*
Fallon strode into the tent, giving the Anateri guarding the entrance an absent-minded acknowledgment as they saluted, his attention already totally focused on the coming battle.
For that’s what he was walking into. A battle. One fought with words and false platitudes rather than the steel and blade he’d used earlier in the day.
“There are too many bodies in this tent,” he said as he stalked to his seat at the head of the table. “Anyone who was not invited, get out.”
There was a brief shuffling as people slowly filed toward the door. Their slow movements sped up when Darius barked, “The Warlord said get out. Do so now!”
Fallon kept his amusement concealed as the slow exodus turned into a pushing and shoving match as they hurried for the door.
Darius looked over at Fallon, his eyes alight with mirth at the scene. His light blue eyes were striking next to his dark skin. Darius was often considered to be more easygoing than the rest of Fallon’s generals. He was the one Fallon went to when he needed someone who was charming and persuasive. The man had a silver tongue capable of convincing a grandma to part with her dignity.
He was tall with high cheekbones and a broad nose. The women loved him. It didn’t hurt that he was also handsome and considered Fallon’s strong right-hand man. He’d earned his place by Fallon’s side. He was one of Fallon’s most merciless generals, persistent and vindictive when he needed to be, but most never saw the stone-cold killer he hid beneath the affable mask he normally wore.
“Report,” Fallon barked. Only when one of his commanders stood to run through the afternoon’s losses did Fallon let himself sink onto the pillow chair behind him.
Assembled around a short wooden table on pillows similar to Fallon’s were some of the best in Fallon’s army. Two of his generals were present, as well as every clan leader who had joined the main group in the Lowlands. There were still a few overseeing Fallon’s interests in the southern Lowlands and their old territories in the Outlands, but this was the majority of his people’s leadership.
Despite ejecting two-thirds of those who’d originally gathered, he was still left with a bigger group than he’d like. It was difficult to make decisions when there were so many voices in the mix.
People, even his people, tended to resort to herd mentality when the numbers got too great, letting emotions lead them instead of logic. They couldn’t afford such weaknesses at the moment.
“It could be worse. The casualties are less than we had any right to expect,” Braden said once the man had finished reporting the numbers for each division of Fallon’s army.
Braden was right, but that didn’t make the burn of loss hurt any less. It was their greatest number of casualties since they’d begun the campaign to conquer the Lowlands. And it had come at the claws of beasts.
“How many beasts escaped?” Fallon asked.
“I’d guess just under half,” Darius responded, leaning forward. “They’re able to go places we can’t. Those that could, went right up the side of the mountain and unlike your telroi, most of us don’t have a spider’s abilities to climb vertical surfaces on horseback.”
Fallon would have been happier if that number had been a lot lower. Even with an army reduced in size, their enemy was still dangerous. Fallon suspected Griffin could easily replenish his numbers, making the situation worse.
Conversation continued as they ran through the administrative components of war—supply chains, resources, and the like.
The Trateri had cleared the beasts from the upper part of the valley and Fallon’s people had established an interim camp there. A suggestion had been brought up to move the entirety of the clans into the Keep where the strong defenses would offer shelter in case the beasts chose to attack again.
He’d refused that suggestion. His people were primarily migratory and unused to being locked away behind barriers made of stone. They might survive for a time, but the enforced closeness of quarters would eventually lead to tension, which was the last thing they needed.
“We should follow the beasts and cut them off now before they can regroup,” Ben, the clan leader of Earth clan, declared. The youngest of the leaders, Ben was one of the few to gain that status by walking a path other than as a warrior. As one of the best weapons makers in Fallon’s army, he garnered a different type of respect than was given to his generals but held as much weight in its own way.
“That’s a terrible idea,” Van said, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the back rest of the pillow.
The Lion clan leader looked tired, his normal electric energy missing. He’d lost many of those he’d brought with him during the attack on the Keep. Despite his abrasive attitude, grief was present if one looked deep enough.
Van was as contrary as the feline his clan derived its name from. Often thought of as one of the most war-mongering among the clans, Fallon knew the other man was more complicated, his actions often misconstrued. He loved deeply and took as much pleasure in nettling the others as he did in battle.
Fallon had never been certain of Van’s loyalty, but that didn’t mean he didn’t respect the other man for both his prowess on the battlefield and his loyalty to his people.
Although smart, Ben was not always wise, as he proved by poking at the other man. “I never thought I’d see the day when a Lion feared battle.”
Van sneered at Earth clan’s leader, the tiredness of before forgotten as he leaned forward. “We fear nothing, weapons maker. Perhaps I should show you exactly how we won the day.”
Ben slapped the table and made to stand.
“Sit.” The word was a deadly whip. Hearing it, Ben froze and glanced at Fallon. What he saw had him lowering himself back into his seat.
Into the resulting silence, Lainey and Patrick Halloran stepped into the tent. The guildmaster’s expression was fixed and emotionless as she looked between those assembled, picking up on the tension instantly.
