Sylvara Nexlight's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The northern chief lay dead in the mud, and his warriors did not move. Sylvara stood over him with the plasma warblade still humming in her fist. She had won the duel. She had not won the men. Fifty of them ringed the pass, hands on their weapons, watching her breathe. The other clans watched too, from the ridge above. A chief who fell to her blade meant nothing if his warriors carried him home and named her a butcher. Sylvara switched off the blade. The blue light died. She let them see her set it on the ground. "Your chief called you here to bleed for a road he could not take," she said. "I took it. His body owes you nothing now. But I owe you a queen's word." She spread her empty hands. "Kneel to no one. Ride home. Or ride behind me and never lose a pass again." No one moved. A warrior near the front lifted his axe. His knuckles were white. Sylvara did not step back. She held his eyes and waited for the strike. A cloaked shape dropped from the rocks and landed between them without a sound. Silven Nightwhisper. She had climbed the unguarded ridge alone to bring these very warriors down on the warlord. Now she stood at their front with her hood back, green eyes fixed on the man with the axe. "I walked your high road when your envoys died on it," Silven said. Her voice was flat. "I brought your clan to this pass. I would not have led you to a butcher." She looked at Sylvara, then back at the warrior. "I follow her. Choose." The warrior held his axe a moment longer. Then he lowered it. He knelt in the mud where his chief had fallen. One by one the others followed, weapons down, heads bowed. On the ridge above, the watching clans began to murmur. Sylvara's raven dropped from the gray sky. Its wings threw pink and blue light across the kneeling men. It settled on her shoulder, a scrap of the northern banner still caught in its beak. She took the cloth and raised it high so the ridge could see. "The northern clan rides with me," she called. "Who is next?" No answer came from the ridge. The clans there did not kneel. They turned their torches and slipped back into the hills. They had come to see if she could rule. They had seen a queen who killed a chief and kept his men. That frightened them more than the warlord ever had. Sylvara lowered the banner. She had won the north. But the free clans had watched her win it with a corpse at her feet, and now they were running. She would have to reach them before fear turned them against her throne. But the northern clan speaks for her, saying the chief's arrogance is the reason he fell; you merely did what a queen should.