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Ketal stood at the edge of the torchlit circle with a cool, distant gaze, watching the barbarians trade blows beneath the roar of their own voices. Then he caught himself and drew a slow breath.
No. I shouldn’t think like this, Ketal thought.
He had been judging them for refusing to kill in a duel. That was the mindset of the barbarians of the White Snowfield. Worse, it was the mindset of an old man clinging to the rules that had hurt him. A duel did not have to end in death. If every contest demanded a corpse, the world would belong only to lunatics.
He straightened his shoulders and let the irritation drain away. Even so, the circle made its decision with the kind of blunt finality barbarians liked. One fighter shattered the other man’s weapon, snapped his arm at the elbow with a stomp, and raised a chipped axe over his head.
“Listen!” the winner shouted, voice hoarse with triumph. “I am the leader! If anyone objects, step forward.”
No one moved. Rough faces turned toward him and showed respect the only way barbarians knew how. They accepted the result. A leader had been chosen.
Darkul and Ketal did not bother to comment. They were here to reach the Barbarian King. They would walk with the column until it carried them to that audience. They didn’t care who the leader was.
At least, that was the hope. Barbarians chose their leaders like...
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