Chapter 32: The Canyon's Choice
The next morning, Alistair walked with Grok and Borak towards the eastern canyon. Thora and two of her best hunters followed a short distance behind, their presence a quiet show of support. They were not there to fight, but to watch.
The land grew rough and dry. The air lost the rich smell of the jungle, replaced by dust and stone. Soon, they reached the mouth of the canyon. It was a narrow, rocky place, shadowed and cold.
Varg's camp was ahead. A few rough shelters made of rock and hide were clustered near a bitter-smelling spring. Ten Graxian warriors stood in a line, their axes and clubs ready. They looked tired and thin, but their eyes burned with a hard, stubborn light.
Varg stood in front of them. He looked older, his face carved deep with anger and hate. He saw Grok and Alistair, and his lips pulled back from his teeth.
"Come to finish your betrayal, Grok?" Varg's voice echoed in the canyon. "Come with your pet spirit-talker to wipe out the last true Graxians?"
Grok walked forward, his steps slow and heavy. He stopped a few paces from Varg.
"There are no true Graxians here," Grok said, his voice calm but strong. "I see only hungry warriors following a man who offers them nothing but dust and death. The clan is whole, Varg. It waits for you to come home. Lay down your axe. Rejoin your people."
Varg spat on the ground. "My people? They are soft! They hold hands with tree-walkers and beg for magic! That is not strength!"
"Strength is not just an axe," Grok said. "Strength is a full belly. It is a safe home. It is a clan that survives the winter. You offer only a song of hate. It does not feed anyone. It does not build anything."
He looked at the warriors behind Varg. "Listen to me! You are my clansmen. Your families miss you. There is a place for you at the fire. There is food and honor in building, not in breaking."
Alistair saw the doubt on some of their faces. They looked at Grok, then at their own thin bodies and broken camp. They looked at Alistair, who stood quietly, showing no weapon, no threat.
One of the warriors, a tall female with a scar across her arm, lowered her club. "My son... is he well?" she asked Grok, her voice rough.
"He is," Grok said gently. "He learns the forge from Draga. He grows strong."
The female warrior looked at Varg, then back at Grok. She took a step away from Varg's line.
"It is over, Varg," she said.
Another warrior moved. Then another. Soon, only three remained by Varg's side. The others walked slowly to stand behind Grok.
Varg was alone. His face was a mask of pure rage. He looked at the warriors who had left him, at Grok, and finally at Alistair.
"You," he snarled, pointing a thick finger at Alistair. "This is your doing. You with your quiet words and your tricks. You have stolen my clan!"
Alistair met his gaze. He did not speak. There was nothing to say.
Varg let out a roar of fury. He raised his axe, not to charge, but in a final, defiant gesture. Then he turned and ran. He scrambled up the steep canyon wall, his movements clumsy with rage. The three warriors who stayed with him followed.
Grok made no move to stop them. "Let him go," he said quietly. "The wildlands will have him. That is punishment enough."
He turned to the warriors who had returned. "Come. Let us go home."
The walk back was quiet. The rebellion was over. The sickness in the clan had been cut out. The Graxians were one people again.
Alistair looked at the jungle ahead, green and alive. He had faced a monster in the crags and a war in the clan. Both were now behind him.
But as they walked, a new thought came to him. Varg was gone, but his hate was not. Hate like that does not just disappear. It hides. It waits.
The peace felt good, but Alistair knew it was fragile. The real enemy, the blight in the north, was still there. And now, somewhere in the wilds, a new enemy was born—an enemy filled with a personal hate just for him.
The work was not over. It was only beginning.