Warsong

  “Sexless, but not ageless, no, not them.” Essa shuddered. “I would fall on my sword before I would let that happen to me.”

  “What is the ‘old path’?” Joden asked.

  “None have attempted the old path since I became Eldest Elder,” Essa said. “The price is too high. Who can say if their songs are worth the price?”

  “Has anyone ever heard the tales of the Chaosreaver and his Warprize?” Joden asked. “Or that they stripped away the magic from the Plains?”

  More silence. Essa rubbed his hand over his face.

  Para spoke from the back, “Usually when a Singer candidate is presented to them, they mumble something, bless you in the name of the elements, and then they seem to fade off to sleep.” She seemed angry. “Why did they speak to you?’

  “Why do they do anything,” Essa growled. “It matters not. The ritual they speak of kills. And now? With wyverns flying, this odd power returned to the Plains, what will happen to any that walk that path? No one knows.” He took a deep breath. “So, Joden of the Hawk. You will begin the Trials of a Singer tomorrow at dawn. You will be tested for four days, one for each of the elements. You will be tested as a warrior, as a judge, and as a Singer.

  “You will stand before us all, and show us your skills in combat,” Quartis flashed Joden a grin.

  “We will present conflicts, and you will show us how you would resolve them in accordance with our ways.” Thron spoke up.

  “You will dance,” Para spoke as well.

  “Most of all, you will sing, old songs and songs of your own creation. For four days and four nights.” Essa said. “After which, if you are worthy, we will tattoo your eye and you will be a Singer of the Plains.”

  “But if I fail these Trials—” Joden began.

  “You have been told our secrets,” Essa said. “And if you were to fail, we would slay you to keep those truths safe.”

  “Few fail,” Quartis said quietly. “We do not share our truths with those that are unworthy.”

  Essa gave him a glare.

  “It is no less than a truth,” Quartis shrugged. “We have observed Joden, and know that he has it within him. The debate that rages about him is—”

  “Enough,” Essa barked.

  “And the ‘old path’?” Joden asked. “The chant they—”

  Essa stood, drew himself up, strong and dignified. “Joden, before those gathered here, I would offer you this truth. I may not agree with what you and Simus and Keir would do, or how you would bring changes to our ways. But for all that, I would not have you go to your death.”

  Essa turned then, to face the gathered Singers. “For that would silence his truth and that is not the way of the Plains, nor the way of the Singers of the Plains. If he is worthy, he is entitled to stand in our midst and have his truths considered with ours.”

  A murmur arose from the group, some in agreement, some clearly not.

  Essa turned back and faced Joden. “The Trials of a Singer are exhausting, invigorating and challenging. But the warriors who emerge as Singers serve the Plains with their hearts and souls. As will you.”

  “And the ‘old path’,” Joden pressed for an answer one more time.

  Essa’s eyes narrowed and his mouth grew grim.

  Quartis glanced at Essa, then spoke. “The challenges are the same. Except we clear a challenge circle and—”

  “You are tethered within,” Essa interrupted, clearly furious. “Naked, but for your weapons. Tied by the ankle with a thin strip of leather to a stake in the middle of the circle. The leather is decorated along its length with beads so that we will know it, and know if it is broken. You are tested for four days and four nights, but there is no food, no water, and as little sleep as possible.

  “And when you collapse and cannot be roused,” Essa spat. “When you do not answer to the death ritual that we conduct, you are wrapped in a cloth shroud and the leather of your tent, and buried within the earth. Buried deep, as the dead are, and left there until the dawn.”

  “‘Offer your body; be buried in earth’,” Joden murmured.

  Essa glared at Joden. “Do you understand, Joden? We are told that when you emerge from the earth, when we pull you free from the grave, you will emerge as a full Singer, with the beaded leather cord around your ankle and the tattoo of a bird’s wing around your eye.

  “Except you won’t,” Essa continued. “We will dig you up, and find you dead. The ritual kills.”

  “Even now,” Joden asked. “With magic returned to the land?”

  “I do not know,” Essa said simply.

  “But the choice is mine,” Joden said.

  Essa crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out over the Plains. “Yes,” he finally said. “The choice is yours.”

  Joden nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and rocked on his heels, considering the grass under his feet. To fail was a swift journey to the snows. But to succeed? What songs would he learn, that no other knew? How much stronger would his voice be in the Councils of the Elders? It would benefit all, Singers, the Plains. Simus. Keir. But the risk—

  “This choice does not have to be made today,” Essa started, but a few others shook their heads.

  “The Trials for Warlord started late, thanks to the warrior-priests,” Quartis said.

  “Even now, the armies move,” Thron reminded them. “And there is Antas as well to consider. Sooner is better than later.”

  Essa sat back down. “They are right, of course. Speak, Joden.”

  Joden looked at his hands, then raised his head. “Many of you know that I chose to deny mercy to Simus of the Hawk when he lay injured on the field before Xy. I tried to staunch his wound, and as a result we were taken captive by the enemy.”

  “This is known,” Essa acknowledged with a nod of his head.

  “Mercy is the way of the Plains, when a warrior falls and cannot rise,” Joden said. “But when my friend and tentmate lay bleeding at my feet, I could not bring my knife to bear.” He took a breath. “That is not our way, not the way of the Plains, and yet, I could not do it.”

  “That is known,” Para said. “And counted against you.”

  “As it should,” Joden nodded to Para. “Here I am, asking to be admitted to the ranks of those that hold us to our ways, and yet I broke those ways.

  “Because of our capture, Keir of the Cat and his Warprize met.” Joden spread his hands. “But the Warprize thought herself a slave, a thing to be owned and controlled. Because of her lack of knowledge of our ways, and of our past, she didn’t see the honor Keir offered.”

  “Until you told her,” Essa said.

  “The Ancients have knowledge of what has been. And that knowledge might aid us to determine what will be,” Joden said. “What our future, what the future of the Plains will be.

  “How better to silence those that would oppose me as Singer,” Joden said. “Then to take the old paths? How better to show my love of our people then to risk death to learn what the Ancients have withheld?”

  “How better to show me up as lacking before our people,” Essa snarled.

  There was pain in Essa’s eyes, an old pain borne of rejection. Joden bowed his head in respect. “That would not be my purpose, Eldest Elder.”

  Quartis spoke up. “Eldest Elder, I know this touches a nerve for you. But I have often heard you say that you wished to know what the Ancients have withheld. It is no reflection on you. How many Eldest Elders have they withheld the information from?”

  “And now they offer it to Joden,” Essa said, his eyes hooded and dark. “If he takes the old paths.”

  “Yet why do they speak to him?” Para complained. “I intend no offense, Joden, when I say there have been better candidates.”

  “To our eyes,” Thron noted. “But not, apparently, to theirs.”

  Quartis shrugged. “Who can say? But they have offered. It’s a chance.”

  Joden went to one knee before Essa, and bowed his head. “Eldest Elder, I ask to take
the old path to Singer. I do this in full knowledge of the risks involved.” He lifted his head, and met Essa’s gaze. I do this for the Singers, and for the people of the Plains.

  For a long moment there was no sound, no breath. Essa just stared into Joden’s eyes. The Eldest Elder’s face was a mask of stone. But Essa’s eyes dropped, and he bowed his head.

  “So be it,” Essa’s voice floated over the entire group. “We will begin at dawn.”

  Eldest Elder Essa watched as the challenge circle was prepared, cleared of the sod, the dirt packed under the feet of his Singers.

  He watched as the stake was planted in the center; as the Singers gathered to add trinkets and beads to the leather thong.

  He watched as Joden emerged from the grasses, freshly bathed and naked, to stand in the center of the circle.

  He watched as Joden gave away his gear and saddle, all of his possessions. Joden pressed the wyvern horn into Quartis’s hands.

  He himself knelt to bind Joden’s ankle. He would allow no other the honor.

  A stool was brought, and Essa sat and watched as Joden faced his challenges, strong and proud, fighting his opponents, resolving mock conflicts, and singing.

  He fought to concentrate on Joden’s performance. Not on Keir and Simus’s reaction when informed of their friend’s death. Not on the possible repercussions of the events of this day. He cleared his mind, and focused on the songs.

  He fought his own battle as well, with hateful, jealous thoughts. Joden was strong and in his prime. The ache in Essa’s chest had nothing to do with the loss of such a warrior and everything to do with his own loss. The pain grew stronger at the idea of Joden gaining the songs he had so long been denied.

  Joden sang as he did everything, with an underlying joy. Essa had known from the beginning, from the first time he’d heard the man’s voice, that he was a Singer.

  And a crafter of songs. Joden sang of the Warprize and her Warlord, and the love between them. He sang of the successful four-ehat hunt, with the disgusting scent of the musk, and the glory of the kill and the celebration after.

  And he sang of the ache in his heart over his conflict between the old and the new ways. Of ending traditions. Of seeking new ones.

  Essa watched as Joden fought and sang and judged. And when the young man fell asleep on his feet, Essa watched as he was prodded awake and they demanded more songs.

  And on the third day Essa watched as Joden staggered, deprived of water, deprived of food, shuffling his feet in a mockery of a dance as he croaked a last song. As dulled eyes and stumbling words spoke of hopes turned to exhaustion.

  Watched as Joden collapsed, face down in the earth at last, at dusk on the last day.

  Watched as Quartis entered the circle, and grasped Joden’s lax right hand. “Joden,” he called loudly. “Joden of the Hawk.”

  The other Singers were gathered at the circle’s edge. Essa rose from his chair, and they respectfully cleared a path for him.

  “Joden,” Quartis held Joden’s left hand in his own. Essa saw his knuckles whiten as he squeezed it.

  There was silence as all watched and waited.

  “Joden of the Hawk,” Quartis called as he moved down to his left foot.

  There was no response.

  Finally, Quartis took Joden’s right foot, putting his hand over where the tether was tied. “Joden of the Hawk,” he called out again.

  Nothing. Joden’s face was lax, his body limp. If he breathed, Essa couldn’t see it.

  “We will see you again, Warrior,” Quartis rose. “Beyond the snows.”

  Essa stepped forward then, pulling the leather thong from the stake, and wrapping it around Joden’s ankle. As he gripped the man’s ankle, he felt the barest pulse of life. “Bear this as witness,” he said. “As you walk the old path.” He rose then, gesturing. “Bring him,” he said. “We will give him to the earth.”

  Many hands lifted Joden’s body, and they carried him to the grave already waiting.

  There were gasps as they drew close. There beside the grave was a folded bundle of light, white cloth, lengths and lengths, enough to wrap a body many times over.

  The Ancients. It had to have been. Essa glanced around, but there was no sign of their be-damned-to-the-snows tent.

  Essa gestured, and the others spread the cloth and used it to wrap the body over and over. They put the shrouded corpse within one of the small collapsed leather tents. Once done, they lowered the tent and the body it contained into the grave, and gathered at the edges.

  Essa drew a breath. “Death of fire, birth of earth,” he started.

  Four Singers started to fill in the grave.

  “The fire warmed you,” the Singers chanted, their voices muted in the night air. “We thank the elements.”

  “Death of earth, birth of water,” he chanted.

  More earth, pushed in, covering the leather shroud.

  “The earth supported you,” the Singers chanted. “We thank the elements.

  “Death of water, birth of air,” Essa poured his grief into his voice, letting it soar out above them.

  Still the Singers worked, on their knees. The level of earth rose almost level to the grass. Essa could almost feel the weight of the dirt on his own skin.

  “The waters sustained you,” the Singers chanted, their voices muted in the night air. “We thank the elements.”

  “Death of air, birth of fire,” he chanted the final verse.

  “The air filled you,” came the final response. “We thank the elements.”

  The grave was filled.

  They stood silent for long moments.

  “Dawn is not far off,” Quartis looked up at the stars.

  “Far enough,” Essa said bitterly. “Bring drums,” he told the others. “He may hear, and know that we keep watch.”

  “He has a chance,” Quartis reminded him as the others drifted off.

  Essa shrugged, and settled down to keep watch over the mound as the stars danced above. Not-thinking on what would be. Not thinking on what the dawn would bring.

  Around him others gathered, drumming a slow and steady beat.

  And when the first faint hint of light broke on the horizon, his hands joined the others as they frantically dug into the earth. No chanting now. Just hard breathing as they all worked.

  The dirt was cold and heavy. “His head,” Essa commanded, and they centered their focus there.

  The earth moved slowly, mounding to the side as they finally reached the leather cover. Quartis tugged it back against the heavy, moist dirt.

  No white shroud. No Joden.

  “He curled up,” Essa gasped, and they dug again, clearing and tugging until the entire leather cover was pulled back.

  Essa sat back on his heels, and rubbed his eyes.

  The grave was empty.

  Joden’s body was not there.

  Chapter Eight

  Impulsive was one thing; stupid was another. Amyu was not stupid.

  She climbed the rest of that day, up mountain paths as high as she could before searching for a place to sleep. In the fading light she found a place, protected by pine trees and a slight overhang of rock.

  There was a small circle of stones under the overhang. There were cold ashes in the center and it clearly had not been used for some time. She made a very small fire, more for comfort than anything else, and sat to sort her supplies out, and think things through.

  The small lantern was clever, just a metal cylinder with a door and holes throughout. The curved metal bowl at the bottom could burn wood or maybe even animal fat. There was a small stub of a fat candle; she’d have to conserve that for as long as possible.

  She’d need food as well, and dug through the pack to check what she had. Bread, gurt, dried meat. A jar of sweetfat, a whet stone, and dried bloodmoss. A small sack of kavage beans, thank the elements. She’d hunt when she could, and eat lightly.

  She untied the leather that sealed the jar, lifted it and sniffed. The sweet scent
of Plains grasses filled her lungs. It eased a tightness in her shoulders that she hadn’t been aware of. She tightly sealed it up again, and placed it back in the pack.

  Maybe she should establish a base camp? Amyu chewed on her lip, thinking. It would be good to be able to cache food and gear, with a secure place to sleep. But keeping everything with her gave her more freedom to roam further out.

  Both ways offered benefits. She’d see what the next day brought, and then decide.

  Her sword and dagger were sharp, and the blankets she’d brought would be warm enough. She had a waterskin, and basic cooking gear. Not that hard to spit a small animal over a fire.

  She tore off a piece of dried meat, and ate as she packed the rest away. Her small fire flickered as she took a long drink and stared into the flames.

  Now, as to her prey. For in truth, that was what she was doing. Stalking prey she had no knowledge of and had never seen.

  So she’d treat it as any hunt. Airions were bird and horse in appearance. But all animals leave trails, so there would be droppings, and feathers shed. Claw marks perhaps on trees and stones. Maybe they marked their territory.

  And the bird part, it would have to hunt. She closed her eyes and pictured the tapestry in her mind. That beak. As much as it had a horse’s head, that beak meant it was a meat eater. Which meant it was a hunter. It probably hunted from the sky, like a hawk.

  Amyu pulled at the meat, and popped another piece in her mouth, chewing slowly.

  The trees here were smaller, stunted, not as large as the ones in the valley. Unlikely that the creatures lived in trees, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility. ‘Up’ was something she’d have to remember.

  Usek had warned of ‘bears and cats’, so she’d have to watch for predators.

  The bigger question? Where to start.

  Amyu finished the meat, and took a long drink of water. At least that was no worry; she could hear water running nearby in the quiet of the growing dusk.

  A yawn caught her off guard, and a wave of weariness followed. She spread out her blankets, stripped off her leathers and weapons and piled them neatly beside her. Her sword and dagger came into the bedding with her, close at hand.