The tribesmen below parted. A tall man came limping up the hill, clad in buffalo hides. Here was the chieftain. He wore necklaces of true gold, and a bronze sword hung at his side—not a curved sword like those in Eteer, but a wide, leaf-shaped blade the length of asuch metal man's forearm. Half the chieftain's head was burnt away—the ear gone, the eye peering from scars. The wound stretched down his arm and leg.

Dragonfire, Raem knew. Good.

"Are you the one they speak of?" Raem called down to him. "Zerra of Goldtusk?"

The chieftain reached him. The two leaders stared at each other, only a foot apart. While Raem was clean-shaven and bald, a meticulous man, his armor priceless and gleaming, the other—Zerra—was a brute of hair, fur, and grime.

He is a barbarian, Raem thought, but he will serve me well.

"Who are you, man of metal?" Zerra said. Half his mouth faded into scars, and his teeth were yellow.

"A king," said Raem. "A soldier. A bringer of gifts."

He pulled the second sack, the larger one, off his demonic bat. It clanked onto the hill, opening up to spill its treasures. Helmets, shields, and bronze daggers clattered into the grass.

The tribesmen gasped. Raem smiled thinly. He saw but a single bronze weapon here; a cache of this much metal would be priceless to this tribe.

Zerra looked down at the treasure, then back at Raem. His eyes narrowed. "Do you style yourself a god?"

Raem smiled thinly. "To you I am. And I will bring you more metal. Spearheads. Arrowheads. Swords. Vases and chalices and a throne to sit on. I will make you a king in the north."

The chieftain lifted a bronze helmet, sniffed at it, and tossed it aside. He spat. "I am Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk. I take no gifts from gods or men. I am no beggar." He drew the bronze sword from his belt. "I take my metal with blood. I slew the warrior who wielded this sword. I did not take it as a gift."

Raem raised an eyebrow. "That's not what I hear. They say along the river that Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk, was once a humble villager living in a clay hut. They say his brother, a blacksmith, forged this sword for him—a gift of love, not a trophy of battle. They say this brother is a weredragon, that he leads a clan of weredragons, and they say, Zerra . . . they say you fear him."

Half of Zerra's face, leathery and stubbly, flushed a deep crimson. The other half, a ruin of scars, twitched. He raised his sword and his fist trembled.

"I do not ask you to accept these gifts without a fight, chieftain," Raem said calmly. "But I am not your enemy. It is not me you should fight."

Zerra stared into Raem's eyes, his gaze judging, dangerous, seeking. Finally he grunted.