Gifts

Grass-on-the-Savannah prepares for battle I guess I should have made up a story about what had happened back then, but when I woke up everything was so strange and out of focus that I just said the first things that came to mind. So, for the next few weeks, while I learned all about this new time and the sept and the state of the war (spoilers: pretty much the same as always), I just pretended none of it had ever happened. It was a new world, and I was a new person, and that was how I left it. But I could tell that eyes were on me always, and the sting of shame tasted like dust in my mouth. I heard the whispers every day — don't bother talking to the anruth, he'll be gone by the next moot anyway.

So, when the call came that warriors were gathering for a strike against a Hive encroaching too near a wolf Kinfolk haven and they wanted volunteers, I mustered with the others, igniting a slow burn in my heart. The Master of the Rite, a Galliard woman with wild hair, wild eyes, and a pair of mammoth war drums, spoke of victory and duty. She spoke of pulling corruption up by the roots, of sending those bastards back to Hell where they belonged. Her words and the answering howls fanned the embers inside me, until I dashed forward to snatch the caern's flag with its sky-blue sigil out of its sconce and hold it high, as though keeping it away from the smaller children on the playground of war.

“A dare for any with the courage to take it!” I shouted. “Tell me how many of those traitorous dogs will bear the mark of your wrath!”

A blanket of faces stared silently at me. If I'd dropped a pebble, the burly one with the enormous klaive way in

the back would have heard it. My grip on the flagpole felt like white heat searing into my palms. I was too proud or too flummoxed (or both) to move a muscle.

But then someone else came out of the crowd to face me, with a grin on her face and her feet spread to shoulder-width, her chin lifted in challenge. “I'll bite,” she said, and it almost looked like she was being literal. “Ten.”

“Pff,” I scoffed, holding the flag out of her reach, though she hadn't gone for it. “Is that all?”

Her stance shifted subtly as she put more weight onto the balls of her feet. “Nah, that's just the warm-up,” she said. “Call it fifteen and throw in a beheading or two.”

“Passable,” I said, shrugging. A noise like a growl came out of her throat, but she was still grinning as she lunged forward to wrench the flag from my grasp. I danced away, spinning back, and keeping my distance. The banner flitted about above our heads briefly like an excited Lune. “Fine,” she barked, “then let's hear it out of you, Strider. How many?”

I leaned forward, the flag behind me, my hand cupped near my mouth as though I were going to divulge a hidden truth. When I spoke, though, it carried to every corner. “Every. Last. One.”

Her eyebrows went up, and then she was laughing. Then they were all laughing. I let their laughter fuel the fire that was swiftly building from the embers the Galliard's speech had sparked at my core. I turned and gestured to the Master of the Rite. With a wide, feral smile, she lifted her mallets and brought them crashing down on the drumheads. Once, twice, three times, until a steady beat rang throughout the bawn. The sound vibrated through my bones as though I were a harp and my ribs were the strings.

I brought the flagpole up and buried six inches of it in the ground at my feet. I pointed a finger over the gathering and declared, “Hear me! I am Grass-on-the-Savannah, Silent Strider of the First Lands. I am the wind that passed through the ears of the Dancers and crumbled their resolve. I am the shadow that stole back what once had been ours from the black, bleeding heart of the enemy's lair.” My voice turned to diamond and steel. “I am the claw that spilled the blood of the traitor in our midst. Too late once, but never again. Mine is the voice that will still their battle cries! How many of them will bear the mark of my wrath? Every last one!”

The drums pounded to a driving crescendo, sending my words into the Umbra and writing them on the page of promise. A cheer went up from the horde, bloodthirsty and chomping at the bit to see that promise fulfilled. The Master of the Rite bowed her head to me once, letting me know that it was done. I rejoined the crowd, leaving the banner flying where it stood.

The one who'd taken me up on my challenge found me as the others organized into teams by pack. “Not bad,” she said. “Savannah, right? Naomi.”

I grinned up at her. “Good, I have a name to put to my second-in-command.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “So how do you really intend to live up to that boast? I mean, it's not like you're the only Ragabash around here, y'know.”

“Ah, ah,” I told her, wagging my finger, and giving her a wink. “That would be telling.”

As we moved out from the bawn like a rumbling storm, I let those drums resound in my head, over and over. This time it would be different. I had no intention of letting that boast go unmet. Clever wording was no excuse to let vengeance pass me by.