At the center of the stones was a pool with seven white stones spaced around it. Upon two of the stones sat Marat.
Tavi was struck at once by the difference in their appearance. Doroga, huge and solid, paced around to one of the stones. On the way there, he passed a lean Marat woman, her pale hair shaved on the sides to leave only a long, silky mane atop her head. She, too, wore only a loincloth, though, more than her nakedness, Tavi noted an Aleran cavalry saber riding a Legion-issue belt at her hip, and three badges, tarnished silver falcons, which spangled the belt. Her skin was shades darker than most of the Marat and seemed weathered and tough, and her dark eyes were cool, appraising. As Doroga passed her, she lifted a hand, and the Chief of the Gargant Clan lightly rapped his knuckles against hers.
Doroga settled on the next rock, folded his hands, and glowered at the third Marat on the hilltop.
Tavi turned his attention to him. The man was of moderate height and lean build. His hair, though Marat-pale, grew in a wild, bristling mane that fell to his shoulders and continued to sprout from his skin down past his ears and along the lines of his jaw. His eyes were an odd shade of pale grey, almost silver, and he held himself with a slow, restless tension. The Marat caught Tavi looking at him and narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth. Tavi blinked to see huge, ripping canines, more properly called fangs, in the Marat’s mouth. A snarl bubbled from his throat, and the man half-rose from his stone.
Doroga rose and spat, “Will the headman of the Drahga-ha defile the peace of the horto?”
The fang-toothed Marat glared from Tavi to Doroga. His voice came out as a bubbling growl, low, harsh, hardly understandable. Could a wolf speak, Tavi thought, it would sound like this. “The headman of the Sabot-ha has already defiled its sanctity with these outsiders.”
Doroga smiled. “The horto welcomes all who come in peace.” His smile widened a touch. “Though perhaps I am mistaken. Do you believe that this is the case, Skagara?”
The woman said, without rising, “I believe he thinks you mistaken, Doroga.”
Skagara snarled toward the woman, his eyes flickering warily between her and Doroga. “Stay out of this, Hashat. I need neither you nor the Kevras-ha to tell me what I believe.”
Doroga rolled a pace toward Skagara. The big Marat flexed his hands with an ominous crackling of knuckles. “This is between you and I, Wolf. Do you believe me mistaken?”
Skagara lifted his lips away from his teeth again, and there was a long and tense silence on the hill. At the end of it, he let out a spiteful growl and looked away from Doroga. “There is no need to bring this matter before The One.”
“Enough, then,” Doroga said. He continued staring at the other man and settled slowly back down onto his stone. Skagara mirrored him. Doroga then murmured, “We come before The One at this horto.” He turned his face up toward the sun, eyes closing, and murmured something in his own tongue. The other two Marat did the same, speaking in a pair of distinct-sounding languages. Silence reigned on the hilltop for the space of a score of heartbeats, and then the Marat together lowered their eyes again.
“I am called Doroga, headman of the Sabot-ha, the Gargant Clan,” Tavi’s captor said in formal tones.
“I am called Hashat, headman of the Kevras-ha, the Horse Clan,” stated the woman.
“I am called Skagara, headman of the Drahga-ha, the Wolf Clan.” Skagara rose, impatiently. “I see no need for this horto. We have captive enemies among us. Let us partake of their strength and go to battle.”
Doroga nodded soberly. “Yes. These are our enemies. So has spoken Atsurak of the Sishkrak-ha.” He turned his face to Tavi. “And none have spoken against him.”
Tavi swallowed and stepped forward. His voice shook, but he forced the words out, and they rang out with clarion strength among the great stones on the hilltop. “I am called Tavi, of Bernardholt, in the bridge valley. And I say that we are no enemies of the Marat.”
There was a startled silence for the space of a breath, there at the hilltop. And then Skagara leapt to his feet with a howl of rage. From down the hill came the sudden angry shouts from dozens of throats, male and female alike, overridden by a chorus of the deep, ringing howls of direwolves.
Doroga came to his feet at the same time, eyes blazing, and though he remained silent, the sudden basso bellows of dozens of gargants rolled like thunder through the winter sky, in tandem with the more distant screams of uncounted horses.
Marat sprinted to the stones at the hilltop, though none of them stepped within their circle, pressing close, eyes wide and excited, gripping weapons, crowding to get close to see—and even so, they split themselves into three separate groups: slab-shouldered, heavily muscled Marat of Clan Gargant; Clan Wolf, silent and fang-toothed and hungry-looking; and Clan Horse, tall and lean with their hair shaved into wind-tossed white manes. The isolated hilltop transformed into the center of a seething mob, excited murmurs, brandished weapons, and threatening glances. Tension and violence rode on the air like leashed lightning, pent-up and straining for release.
Doroga moved then, standing atop his stone, and held his arms above his head. “Silence!” he roared, and his voice smothered sound atop the hill. “Silence, on the horto! Silence as a question is brought before The One!”
Tavi stared around him at the reaction his words had caused and discovered that he had turned and pressed his back to Fade. His limbs shook with reaction. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Fade had assumed that same distant expression as before, eyes focused on nothing, though he had clasped one arm across Tavi’s chest, fingers gripping the opposite shoulder steadily.
“Fade,” Tavi whispered. “Are you all right?”
“Quiet, Tavi,” Fade whispered back. “Do not move.”
Silence stretched over the hill, the sound of moaning wind the only noise. From the corner of his eye, Tavi could see Skagara, crouched before his stone, staring at Tavi with something very like hatred. Some instinct warned Tavi not to make eye contact, that it would only set the Marat into a killing rage — and that all of Clan Wolf would follow their headman, turning the ring of stones into a blood-spattered slaughterhouse.
Tavi did not move. He barely breathed.
“We-the-Marat,” Doroga said, turning in a slow circle. “We are the One-and-Many people, under The One. We prepare to march against the Alerans. We go to war at the words of Atsurak of the Sishkrak-ha. Atsurak the Bloody.” His words spat the next words, and Tavi heard the insolent contempt in them. “Atsurak the Whelpkiller.”