Hand Over Fist

Going Home

Van Joss let a slight smile touch his lips as they were quickly led through the close-set tents by their anxious guide, a Tigris male by the name of Grif.  It seemed that every second face they passed by, regardless of dress, was that of a grim featured Tigris warrior, his or her clan colors displayed prominently on a sleeve.  So Kelly had been right.  It made sense; of all the Fisted that the Elves knew, they understood the Tigris the best.

It was also interesting that the sentries would know to look for a human named van Joss.  Either Gar or Heg had survived the elven assault on Jekan Grim and had alerted the rest, or the Black Princes themselves had managed to meet and agree to join the alliance.  But what amused him most was that he was passing through the midst of a Fisted host, head bare and revealed as human, and no one lifted a finger towards him.  Or towards his companions, also bare headed, following close behind.

‘How the world has changed in a few short months,’ he pondered as they rounded yet another cluster of tents, these marked with the red and blue of the Copper Cliff Clan.  ‘Only last summer they would have gladly slit my throat instead of look at me!  Now they see us as the only salvation from the Primiad Horde which threatens their very existence.’

Finally, after what seemed like hours in and amongst the low tents, the ground between churned to muck by countless feet, Grif slowed to stand in front of a low, black fabric tent.  As the sleet continued to pelt down onto their heads, he bent almost double to enter the tent’s low entrance.  It was only a moment’s wait before he returned.

“Come,” he said curtly, waving all of them inside.  Van Joss obliged with a nod of his head, taking a quick lungful of relatively clean air before he bent low to go inside.

Almost immediately the acrid smoke from a dung fire lashed at his eyes, forcing tears to well up in self-protection.  Glad of his foresight, van Joss blinked the tears from his eyes.

And found himself looking at no less than the entire conclave of the Black Princes, the combined leadership of the Black Clans of the Tigris.  It took him only a moment to recognize Heg.  And just as long for the Black Prince to recognize him.

“Van Joss.”  Heg acknowledged the human with a gesture, waving him closer.  “You have arrived in time to find the alliance in chaos.”  Then, in a lower voice: “And you have my thanks for pulling the elves off of us.  Jekan Grim would have fallen, if you had not acted.”  He glanced over at a grim looking Kelly before grimacing.

“Now it seems odd that our mortal enemies will be fighting side by side with us against the Primiad.  Both of them!”  A smile abruptly blossomed on the big Tigris’ face.  “What we do for the sake of survival, eh, van Joss?”

Clapping a big hand on the human’s shoulder with enough force to almost force van Joss to his knees, Heg turned to face the other Black Princes, each looking deathly grim to the man.

“Brothers,” the master of Jekan Grim began, “here is van Joss, the human responsible for warning us of the Primiad threat.  And for bringing this alliance together.”  The big Tigris paused for effect.

“And now we must thrust yet another responsibility upon a being that, only a year ago, we would have slain without a second thought.”

“Let me guess,” van Joss began in perfect Tigris, “you need somebody to organize this rabble into some sort of defensive force.”

There was a soft round of murmuring from the assembled Black Princes, as the human seemed to read their very minds.  Then one spoke.

“You have obviously observed the chaos that surrounds the refugee camp on your way in,” he rasped, his voice harsh and uncompromising.  Van Joss nodded.