“They are called ballistas,” Iian said, pulling out another scroll. “And here is a reference to their manufacture.”
“Something like that, even if we could learn the way of it, would take time,” Heath protested.
“And here—” Iian drew out yet another scroll, “—is a reference to where the parts were stored when they were disassembled after the creatures were banished.”
“Stored?” Heath asked. “Where?”
“Banished?” Lara asked. “How?”
“In the old passages into the mountain. As to the banishment, I don’t know,” Iian admitted. “Perhaps with more time to research—”
“Those old passages are a maze,” Heath said. “But there are storage places here and there. Whether the parts remain is another story. In the meantime—”
The door opened, letting in a fresh breeze that set the candles dancing and the tapestry moving against the wall. “Warlord,” a guard said tersely, clearly struggling with his composure. “Five more of the fell creatures are overhead.”
The warriors all headed for the door, orderly, but wasting no time.
“Keep looking,” Keir said to Iian. “The past may yet aid us in this fight.”
“I will,” Iian promised.
“We could still send a messenger to the Plains,” Lara said hurriedly. “Get word to Simus.”
“I can spare no warriors,” Keir said firmly.
“Amyu could go,” Lara insisted.
Amyu flushed, and looked down.
“No, Lara,” Keir said, but his eyes were not unkind. “Aside from Amyu’s status, I will risk no one until we have contained this threat.”
With that, he was gone with the others.
“Amyu,” Lara sighed. “I—”
“I will clean up,” Amyu said. “Before I return to my duties.”
“That would be best,” Lara said with a smile, and followed the others out of the room.
The door closed behind her, and with the drafts gone, the tapestry settled against the wall. Although the airion’s eyes caught Amyu’s eye, for they still seemed to gleam in the light.
What would it be like, to ride such a thing?
Iian was gathering up his scrolls and books. “I’ve more reading to do,” he said, sounding pleased.
“I would help you with those,” Amyu offered.
“I thank you, but—” Iian gestured at her leathers and wrinkled his nose.
“Ah.” Amyu grimaced and nodded.
Iian returned her nod amiably, as he rolled and stacked his scrolls carefully. “Amyu, why didn’t the Warlord send you as a messenger?”
Amyu’s throat closed, but his question was an honest one. He was Xyian, he’d have no way of knowing. “It would not serve,” she replied. “To my people, I am a child who will never go through the Rite of Ascension. I should have gone to the snows long ago for my failure to produce warriors for the Tribe. In their eyes, I am a failure.”
“Oh. I see.” Iian studied her, no judgment in his gaze, just a natural curiosity. Then, like a wise Singer of the Plains, his gaze sharpened, and his eyes bored into hers. “And in your eyes, Amyu? In your own eyes, what are you?”
She found she had no answer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Antas of the Boar felt no need for the usual courtesy. He just threw back the tent flap and stepped in to Hail Storm’s tent without so much as a greeting.
“Ugh.” Antas curled his lip at the stench. He stared at the mound of bedding before him. “You stink like a rotting carcass.”
The tent reeked of stale, sick sweat and piss. Hail Storm lay on his pallet of gurtle pads, covered in blankets and furs. At least Antas thought it was Hail Storm. As he’d been told, the man’s ritual tattoos were gone.
Hail Storm turned his face toward Antas, eyes dull and glazed. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that glistened as he blinked against the light.
“So.” As much as it disgusted him, Antas stepped farther in and let the tent flap close behind him. “I return to my camp, expecting to find a powerful Eldest Elder of the Warrior- priests, his followers with him, rejoicing in the Sacrifice and ready to join with my warriors.”
Hail Storm closed his eyes and turned his face away.
Antas crouched by his pallet. “Instead, I am told strange tales about that pillar of light and the deaths of all of the warrior-priests. Except you, who crawled into my camp more dead than alive and demanded succor.”
“Not all.” Hail Storm’s voice was a rasp. “Wild Winds and his followers live.”
“Even better,” Antas snorted. “You could not even kill that sickly old man? What of your plans, Hail Storm? What of your magic?”
“I still have power,” Hail Storm turned his head back and snarled.
“And what of this?” Antas waved his hand over the mound of blankets.
“It is nothing,” Hail Storm said. “A minor wound.”
Antas reached out and yanked back the blankets.
Hail Storm’s arm was swollen to twice its normal size, the skin purple and bloated. White puss oozed from the wounds, and red streaks traced vivid paths up toward his shoulder.
“Nothing?” Antas said grimly. “I don’t wonder at the smell, now. You look like a bloated, dead gurtle.” He paused, considering the man. “Why do you not heal yourself?”
“My powers are strong, but they do not lend themselves to healing,” Hail Storm admitted stiffly.
“Anyone else, and I’d grant mercy without asking,” Antas said.
Hail Storm fixed him with a glare, and Antas saw strength flood into those dark eyes. A quick move, and Hail Storm flourished a dagger in his good hand. “Do not think it,” he growled.
“As you wish, Eldest Elder.” Antas rose to his feet. “I will leave you to your suffering.”
The dagger disappeared under the blanket. “We had a plan, you and I,” Hail Storm said. “You should follow through with it.”
“Aye, true enough,” Antas said. “I planned to go to the Heart, set up camp and join the Trials.” He curled his lip at the thought. “But that was with the support of the warrior-priests with you as Eldest Elder. Now—”
“I am Eldest Elder,” Hail Storm rasped.
Antas looked down at the sickly man before him. “You just said that Wild Winds lives.”
“I am Eldest Elder,” Hail Storm repeated, his eyes glazed, the sweat pouring off him. “Attack the Heart.”
Antas gave the man an astonished look. “Attack the Heart? Do you think me a fool?”
“You ignore my advice at your peril.”
“I will listen to your advice if you live.” Antas spun on his heel, and strode out of the tent, grateful for the fresh air.
He swept the stench away from his nose with a deep breath of clean air.
Veritt, his Second, and Leda, his Third, were waiting for him, a polite distance away. Antas walked toward them shaking his head. “Come,” he said. “I’ve a need for kavage after that.”
They fell in beside him. “You saw?” Leda said.
“I did,” Antas growled. “And I think it’s likely he will die of that wound. Any other warrior, and I’d grant him mercy. But we need him.”
Leda nodded. “I’ll assign some warriors from punishment detail to care for him. At the very least they can see him cleaned and fed.”
“See if any of the theas who have joined us have any ideas how to help him,” Antas said.
“They have no more healing skill than we do,” Veritt pointed out.
“No, but they deal with the cuts, scrapes, and bruises of children all through the day,” Antas said. “It’s worth trying.” He paused. “But do not let them know of Reness. I am not sure their support would last if they knew we held her.”
“I will see to it,” Leda said.
“How bad is her leg?” Antas kept his voice low as they walked through the camp.
“Bad.” Leda shook her head. “She fought like she was enraged. We tried to tend it, based on the t
ales told of the Warprize. But those are twice-told tales and we have no skill.”
“How did this happen?” Antas said, feeling his anger rise. All of his careful plans seemed to be unraveling. “She was to be guarded at all times, controlled by the warrior-priests.”
“She was,” Leda said calmly. “But the warrior-priests collapsed when the pillar of light rose in the night. In the confusion, she took her opportunity.” Leda shrugged. “But for the warriors that spotted her fleeing, she’d have succeeded.”
“A fine thing.” Antas rubbed his hand over his face. “I go to seek out theas and return to find my prisoner wounded in an escape attempt, my all-so-powerful warrior-priest sweating in his bed, and all of his warrior-priests dead. And Hail Storm says ‘attack the Heart.’ Cursed fool—”
“Not all dead,” Leda said. “According to Hail Storm.”
“That’s what he said. But can I trust it?” Antas asked.
“When he first crawled into camp, he babbled out a lot of information,” Veritt said. “It felt like the truth, and his skin supports his tale. His tattoos are gone.”
Antas grunted, continued on to his command tent, and gave the nod to one of the guards to open the flap. “Kavage,” he called to Catha, his Token-bearer, and settled himself on his seat on the wooden platform.
Veritt and Leda settled beside him, and after the handwashing ritual, they ate in silence. Antas thought as he chewed, considering all the events as he washed down the meal with kavage.
He waited until the food was cleared, and bid Catha weave the bells in the flap and join the talk.
Catha settled beside him, the heat of her body a familiar comfort.
Antas broke the silence. “We must consider our options. Hail Storm still urges an attack.”
“Hail Storm is a fool,” Veritt said softly. “But his suggestion has some merit to it. The Heart is concentrating on challenges, not defense. We could strike hard and fast. Those candidates that support the old ways would come to our aid if we got word to them.”
“You might even secure Essa for your purposes,” Catha added quietly.
“Are we so certain of the support of the candidates?” Leda asked.
“Ietha for certain.” Veritt held up a finger, ticking off the name. “Loula, Nires, they are all—”
“No.” Antas took more kavage. “I cannot be sure of Nires of the Boar’s position.”
Catha nodded. “He outcast Iften, did he not?”
“He did,” Leda confirmed. “And there are many other candidates who have not expressed support. Ultie being one of them. An attack may cause them to turn against us.” She glanced at Antas. “Our truths are more effective than our swords.”
“We need a Singer.” Veritt looked into his kavage glumly.
“True.” Antas frowned into his mug as well. “I had hoped that Joden of the Hawk would claim that place, but he betrayed us. Still, there are others who may be persuaded.”
“So we wait?” Veritt asked.
Antas scowled. “I hate waiting,” he said. “I am not good at it.”
“We know,” Catha said and gave him her soft smile. “Yet in its way, patience is as powerful a weapon as your sword.”
“Fine. Yes, we wait.” Antas took up his mug. “It is enough for now to build our strength. Although, I want far-ranging scouts sent out, to locate Wild Winds if possible. Especially if he has those with him who still wield power. They might yet be brought within our camp to serve our purpose.”
Leda nodded.
“We’ve voices and eyes at the Heart,” Veritt said. “They’ll let us know the ways the winds are blowing. They will tell us when the Council tent is raised.”
“When do we strike at Simus?” Leda asked.
“Perhaps we don’t,” Catha said.
Antas opened his mouth to protest, but Catha raised her gentle hand. “Our allies can strike at Simus and his allies. Shoot the horses out from under them while we wait to see how the Trials go.”
“Then, when the Council tent is raised, we act.” Antas nodded reluctantly. “The Elders must see reason.” He raised an eyebrow at his warriors. “And if they do not, my patience will come to an end.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Simus awoke to the first chirps of the grass birds. A slight breeze was playing with the sides of the tent, bringing with it the scent of promised rain. His camp was just starting to stir as the night watch prepared for dawn.
He stretched under the blankets, and grinned in delight. His camp. His army. Considering how this season has started, it was coming to a satisfactory close.
Provided of course, everything went according to plan.
His grin faded as he gave a groan at that thought. After all, he knew well the truth of, ‘If you wish to hear the winds laugh, tell them your plans.’
There was a scratching at the flap to his sleeping area.
“Come,” he said.
Snowfall entered, gracefully carrying a tray with kavage. “Good morning, Warlord.”
She stood, holding the tray, in her leather trous and corselet. A sheen of rain covered the tattoos that capped her strong shoulders, and the droplets also gleamed in her hair. Her face was neutral.
“Morning.” Simus sat up, feeling the bruising in his ribs all the more this morning. He groaned, throwing back the blankets and sitting cross-legged on his bed. He reached up and stretched.
Snowfall was giving him a critical look. “The bruising seems less,” she said. “You should use more of that ointment.”
Simus lowered his arms and gave her a bright, hopeful look. She’d declined to share before but this was a new day. “Perhaps you could rub it on for me?”
To Simus’s disappointment, Snowfall didn’t even blink. Didn’t even raise one of those delicate eyebrows. “No. Here’s kavage for now,” she said calmly.
Simus admired the movement of her lovely hips as she knelt to place the tray next to him. She rose just as smoothly, displaying the long length of her legs. “I will have your meal ready shortly.”
“Send word to Yers that I would hold a senel as soon as I have eaten,” Simus said with a sigh. “Ask Joden to join us as well.” He reached for the kavage. “Do not raise the challenge banners this morning.”
Snowfall bowed her head. “As you wish, Warlord.”
With that, she was gone.
Simus deflated slightly with another sigh, then reached for the pitcher. She hadn’t seemed interested.
On the other hand, she hadn’t seemed un-interested. Simus’s grin returned. He’d take his victories where he may.
He stood, twisting and stretching, warming stiff muscles. It was odd, how comfortable her presence was within his tent. Snowfall was...restful. A quiet strength beside him.
She’d maintained his tent, showed in visitors, and met every challenge offered to her blades. Even Yers, as wary as he was, offered her respect. But those grey eyes revealed nothing in a face that was forever calm and serene.
Yet she also didn’t let him get away with anything. She never laughed at Simus’s asides or wild statements. Never rolled her eyes. Her face was always serene and cool.
It was annoying. Fascinating. Enticing.
He thought on that as he finished his kavage, and reached for his armor and weapons.
“Don’t forget the ointment,” Snowfall called from the main tent.
See? She cared. Simus grinned to himself, put down his padded tunic, and rummaged for the jar.
As he attended to his side, he thought on Snowfall. The mystery behind her eyes. It must take a great deal of work to control herself like that. To keep her face smooth and unresponsive, not cracking the slightest smile. A lot of control.
What would it take, he thought, to cause her to lose her mask? To see her smile, or laugh, or watch those eyes spark in rage. Or melt into pleasure at the touch of his hands?
A goal, Simus resolved as he strapped on his sword and dagger. Something to think on as he went through his day. Something t
o work on.
It was good to have goals.
It occurred to Snowfall that in one thing, Warlords and warrior-priests did not differ. At least, in the males.
She’d declined his offer of sharing with regret. He was a fine-looking man, well formed in all ways, and she had to suppress a certain curiosity as to his other...skills.
But there would be complications, with the other warriors if no one else. But also the magic. What if it flared as they shared their bodies? Her tattoos were already expressing some of her emotions. What if they responded in ways she couldn’t control? No, that was not worth the risk of satisfying her...curiosity. Even if his offer had heated her body. This was not the time or the place.
Still, her refusal had taken him back. That pleased her. Not that she would display that pleasure, one way or another.
What pleased her more was his acceptance after his initial shock. He accepted it. Oh, he pouted a bit, not that he would think of it as such. But still, she doubted few declined his offer of bedding as she had.
But while her Warlord’s mood was a good one, it seemed the Plains were of a different opinion. The wind was cold and biting, setting the leather tent sides to moving back and forth. The damp crept into the corner of every tent and every bone in a warrior’s body. No need to keep the challenge banners down; every warrior in camp not on duty was within a tent, seeing to tasks done well out of the rain and cold.
Snowfall sent out the messages as commanded while Simus ate.
She set the braziers burning in the command tent, and made the kavage strong and hot. She greeted his Second and Third with steaming mugs as they entered and shed their dripping cloaks. All of them accepted the mugs gratefully, even Yers. As others entered behind them, she greeted them as well.
And when all was in readiness, she ignored the stares and the side-ways glances, took up her Warlord’s token, and waited for him to call the senel to order.
Simus was amused to see that Ouse and Lander were aiding Snowfall with the serving at the senel. Trust the young ones to try to be present when decisions were to be made.
Simus seated himself and then leaned over to Yers, seated to his left. “There’s a few missing yet, I see.”