The Shaman had worn himself out terribly on the foot journey through the trackless wilderness to avoid the Crescent Moon clan. During the siege, while he was recovering, he was visited by flashes of the future that allowed him to flee just in time. He was grateful to the elders who had suggested he take with him to the east a trusted warrior serving the Circle of Shamans directly, rather than any specific clan. It was only with his help that he not only escaped far enough before the mutineers began looking for him, but also eventually arrived, safe and sound though overwhelmed by defeat and the journey, at the lands of the Broken Tusk clan, far to the west of the Crescent Moon.
There, at a considerable distance from the central stronghold, he found refuge with an exceptionally aged seeress of the Circle, who had lived and served with this clan for as long as he could remember. The Circle tried to place its practitioners in every clan in the Great Marches, with varying success, but here they had an entire branch and even trained young adepts locally. Although Boulder privately believed that it was better for gifted orcs to be shaped on the path of shamanism directly by the Circle from beginning to end—as it built a better understanding of the art and loyalty to the group—he accepted that shamans tied to a specific clan wanted to groom their own offspring to take over duties in a specific place. He himself was devoid of such sentiments, but given the circumstances, he did not complain, for he had a whole network of his brethren here on whose help he counted.
The seeress’s spacious tent was comfortable, and since the season was still warm, he appreciated the airiness of the entire structure. He sat comfortably in cushions, having bathed in a tub, for he would not dare speak to the matron while begrimed from this unplanned escapade. His traveling companion dozed in a hammock far enough from the tent that they could talk freely.
"You have failed," the wise woman stated matter-of-factly, her voice raspy but still strong, then added, "A stench of death trails behind you that no amount of water will wash away."
"Revered Seeress, it is true, I have failed, but I still do not know why. During my journey..."
"Flight, rather," the woman interjected, scolding him with her gaze.
"I came to the conclusion," he continued, letting that pass, "that Urg’hur has a shaman on his side, or several. Some apostates unknown to the Circle, or those who faked their own deaths to..."
Her cackle silenced him instantly. Cruel, devoid of a shred of respect—which he could not demand from her in this situation anyway—but it still stung him to the quick, though he tried not to let it show.
"Your plan failed, so you blame it on some imaginary traitor-shamans? Boulder, you are neither the first nor the last to misread the signs. Do you think the pack returns from every hunt with full bellies? But you not only return with nothing, you lost part of the pack for nothing," she said and snapped her fingers in front of his face, leaning towards him for a moment.
"I failed, but I swear by the Circle, forces were at work there that I could not have expected."
"The only forces at work there were several generations of well-trained warriors who were steeped in resentment towards our Circle, fed by Urg’hur, and who stood against an army led by a shaman. You realized all their fears and confirmed all their chieftain's paranoias, so they stood shoulder to shoulder, protecting their young like an attacked herd of Ovibos, and when the pack realized they were only losing wolves trying to break through, they gave up," the woman snorted at the end. "Is that not so?"
"Yes, Revered One." He did not try to add any 'but' a third time and only lowered his gaze, which softened his hostess's tone slightly.
"It is good that you fled in time; they would have killed you on the spot. And now, tell me everything, from the very beginning."
Boulder recounted the events. First, the successes: how he gained Gur’mar’s trust with a prophecy about an expedition he forbade him to go on because he would die on the way, and then caused a rockslide there. How he spread before the elders visions of taking over the resource-rich lands of Wolf Rock and of glory—for many the last in their lives—from a great war for which they would be remembered. How he scared the Riverbend council by sending scouts with threats that aiding their neighbor would meet with the severe vengeance of the Crescent Moon, so that they ultimately sent barely one unit. About the ensnaring of a large group of mountain ogres with promises and flattery, and the mystical visions given to the fierce goblins of the wild tribe that wore the bones of their dead.
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Then he told of the difficulties, when he effectively played Urg’hur’s too fragmented forces at the border, up until the battle near the orchard where his hitherto excellent tactics failed and he lost one unit, almost entirely. Finally, about the failure of the siege, despite having opened the doors to Wolf Rock almost wide for the numerically superior army. Then they were both silent for some time, until finally, the seeress spoke first.
"Whatever actually stood behind your defeat must have revealed itself near that orchard, but I doubt it was a treacherous shaman; you would have recognized the spells during the siege."
Before he could reply, she stood up, cast a gentler look at him, and said, "Rest and stay here for the night, then you will head to the Circle to report on what occurred and receive new orders. I doubt you will return to this region anytime soon."
"Yes, Revered Seeress," he replied and bowed to her with respect, then followed her with his gaze as she slowly walked outside, limping slightly.
That night, they both dreamed. He had nightmares about how he would be received at the sanctuary, while she dreamed of a girl from over a dozen years ago who had disobeyed her order and fled the clan. She looked at her with dead eyes and, without saying a word, smiled with grim satisfaction. In this dream, the seeress felt something approaching her, but she could not turn away from that smile, and when she finally managed to, she woke up drenched in sweat before her old eyes could perceive who, or what, it was.
At the same time, Bar’nar was bearing the consequences of his decision. After the rest of the clan understood the magnitude of the losses when the army returned to the stronghold, the entire coterie around the deposed chieftain essentially lost its significance, as the anger of the inhabitants turned against them. Many of the warriors and commanders who had believed in victory over their southern neighbor were not at all keen to accept responsibility, but every day their camp melted away, and many, especially young warriors, turned away from them, publicly stating that they had been deceived or bewitched. So by the time the clan assembly was called a few days after the battle, the loyalists were weaker than ever.
Bar’nar was given the first speech, in accordance with the will of the masses, though to some dissatisfaction of the elders. He knew that sentiment towards the Circle of Shamans was strong regardless. Boulder's predecessor, before he died, had enjoyed an impeccable reputation, so Bar’nar, in his speech at the assembly, did not try to fight that; instead, he presented Boulder as the very culprit of all the misfortune that had befallen their clan, and the former chieftain as a meritorious warrior who, however, allowed himself to be deceived and placed his trust in the wrong person. In this way, he provided an excuse for almost all involved parties, and no one outside the tight circle of the most ardent loyalists had to bear responsibility. They avoided fratricidal fighting, not counting the few heads of the closest members of the elders who either did not understand or, in their pride, did not want to reach for the argument Bar’nar offered them. The clan meted out justice to them right after his speech; the penalty for tragic and bad service to the clan was death.
The Shaman was nowhere to be found, and it was understood that he must have fled during all that confusion in the camp. No one counted on finding him, but regardless, the assembly decided that if Boulder were to ever set foot on clan lands, he was to be executed on the spot.
The next point was the election of a new chieftain, and here lay the problem: all the promising warriors in the prime of life who would have been suitable for this role had the fundamental flaw that in the hour of trial, instead of opposing a chieftain mad with ambition and listening to the whispers of a shaman fueled by lying visions of evil spirits, they needed the gray-haired Bar’nar to open their eyes. In this situation, none of them were eager to step forward for this honor. Many, however, proposed the old warrior, probably in the cynical calculation that he was closer to the ancestors than anywhere else; let him rule now in the crisis, and they would prepare the ground for their future takeover once the clan hardened a bit in righteous anger and rebuilt itself somewhat.
And to his dissatisfaction, Bar’nar could not really refuse, since he had taken the life of the previous chieftain with his own hands, so he agreed to have his name put in the pool. He hoped, however, that his candidacy would fail. That did not happen. Serious pretenders held back, calculating that losing today would cross out their future plans, while the less popular ones could not compete with—be that as it may—the hero of recent events, and in this way, the clan at the assembly almost unanimously proclaimed him the new chieftain. In the face of great losses, he decided that the change of power would not be celebrated loudly, as is done in normal circumstances. Instead, he took up his new duties praying in spirit to the ancestors to lend him wisdom in these difficult times.
