Fires of War (War and Deceit #4) - Erin O'Kane Page 0,11
can always see it, I search for all the things Vaeril, Tor, and Grayson value about me, the reasons the Mother picked me. That is what I need to show them. Taking a steadying breath, I step forward, and knowing my companions are behind me helps strengthen me.
“I know you don’t know me, and I know your first impression of me was that I brought a fight to your door.” My words are met by silence, and I turn from the chiefs so I can address those gathered, praying to the Mother that my voice stays steady. “My only memories are of slavery. But I survived when others didn’t, and I put that down to the mix of elvish and fierce mountain tribe blood pounding through my veins.” There are some cheers at the mention of ‘fierce mountain tribe blood,’ which brings a quirk to my lips, but I keep going. “Whenever I felt like giving up, curling into a ball and succumbing to the pain, something in the back of my mind would demand that I get back up and keep going with one foot in front of the other, and I know that was because of the warrior’s heart in my chest.” I turn to the chiefs, knowing that, ultimately, it’s them I need to convince. “So I may not know your customs, I may not know how to fight like you or the best way to catch and skin a mountain hare, but I know how to survive, and that’s not something you can teach.”
“The girl is right,” a deep voice agrees, making me shudder. It’s the kind of timbre that sounds like it belongs to someone who doesn’t speak often, and as I find the owner of the voice, I shudder again. He’s another one of the chiefs, but like Eric, he is thinner than the average tribesman. However, unlike the giant chief, this man looks lethal, every inch the predator. His braided hair and eyes are dark, and almost every inch of his skin is tattooed, making him blend in with the shadows.
Ragnar frowns at his fellow chiefs, and I can tell this is not going how he imagined. His eyes dart over to me, narrowing as his expression twists into something bitter. “You need all twelve chiefs to agree to induct her, to reverse the banishing.” While I may be able to convince the others, there is nothing I can do to convince this man. Tor’s low growl at my side confirms it, and I feel a flicker of fear as a thought occurs to me, remembering what he had told me about the challenge. He wouldn’t challenge Ragnar to make him agree, would he? You know he would. Ragnar isn’t the chief of his tribe for nothing. Besides, he looks lethal, I wouldn’t trust him to make it a clean fight. My eyes widen as Tor takes a step forward, dread lining my stomach. No! Think, Clarissa, you have to do something.
Stalking forward, Ragnar completely ignores Tor and keeps walking until he’s almost pressed right up against me. He’s trying to intimidate me, but I hold my ground no matter how much I want to step back. “I do not recognise Clarissa as one of us,” he sneers into my face, and Vaeril starts to move, but I hold out a hand, resting it gently on his chest, and he instantly stills. Ragnar watches with a disgusted expression but doesn’t stop his little speech. “And it’s an offence that she bears our marks on her skin.”
With speed almost as fast as an elf, he grabs my tattooed arm, a dagger glinting in his free hand. Several people cry out, but it’s like they’re moving in slow motion as the blade comes down and slashes over my skin, cutting across my tribal tattoo. Pandemonium ensues. Jerking my arm away, I stumble back in shock, my elves converging around me while a snarling Eldrin and Tor restrain the painted chief.
“It used to be an honour to get our tribe marks, and now it seems that anyone can waltz into camp and be given them!” he shouts, spittle leaving his mouth as he tries to break free. I can barely hear myself think as tribespeople bellow and howl their disgust, either at me receiving my tattoo or at his sudden attack on me, I can’t tell.
A sudden wave of anger so fierce it physically knocks me to my knees surges through my body. Except it’s not