Warsong

  He managed to dismount, but wobbled, and then fell to his knees. Gilla heaved him up, putting his arm over her shoulders. Strong. She was strong and solid and not dead. “It’s not far,” she said.

  “You are not—” Cadr felt the need to explain but his mouth and tongue were rough and dry.

  “My tent,” Gilla said as she pulled him within. “Questions and talk can wait. How long have you been traveling?” She settled him on her sleeping pallet. It was a big tent, but she seemed alone.

  Cadr swiped at his eyes again, feeling the last of his strength leach away. “Don’t know,” he admitted in a whisper.

  “And here I said no questions,” she said ruefully. A cool cup pressed to his lips. Cadr took it in his clumsy hands and drank greedily.

  She pressed a bit of flat bread into his hands, and he managed to take a few bites before he lost the strength to even chew.

  “Sleep.” Gilla pressed him down.

  Cadr blinked at her as she took a wet cloth to his eyes, face, and hands. He was content to watch, to feel her work. He blinked muzzily, fading, but the tent flap was pushed open and he looked to see who had entered.

  A huge creature silently slipped within.

  Cadr croaked a warning, trying to point, but Gilla already had a hand on his shoulder keeping him down. “That’s a friend,” she smiled ruefully.

  The animal sat by her side, its head level with Gilla’s, its fur a muddled mess of black, brown, yellow and a kind of green. Its bright yellow eyes stared at him unwaveringly. Then it yawned, showing sharp teeth and fangs.

  It started to wash its face with its paw.

  “They are the reason I am here, in this camp.” Gilla said. “They were born the night of the Sacrifice and exposed to the power that was released by that pillar of light.” She knelt back on her heels, and scratched the creature’s head. “I am not a warrior-priest, but Wild Winds insisted that I travel with him when he saw how fast they were growing.”

  “They?” Cadr croaked.

  “Six altogether,” Gilla said, and gave a sharp whistle. “I call them warcats.”

  Five more large forms slunk into the tent, eyeing him and sniffing the air. And then a last, much smaller version, no bigger than a new-born babe. It had the same color fur, but its eyes were a watery yellow, with a mean look.

  “Baby?” he asked.

  “Life-bearer,” Gilla said. “It came from the land of the Sacrifice and his Token-Bearer. He called it a ‘cat’.”

  “That is not a cat,” Cade whispered. “And how did something so small birth those?” He went up on his elbows, but that was too much. His vision grayed out, and he sagged back on the pallet.

  “I know, I know,” Gilla said, reaching for a blanket and covering him. “No one else understands it either. Sleep. You are safe, warrior.”

  “Cadr,” Cadr closed his eyes. “My name is—”

  “Cadr,” Gilla said. “Sleep. We will watch and guard.”

  He gave her a nod, not that he had any choice as his tiredness claimed him.

  Movement then, and a long warm body stretched out beside him, making a low grumbling sound with every breath. He shifted, fearing—

  “No,” Gilla said. “That’s good.”

  Cadr yawned, past the point of caring if the creature ate him or not. He stretched and then let the darkness take him, listening as the rumbling faded into his sleep.

  “If she not move, arms die. Legs die.” Hanstau stood in the entrance to the tent, determined to make himself understood. He waved his hands and spoke slowly in his broken Plains.

  The two guards just looked at him.

  Hanstau huffed. Trying to explain the idea of atrophy with simple one syllable words was not the easiest task.

  “They will not free me,” Reness said from behind him.

  Hanstau looked back at her, grimacing in sympathy. Naked, bound hand and foot with leather ties to wooden stakes pressed into the ground, there was no way for her to move or flex. She had to be uncomfortable as all hell, and yet never once had he heard a complaint over the last few days they’d been housed together.

  In many ways, she reminded him of his late wife. Stoic, calm, but Fleure had never had such a biting wit, nor would have borne the lack of clothing well.

  Modesty was not an issue with Firelanders, but still. And while Hanstau had tried to ease the binds, tried to keep Reness clean, this had gone too far.

  “It’s been days. This is intolerable,” he said, and turned back to the guards. “She must move, and clean, and eat or she will die.”

  Reness spoke then, hopefully translating to get the idea through their thick heads.

  The guards considered for a moment, then one shrugged and trotted off. The other motioned for Hanstau to go back into the tent.

  He huffed, and did so, letting the flap fall.

  “I explained,” Reness said. “Although I doubt it will accomplish much.”

  “Worth a try,” Hanstau frowned at the naked woman, focusing on her wounded leg. He knelt by her side. “If they will let you walk and bathe, we can see about—”

  The tent flap was yanked back, and Antas strode in.

  Hanstau stiffened.

  The blond warrior seemed to fill the tent with his bulk, armor and weapons all gleaming. There might have been a degree of handsomeness about the man, but it was lost on Hanstau. He’d seen Antas cut down others without mercy; those small eyes held only cruelty and viciousness.

  He gave Hanstau a crafty smile. “What does my Warprize ask of me?”

  Reness sucked in a breath, but Hanstau was past caring. “That she be permitted to walk and bathe and eat,” he said as simply as he could. “Or she dies.”

  Antas lost his smile, and considered Reness with a frown. To Hanstau’s surprise, he gave a harsh nod, then started barking out commands.

  The two guards entered, and were on Hanstau before he could raise a hand in defense. They forced him to his knees, his hands bound behind him, a blade at his throat.

  Antas studied him. Hanstau snapped his mouth closed and glared back.

  Antas smiled again, distinctly gloating. He knelt at Reness’s side. “If no thea,” he said. “Then no need, Warprize.” He paused, staring at Reness. “Understand?”

  “Yes,” Reness said, grim of tone and face.

  Antas freed her hand, stood, and left the tent.

  Reness groaned, using the free hand to remove the rest of her bonds. She moved stiffly, and slowly, but she hadn’t lost any real strength that Hanstau could see. He shifted slightly, and the blade shifted with hm.

  “Antas ordered—” Reness started.

  “I got the gist of it,” Hanstau said drily. “Go, walk and stretch. Bathe, if they will let you, and keep the wound clean.”

  “I will not linger,” Reness said as she stood, took a few tentative, limping steps, and then left through the tent flap.

  The guards, and the blade, remained at Hanstau’s throat.

  Hanstau grimaced, careful not to move. This didn’t seem the most practical way to keep him compliant, but given Antas’s savageness, it was probably wise on the part of the guards. He resigned himself to a wait, however long.

  He could recite prayers to the Sun God, or perhaps that section of the Book of Xyson that listed—

  The tent flap opened, and Hail Storm walked in.

  A chill lanced up Hanstau’s spine. He flinched, and regretted it. He was a Master Healer after all; nothing should faze him. But there was something wrong with this man, something in the depths of his eyes…

  Hanstau wasn’t alone. His guards felt it, too; they stiffened as the warrior-priest approached and towered over Hanstau.

  But Hanstau wasn’t going to take that, he glowered at the man, meeting those dark eyes with his own glare.

  Hail Storm knelt, held out the stump of his arm, and unwrapped the bandage.

  Hanstau stared at it. It looked good, considering that it had been cauterized to stop the bleeding. But he noticed someth
ing else.

  The grass under Hail Storm was withering.

  Hanstau blinked. They’d been in the tent for some time, so the grass wasn’t the brightest shade a green to begin with, given the lack of sun. But the grass under this warrior-priest was curling, browning, even as—

  Hail Storm said something harsh.

  Hanstau jerked his eyes back up. “Yes,” he said, not sure of the words, but understanding the tone. “It looks good.”

  Hail Storm grunted, his eyes narrowed as he began to re-wrap his stump with the dirty bandage.

  “No,” Hanstau said firmly. He wouldn’t let the Dark One himself do that on his watch. “Use a clean one.” He jerked his chin toward his satchel.

  Hail Storm grunted again, and pulled it close to rummage within. This ordinarily would have upset Hanstau, but he was distracted by the browning grasses, and now that he thought about it… he squinted a bit.

  There.

  There was the glow he had seen when he’d been with Simus and Snowfall. The power that Wild Winds had warned him of. It too was there, in the ground, and it flowed away from Hail Storm’s presence.

  Hanstau became aware that Hail Storm was studying him as he tied off the fresh bandage.

  Hanstau noted the signs that the fever had broken, and that the infection in the arm had cleared. The man looked healthy overall. Almost too healthy for someone who had lost a limb.

  Hail Storm stood, and Hanstau sucked in another breath. The knife at his belt; the blade was glowing with a purplish-black rage.

  Hanstau yanked his gaze away, and focused on the foot of one of his guards. That made no sense; daggers had no emotions. But Hanstau could almost feel the anger in the knife throbbing from across the room. It was as if the dagger pulsed with power. Power about to be used.

  Hanstau looked up.

  Hail Storm was considering him with a slight smile. He placed his stump against the dagger hilt, and with the other he clenched a fist.

  Every muscle in Hanstau’s body froze. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as if he were clenched in the fist, helpless…

  The guards each stepped back, removing the blade from Hanstau’s throat. He could feel its absence, but for his life he couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off Hail Storm.

  Whose smile was that much more satisfied.

  Panic flooded through Hanstau, and he would have thrashed against the restraint. But he’d no control, and no air, and his vision grayed—

  Hail Storm eased his fist open the slightest bit.

  Hanstau sucked in the air his body craved, his chest heaving. He still couldn’t move, but at least—

  Hail Storm tilted his head, and made the slightest gesture with his fist.

  To Hanstau’s horror, his own head moved in a bow of submission.

  He knelt there, unable to move. A deep shiver of fear wracked him, and a cold sweat broke out over every inch of his skin. His breath came in desperate pants. He was helpless, no control, no power.

  Over him, Hail Storm laughed.

  As suddenly as it had happened, it was gone. Hanstau found himself on his side, alone in the tent. Hands still bound, tears drying on his face. They were gone, the guards, Hail Storm. He closed his eyes in thanks for that.

  The tent flap stirred, and he lifted his head just enough to see that it was Reness, naked and wet from her bath.

  “I got the bandage wet—” a gasp and she was at his side. Hanstau could feel the warmth of her body against his. “What happened?” She asked as she untied his hands. He couldn’t seem to get a breath. His entire body felt cold, numb, and lifeless.

  Reness gathered him up, held him close. “Hanstau?”

  He clung to her, like a babe to his mother, trembling.

  “Breathe,” Reness said, her voice the barest whisper in his ear. “Listen to my voice, breathe with my words. Fear is your enemy,” she chanted.

  Hanstau tried to focus.

  “Fear holds you still when you need to move,” Reness continued, but Hanstau clutched her tighter as the memory replayed.

  “Hail Storm,” he whispered, and a shudder ran through him again.

  Reness hugged him tighter. “Tell me,” she said.

  “I am a Master Healer,” Hanstau hated the cracks in his voice, but he had to force out the words. “He should not be able—”

  “I am the Eldest Elder Thea,” Reness admitted. “He makes my skin crawl. Tell me.”

  Hanstau did, managing to calm even as he forced out the words.

  Reness’s arms tightened around him as he finished speaking, and she took her own shuddering breath. “They always claimed to have strange powers,” she said. “They are evil.”

  “No, not all,” Hanstau sat in the circle of her arms, and swallowed hard as he thought his way through his fear. “Snowfall, Wild Winds,” he looked to Reness, to see if she remembered them. “They did not have this feel to them. And the glow embraced Snowfall.” He shook his head. “There is something very different about Hail Storm.”

  “We will find a way,” Reness said.

  “And if we can’t?” Hanstau asked softly. “If he takes control of my body?”

  Reness released him, settled back, and looked him in the eye. “I will send you to the snows before that happens,” she growled.

  “Kill me?”

  “Kill you.” she nodded.

  Hanstau choked out a laugh, finding the determination in her eyes oddly reassuring. “It may be the only way to escape him,” he said ruefully.

  “I would prefer another way,” Reness said.

  Hanstau looked down at his hands. Snowfall and Wild Winds had said it was dangerous to experiment with the power he could see.

  Maybe ‘dangerous’ was exactly what they needed.

  Chapter Seven

  “They spoke to you of the old paths?” Eldest Essa looked at Joden in shock, then his face twisted into anger. “It’s madness, is what it is,” he growled, staring down the rise behind Joden at the Ancient’s tent. “Madness.”

  “Who are they?” Joden asked, looking over his shoulder at the large tent, standing alone against the Plains.

  “Idiots,” Essa growled. He spun on his heel, and stomped up the rise.

  Joden followed

  “That ritual kills,” Essa continued. “And now? Wyverns fill the skies, the Council is sundered, and magic has returned to the Plains. They want what they have always demanded. Why not just take a torch to the withered grass in the dry season to see what happens? Pah,” Essa stopped at the top of the rise to take a breath.

  Joden stopped beside him. In the valley below them were gathered the other warrior-priests, all turning to look, questions in their eyes.

  “Those bracnects would lure you to your death,” Essa said.

  Joden glanced back and then sucked in a breath. “The tent. It’s gone.”

  He blinked again, and stared to be sure, but the tent was gone, with nary a trace to show it had ever existed.

  “Every time,” Essa didn’t turn, didn’t even seem surprised. “Every stinking time.” He took a deep, slow breath. “I need kavage.” He strode off, calling to the Singers. “Kavage,” he commanded and kept walking, leaving Joden to follow behind.

  Quartis appeared by his side. “He’s always in a foul temper after he speaks with them,” he said softly. “It doesn’t help that when he was attacked he lost his tent and gear as well.”

  “Ah,” Joden remembered the Eldest Elder’s large tent, overflowing with trunks, clothes and weapons. “All of that lost?”

  “He was lucky to escape with his life,” Quartis said. “Come. We’ve work to do. We will put that dung you gathered to good use, yes?”

  “I call this Council of Singers to senel. Let our truths be known. Let our songs be shared.” Essa sat on a gurtle pad, surrounded by sixteen other Singers that fanned out around him.

  Joden stood, facing them all. He tried for calm, tried to remain standing straight and confident before them.

 
His stomach fluttered.

  “This is the time when Singers gather,” Essa continued. He looked calmer, stronger, every inch the Eldest Elder. “The Trials for Warlord are complete. The various armies move to war. This is our time to exchange news and truths. To sing old songs and new. And to consider new candidates before we too scatter on our chosen paths.” Essa’s face was unreadable. “As is our tradition, the candidates are presented to the Ancients, who offer blessing and then disappear into the grasses after dispensing their wisdom.”

  Joden blinked. Essa’s face might be blank, but his tone was withering.

  “But here, in this Season, with this candidate, the only candidate,” Essa’s voice grew dryer. “They decided to speak to him. Alone.”

  Eyes widened, heads turned, but there was only the crackle of the fires to be heard.

  “They spoke to him?” Quartis broke the silence.

  “Alone,” Essa repeated.

  Now all eyes were focused on Joden.

  “They placed no restrictions on me,” Joden offered.

  “Tell us, then,” Essa commanded. “Tell us what passed between you and the Ancients.”

  Joden did. He started from the moment Essa left the tent, and didn’t soften the words the Ancients had spoken about the Eldest Elder.

  He ended with the chant and the reference to Essa’s ruffled feathers. His last words floated out into the evening air and were met only with silence.

  “That’s more than they have ever told me,” Essa’s voice was rough.

  The deeper silence that followed let Joden work up his courage to ask, “Who are they?”

  Head shakes all around.

  “We do not know,” Essa said. “Those old bracnect have tortured three Eldest Elders with their silence and killed more than that with their talk of ‘old paths’. Denying us the songs only they know, and their knowledge of the past. Perhaps they were Eldest Elders in their time.”

  “They didn’t have…” Joden stopped himself, thinking back. “They didn’t have the Singer tattoos. But now that I think on it—”

  Quartis nodded. “The tent is shadowed and dark, their skin wrinkled and mottled with age spots.”