Mutiny was swelling inside Bar’nar, much to his own displeasure, as he nervously chewed on slivers of dried meat cut off with his knife. What is my mind conjuring up in my old age? he tried to scold himself silently. Unfortunately, there was no help for it. How could he look the fathers of his fathers in the face if he did nothing now? There were no flames visible in the stronghold, and they had already sent five hundred warriors over the palisade; the sixth was just running onto the vines. Recently, one of the ogres had tried to escape from that meat grinder and fell dead on the outside before the gate. He saw on the faces of the accompanying warriors that although they were determined, at least some of them had started to put two and two together, and the hopelessness of the situation was reaching them.

  The shooters whom his unit was supposed to cover, due to the fact that they had already shot all their arrows, received orders to prepare for the assault. Without enthusiasm, they carried them out and began to rearm. Bar’nar looked back at his companions; next to him, the boy he had saved from the previous battle near the orchard—his shield had slipped off his stump again, and he was trying to reattach it. Another warrior, recently conscripted here from a subordinated stonemason settlement as part of the tribute, was helping him.

  What will remain of our clan if we bleed out here? The shaman promised them rule over the entire region, so what, does he want to attack Riverbend afterward, again at the cost of hundreds of our brothers? Has my chieftain become blind? He asked himself silently, and a lump grew in his throat preventing him from saying it out loud. He sheathed his knife, dusted off his hands, and wiped them on his trousers. Over the last few weeks, especially among the older warriors, dissatisfaction had been growing with how the chieftain, at the shaman's urging, was lightly squandering young blood. Although Bar’nar himself belonged to those who tried not to flaunt it, especially publicly, this sentiment was common.

  The young captain, particularly enamored with the representative of the Circle of Shamans, and who had recently clawed his way to his position with his loud support for the new direction, was hurrying the shooters to put on their shields faster and grab their spears, because they were going next. "Bar’nar!" called the young captain. "You will lead the attack of this infantry unit and half of these shooters here. I will prepare the rest."

  The veteran only nodded, weighed his small axe in his hand, made sure his shield held well, then turned to the assembled men and waited a moment until the lump in his throat let go completely, and called out.

  "As our fresh captain wishes, I will lead you to battle for the future of our clan!"

  He began to walk back and forth in front of them and continued, "I know you want what is best for the Crescent Moon and are ready to give your lives for it!"

  "Yes, yes, rightly so," seconded the captain.

  He ignored him and addressed the gathered men, looking them boldly in the face.

  "Often the right path is not the straightest one, but if the ancestors allow, we will return to the stronghold and ensure that the clan's blood is not spilled in vain!" He thundered, and several shouts answered him.

  "Yes, exactly... no, what? What are you ta—" but Bar’nar didn't let him finish the question. The captain's objection was cut short by the axe embedded in his skull with great force.

  "Almost half of our brothers lie dead behind that palisade; someone must end this madness. The chieftain has failed us, his service comes to an end, let the ancestors judge him!"

  He shouted, then moved with them towards the command tent. Not everyone followed him, but enough did. They called out to the passing warriors that the fighting was over and it wasn't worth wasting blood for this cause.

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  Confusion arose; some units stood in place, not daring to move to attack in such a situation, while some warriors began to join their group, which was growing with every moment. Before anyone could react strongly, about a third of the warriors stood with Bar’nar in front of the chieftain's tent. Just before that, a few warriors loyal to the chieftain who understood what was happening managed to run inside.

  "You have failed your warriors, you have failed your clan; I, Bar’nar, summon you to the judgment of the ancestors!" he shouted towards the tent.

  "Warriors, to me!" called the chieftain, coming out of the tent. A comparably large portion lined up around and behind the tent as if on command.

  Both measured each other with their gazes for a moment and then looked around at those gathered. Both understood that no one had the advantage here; those prone to rebellion, the loyalists, and the uncertain formed three comparably large groups. Doubt within the clan's ranks must have been spreading for a long time.

  "Vile traitor! You are afraid to die in the service of the clan, and in the middle of a siege, you summon me to judgment?" shouted the chieftain and spat in front of him.

  "In the name of the ambition of a Shaman who was not even born in our clan, you are bleeding your warriors in a senseless battle. Stand for the judgment of the ancestors!" he called loudly and took a few steps forward, stepping out in front of the gathering.

  It would be hard to find a more audacious way. By demanding the judgment of the ancestors, Bar’nar was suggesting that the fathers of the clan's fathers would guide his hand and slay the chieftain in a fight to the death, confirming the guilt of the fallen. Under other conditions, the veterans by the chieftain's side would demand that judgment be passed on them first. That is why in practice almost no one used this hallowed custom. Unless the accuser had just as many warriors on his side and they could do the same.

  The Crescent Moon chieftain looked closely at the much older Bar’nar and weighed all options. He had known him cursorily for years; Bar'nar even served as a unit commander once when he was younger—he no longer remembered why he had removed him from those duties. If he dealt with him quickly, he could still push his men to attack and they could still win this battle. If he started to dodge, who knows, it might even come to a fight between the loyalists and the cowards, as he thought of them.

  "I, Gur’mar, Chieftain of the Crescent Moon, take you all and our ancestors as witnesses. The judgment will show that this coward is raving. I will slay him, and right after him Urg’hur of Wolf Rock, and this very night we will celebrate in his burned chambers!"

  Almost half of everyone in the camp shouted eagerly at this. The clan was divided. The chieftain raised his hands and stepped forward. His warriors immediately handed him his weaponry. A reinforced steel shield of excellent make, a steel one-handed sword. They put on his decorated helmet with a nasal guard. He already had his chainmail armor on.

  Bar’nar, with his simple wooden shield with iron fittings, an old axe, and worn leather, did not present an impressive figure at all, but he did not look daunted. He moved towards his chieftain as towards any other enemy.

  Gur’mar easily parried the blow of Bar’nar’s axe with his shield, then cut at him boldly with his sword. He felt he was stronger. True, he hadn't taken part in a battle himself for a long time, but he had fought enough of them in his youth. The veteran managed to take the cut on his shield at the last moment. Several blows later, the chieftain not only felt but was certain that he was dominating the older orc. He even knocked him down twice, but the latter somehow avoided the cuts on both occasions and managed to get back on his feet. The third time, Bar’nar’s shield shattered when he shielded himself from a cut while kneeling on one knee, but luckily for him, he managed to throw himself to the side, stand up, and hurl the axe at the chieftain.

  He was afraid to die in the assault, so he will die here, Gur’mar thought, catching the blow on his shield. The axe slammed against it. He lowered his guard to finish the defenseless Bar’nar, but a sudden impact snapped his head back. His left eye went dark.

  Through his good eye, he saw the veteran standing sideways, hands empty, chest heaving. But Bar’nar's gaze was fierce, without a shadow of fear.

  The chieftain dropped his shield, his hand rising to his face. Fingers brushed the rough grip of a knife. Buried deep. He took a stumbling step toward Bar’nar, focused on the single cut needed to fell him. But halfway there, sword raised, he collapsed. He had gone to the ancestors. Judged.