'How many here,' he asked the general gathering, 'remember the battle wherein Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, became our king?'
Many heads bobbed, mostly of the older folk who had remained in Icewind Dale through all the years.
'I, too, remember the battle.' Berkthgar growled defiantly. 'And I do not doubt Wulfgar's claim, nor all the good he did for my people. But you have no claim of blood, no more than my own, and I would lead, Revjak. I demand the Right of Challenge!'
The cheers were louder than ever.
Revjak looked to his son and smiled. He could not avoid Berkthgar's claim, no more than he could possibly defeat the huge man in combat. He turned back to Berkthgar. 'Granted,' he said, and the cheers were deafening then, from both Berkthgar's supporters and Revjak's.
'In five hours, before the sun runs low along the horizon,' Berkthgar began.
'Now,' Revjak said unexpectedly.
Berkthgar eyed the man, trying to discern what trick he might be pulling. Normally a Right of Challenge would be answered later in the day on which it was made, after both combatants had the time to prepare themselves mentally and physically for the combat.
Berkthgar narrowed his blue eyes and all the crowd hushed in anticipation. A smile widened on the huge man's face. He didn't fear Revjak, not now, not ever. Slowly, the huge man's hand went up over his shoulder, grasping the hilt of Bankenfuere, drawing the massive blade up from its scabbard. That sheath had been cut along its top edge so that Berkthgar could draw the weapon quickly. He did so, hoisting the heavy blade high into the sky.
Revjak took up his own weapon, but, to his observant and worried son, he did not seem ready for combat.
Berkthgar approached cautiously, feeling the balance of Bankenfuere with every step.
Then Revjak held up his hand and Berkthgar stopped, waiting.
'Who among us hopes for Revjak to win?' he asked, and a loud cheer of many voices went up.
Thinking the question to be no more than a ruse to lower his confidence, Berkthgar issued a low growl. 'And who would see Berkthgar, Berkthgar the
The cheer was louder still, obviously so.
Revjak moved right up to his opponent, unthreateningly, one hand up and his axe's head low to the ground. 'The challenge is answered,' he said, and he dropped his weapon to the ground.
All eyes widened in disbelief, Kierstaad's perhaps widest of all. This was dishonor! This was cowardice among the barbarians!
'I cannot defeat you, Berkthgar,' Revjak explained, speaking loudly so that all would hear. 'Nor can you defeat me.'
Berkthgar scowled mightily. 'I could cut you in half!' he declared, taking up his sword in both hands so powerfully that Revjak half expected him to do so right then and there.
'And our people would suffer the consequences of your actions,' Revjak said quietly. 'Whoever might win the challenge would be faced with two tribes, not one, split apart by anger and wanting revenge.' He looked to the general gathering again, speaking to all his people. 'We are not strong enough yet to support that,' he said. 'Whether we are to strengthen the friendship with Ten-Towns and the dwarves who have returned, or whether we are to return to our ways of old, we must do so together, as one!'
Berkthgar's scowl did not relent. Now he understood. Revjak could not defeat him in combat-they both knew that-so the wily older man had usurped the very power of the challenge. Berkthgar truly wanted to cut him in half, but how could he take any actions against the man?
'As one,' Revjak repeated, and he held out his hand, bidding his opponent to clasp his wrist.
Berkthgar was wild with rage. He hooked his foot under Revjak's dropped axe and sent it spinning across the circle. 'Yours is the way of the coward!' he roared. 'You have proven that this day!' Up went Berkthgar's huge arms, up and out wide as if in victory.
'I have no claim of blood!' Revjak yelled, commanding attention. 'Nor do you! The people must decide who will rule and who will step aside.'
'The challenge is of combat!' Berkthgar retorted.
'Not this time!' Revjak shot back. 'Not when all the tribe must suffer your foolish pride.' Berkthgar moved again as if to strike, but Revjak ignored him and turned to the gathering. 'Decide!' he commanded.
'Revjak!' yelled one man, but his voice was buried by a band of young warriors who cried out for Berkthgar. They, in turn, were outdone by a large group calling for Revjak. And so it went, back and forth, mounting cries. Several fights broke out, weapons were drawn.
Through it all, Berkthgar glowered at Revjak, and when the older man matched that intense stare, Berkthgar merely shook his head in disbelief. How could Revjak have done such dishonor to their people?
But Revjak held faith in his choice. He was not afraid to die, never that, but he truly believed that a fight between himself and Berkthgar would split the tribe and bring hardship to both groups. This was the better way, as long as things didn't get out of hand.
And they seemed to be heading in just that direction. Both sides continued to yell out, but now each cry was accompanied by a lifting of sword and axe, open threats.
Revjak watched the crowd carefully, measuring the support for him and for Berkthgar. Soon enough he understood and admitted the truth.
'Stop!' he commanded at the top of his voice, and gradually, the shouting match did diminish.
'With all your strength, who calls out for Berkthgar?' Revjak asked.
A great roar ensued.
'And who for Revjak?'
'Revjak who would not fight!' Berkthgar quickly added, and the cheers for the son of Jorn were not as loud, or as enthusiastic.
'Then it is settled,' Revjak said, more to Berkthgar than to the crowd. 'And Berkthgar is King of the Tribe of the Elk.'
Berkthgar could hardly believe what had just transpired. He wanted to strike down the wily older man. This was to be his day of glory, a victory of mortal combat, as had been the way since the dawn of the tribes. But how could he do that? How could he slay an unarmed man, one who had just proclaimed him as the leader of all his people?
'Be wise, Berkthgar,' Revjak said quietly, moving close, for the buzz of the astonished gathering was loud indeed. 'Together we will discover the true way for our people, what is best for our future.'
Berkthgar shoved him aside. 'I will decide,' he corrected loudly. 'I need no advice from a coward!'
He walked out of the circle then, his closest supporters falling in line behind him.
Stung by the rejection of his offer, but not really surprised, Revjak took comfort in the fact that he had tried his best to do what was right for his people. That counted little, though, when the man looked upon his son, who had just completed the rights of passage into manhood.
Kierstaad's expression was one of disbelief, even of shame.
Revjak lifted his head high and walked over to the young man. 'Understand,' he commanded. 'This is the only way.'
Kierstaad walked away. Logic might have shown him the truth of his father's bravery this day, but logic played a very minor role in the young man's consciousness. Kierstaad felt ashamed, truly ashamed, and he wanted nothing more than to run away, out onto the open tundra, to live or to die.
It hardly seemed to matter.
* * * * *
Stumpet sat on the very highest peak of Kelvin's Cairn, which seemed an easy climb to her. Her waking thoughts, like most of her dreams, were now squarely focused on the south, on the towering peaks of the Spine of the World. Fleeting images of glory and of victory raced through the dwarf's mind. She pictured herself standing atop the tallest mountain, surveying all the world.
The impracticality of the image, the sheer irrationality of it, did not make its way into Stumpet Rakingclaw's conscious thoughts. The constant barrage of images, the stream of delusion, began to erode the normally- pragmatic dwarf's rational sensibilities. For Stumpet, logic was fast losing to desires, desires that were not truly
