at each other. He tried to judge the level of the mage’s power without actually probing him, for a probe could be turned against him; the other man was probably doing the same.

The flows of power around the Shaman told Darian quite a bit - more bad news, since the Shaman had accessed a ley-line four furlongs behind, which crossed the trail the army must have taken. It wasn’t the strongest line Darian had ever seen, nor the strongest in the area, but the fact that the mage was accessing it at all meant he was at least Darian’s equal. Higher than Apprentice and Journeyman. Master, at least. How experienced a Master? There was no telling, but Darian felt altogether too new and raw in his ranking at the moment. I am not ready for a contest of mage-against-mage - he thought, as he accessed another power line.

But evidently the other was.

With a brusque motion to his guard to stand their ground, the Shaman stepped forward from the rest.

His voice, deep and mocking, with an underlying rasp, rang out across the clear ground between them. “Ho! Chief of Raven!”

With a tightening of his jaw muscles, the Raven Chief answered, though he did not step forward in turn. “I see you, Shaman of Wolverine,” he called, raising his chin in a gesture of defiance. “What brings you to Raven at the season of fishing?”

“A friendly visit.” the Shaman grinned, his teeth glinting whitely in the darkness of his beard. “You give us cold greeting.”

Darian felt his skin crawling at the sight of that smile. The Shaman was very sure of himself.

“Do friends come as armies, visiting with weapons in hand?” Raven Chief countered bravely. The Chief held his head high, his voice clear and steady. If he was worried, it wasn’t apparent.

The Shaman did not reply directly to that; instead, he allowed his gaze to drift back to Darian, then return to the Chief. “You have strange visitors,” he said instead, with a heavy frown. “Visitors who bear a strange resemblance to folk who caused friends and allies of ours much grief, some few years ago.”

“Ah?” The Chief tilted his head to one side. “That is odd; I had heard a different tale.” He scratched his head and feigned thinking hard. “There was something about an attempt to conquer the southlands that was thwarted by the inhabitants there. Something about Blood Bear being routed by a few birds and a handful of dirt-diggers and children - ”

There was a roar of anger from the left, and the Shaman had to divert his attention to regaining command of his own forces, while the fighters of Raven roared with laughter. Somewhat forced laughter, perhaps, but it served its purpose, which was to make the Blood Bear fighters angry and difficult to control.

Darian silently cheered for the Raven Chief; he was doing exactly the right thing, putting as much strain on the Shaman’s control of the troops as possible.

When the Shaman had regained the upper hand and returned to his negotiations, he had not lost a bit of his outwardly pleasant and half-amused demeanor. “That was ill-said, Chief of Raven,” he chided gently. “You have made our allies unhappy. I cannot answer for what they may do if you anger them a second time.”

The Chief shrugged, as if it was a matter of complete indifference to him. “Whether you can keep any grip on your own warriors’ collars is not my problem, Shaman.”

Darian hoped he could keep talking for the rest of the day - while they were exchanging barbed witticisms (or at least what passed for witticisms among the Northerners) there wasn’t any fighting going on. “Your allies are no friends to Raven,” he pointed out. “Why not send them on their way? Then, perhaps, we will consider offering you a warmer welcome.”

“Oh, Chief, I do not believe I can do that,” the Shaman said silkily, shaking his head with mock-sadness. “Much as I would like to oblige you. I believe they have some business with these visitors of yours.”

“I believe they do not. These visitors are related to Elders of my tribe and are traders; Blood Bear has no relatives here, and has never been interested in gaining goods by trade.” The Chief’s tone implied that the reason Blood Bear wasn’t interested in trade was because they preferred to steal.

Raven-spirit, this Chief of yours is as clever as any of the feathered tribe, Darian thought. Darian saw what he was up to - he was trying to divide the forces. For some reason, the Shaman of Wolverine wasn’t ready to attack yet, and might not support Blood Bear if they did. It would be much easier to handle the enemy if they came at the defenses a piece at a time.

“Really?” The Shaman’s arch tone betokened mock-astonishment. “You have some strange blood in Raven, then.”

“No stranger than a tribe whose warriors once looked as much beast as man,” the Chief countered, grounding the butt of his spear for emphasis. He looked down his nose at the left flank, and the Blood Bear fighters stirred uncomfortably. “The blood in Raven is different, perhaps, but strong. The Raven is lord of the skies. Even the Eagle does not interfere with him.”

“So you say; the Raven’s calls sound like empty croaking to me.” That was an open challenge, but the Chief wasn’t lured into taking it. He knew as well as Darian that their advantage lay in keeping the enemy talking as long as possible.

“For those who have not the learning or the wisdom, all good advice sounds like empty croaking.” There was the challenge turned back without having to answer it.

But the Shaman was losing patience. “You have one among your so-called visitors with dangerous learning,” he warned, pointing directly at Darian, who responded by standing straighter and staring back stonily into the Shaman’s gaze. “Or has he not told you? Chief of Raven, this man would make you think he is but a harmless thing, but he is a poison serpent among you. He has magic powers that he had not disclosed to you, that do not come from the spirits - ”

“But he has,” the Chief laughed. “He has told us all, and much more than you know. And we know him. You say he is a poison serpent disguised, but I say he is the guardian serpent across our threshold - ”

The Shaman smiled, and both Darian and the Chief - and everyone else knew that the Chief had finally said the wrong thing, and given the Shaman the opening he’d been looking for. “In that case,” the Shaman said quickly and gleefully, “Send forth your guardian, for a Shaman is a serpent-slayer, and let him contend with me. If you wish us to depart in peace, that is the least that we will accept. Send your guardian forth so that we will face each other, and see who has the greater strength; he whose power comes from the Spirits, or he whose power comes from nothing we recognize.” His tone turned silky and coaxing. “You have nothing to lose by this, Chief of Raven; only send him out. If he wins, we will depart.”