Chapter 26 Xylon
XYLON
The warmth of the ale and the joyous, roaring energy of the great hall is a balm on a soul that has been cold for a decade.
I am speaking with one of my father’s oldest war leaders, a grizzled veteran named Korgath, and his laughter is a familiar, welcome sound.
But even as I laugh with him, my eyes scan the hall, always returning to her.
Dina. She stands near a great pillar, a small, quiet island in the chaotic sea of my people, and the sight of her, safe and warm in the colors of my clan, fills a place in my chest I did not know was empty.
My gaze sweeps the crowd, and then it freezes. The joy in my veins turns to ice.
Grak. My old rival, his face a blazing mask of contempt, is bearing down on her.
He is a great, brutish Orc, built for brawling, not for thought, and his ambition has always been a poison in his blood.
He corners her, his hulking form trapping her against the stone, and his followers flank him like wolves circling their prey.
I see the malice in his eyes, even from across the hall. I see the way his lips curl as he sneers down at her. I see the flicker of fear and confusion on her face. And a cold, controlled fury, a thing far more dangerous than the Urog’s mindless rage, settles over me.
“Excuse me, Korgath,” my voice becoming a low, flat thing. I set my horn of ale down on the table with a quiet click.
I do not run. I move through the crowd with a calm, predatory purpose that has the other Orcs falling back before me, their joyous shouts dying on their lips as they see the look on my face. The path clears. The drums seem to falter. A pocket of silence grows around me as I approach.
Grak is leaning in, his voice a low, menacing growl, but I hear his final words clearly. “What did our chieftain’s son have to promise you to buy his life back?”
I do not speak. I simply arrive. I place myself between them, my back to Dina, facing him. I am taller than Grak, my body leaner from my ordeal but no less powerful. I look down at him, and the heat of the great fires feels like a distant thing compared to the ice in my gaze.
“You will step away from her, Grak,” my voice is not loud. It is cold steel. “You will do it now.”
Grak straightens up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it is quickly replaced by a belligerent smirk. “Xylon. I was merely welcoming your… guest.” The word is an insult.
“I heard your welcome,” I say, my voice dropping even lower. “And I will not hear it again. You forget your place.”
“My place?” Grak scoffs, raising his voice for the benefit of the watching crowd.
“My place is to be concerned for the future of this clan. My place is to wonder if our chieftain’s heir has returned with his mind as whole as his body.
” He gestures toward me, his expression a mask of false concern.
“You were a beast. A mindless, raging thing. We all heard the stories. And now you return, not with an Orc’s honor, but leaning on the magic of a… human.” He spits the word like a curse.
A low, collective murmur ripples through the hall. He is a clumsy politician, but his poison is potent. He is sowing dissent.
“Her name is Dina,” I say, voice a deadly, quiet warning. “And her honor is greater than yours will ever be. She did what you and your warriors could not. She saved the son of your chieftain. Any insult to her is an insult to me. And an insult to the house of Borin.”
“An insult?” Grak throws his hands wide, playing to the crowd. “It is a question, not an insult! The clan has a right to know if their future leader’s judgment has been clouded. If his spirit has been weakened by a human witch’s influence!”
“That is enough, Grak!” The voice of my father booms through the hall, and the crowd falls silent. Chief Borin strides toward us, his face a mask of grim authority.
But Grak is committed. He drops to one knee, a gesture of fealty that is the most insubordinate act I have ever seen. He is not addressing my father. He is addressing the clan.
“Chieftain Borin,” he says, his voice ringing with false piety.
“I do not challenge your son to a duel of strength. His body is strong. But the strength of a chieftain is in his spirit, his judgment. I formally challenge his right to be your heir. I ask that a clan council be convened, as is my right by the old laws, to judge his fitness to one day lead the Fire Sun people.”
The air is sucked from the hall. A formal challenge. It is an ancient, almost forgotten law, a move of brazen political aggression. He is not just questioning my honor; he is questioning my sanity, my very soul.
My father studies me, his eyes full of a fire I have not seen since I was a boy. Then he looks at Grak, and his expression turns to stone. He is a chieftain, and he is bound by the laws he is sworn to uphold.
“The law is the law,” my father’s voice is heavy, a thing of iron and stone. “The challenge is made. It must be answered.” He raises his voice, addressing the entire, silent hall. “A clan council is convened. In three days’ time, the fitness of my son, Xylon, to be heir will be judged.”
A slow, triumphant smirk spreads across Grak’s face as he rises to his feet. He looks from me to Dina, who stands behind me, pale and trembling. His gaze lingers on her, a look of pure, venomous contempt.
“Let the clan decide,” he sneers, his voice a low poison meant for me, but loud enough for all those nearby to hear, “if we should be led by a fractured beast… and his human pet.”