WarDance

  Satisfied, Simus finished his water, and stepped out into the sun.

  Snowfall watched him leave the tent, and heard him greet his challenger. She stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds of combat, and tried to make sense of the man.

  A warrior who declined to dance, but took the risk of using wooden weapons to a younger, stronger challenger.

  A warrior who displayed such arrogance, and yet planned in the event of failure.

  A warrior who expressed concern for her well-being even in the face of the hatred of his own people.

  He was such a contradiction. Such a fascinating—

  A shout from those gathered outside brought her back to her duties. She fetched more gurt, dried meat, and water. The rest of the food she told her helpers to eat. It would not go to waste.

  And while she worked she considered her own truths.

  There was something about his smile, the joy underneath it. It wasn’t wide-eyed foolishness. It was the strength of his convictions. Hope with the practical truth of reality woven in.

  Yet she believed Simus could walk this path. Weaving the new with the old to aid all their peoples. But that made her pause, and frown.

  When had that happened? When had their desires, their goals, woven into one pattern?

  A cry went up from outside. He’d defeated another challenger. Snowfall allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

  “Snowfall.” Tsor stuck his head within the tent. “You’ve another challenger.”

  Snowfall nodded, and headed outside to meet her opponent. She wished to stand beside Simus, aiding him, working with him. He’d not be defeated.

  Neither would she.

  By mid-afternoon Simus had met all of the challengers. They’d come like a steady rain. He took care to rest, to eat and drink between bouts, but he met and defeated them all. The fights were fast, some ending in mere heartbeats. But Simus took nothing for granted.

  A few were latecomers, more testing his skill than offering a real challenge. One even offered his blade after their fight. Simus accepted him, then turned to face the next.

  Snowfall faced quite a few of her own, and so far remained the victor in her bouts.

  Yers and Tsor had fewer challenges, which pleased Simus. They were almost assured of their positions in his service.

  The crowd of watchers grew larger, warriors sitting in the first few rows, others standing behind. His own people, and other warriors, come to see. Elois was hovering on the fringes of the crowd, watching as well. Simus paid them no conscious mind, focused solely on his opponent.

  The hours became a blur of blades, strikes, counterstrikes, and victories. Simus kept pace, not concerned that his strength would hold, but always with an awareness of the sun on its path through the sky.

  Offered yet another dagger, Simus stepped from the circle and added it to the growing pile. He glanced over his shoulder, but no other challenger stood opposite. A break then, in the shade of the tent. “Snowfall,” Simus said. “I would have—”

  “Nothing for you, bragnect.” Wyrik of the Boar stepped through the crowd, shield and axe in hand. He positioned himself at the edge of the circle opposite Simus. “I challenge you, Simus of the Hawk. Come and die.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Finally,’ was Simus’s first thought.

  “I will kill you,” Wyrik snarled, waving his axe around. “I will kill you and scatter your army.” Wyrik looked around at Simus’s people, curling his lip. “Then I will take my warriors and raid Xy for what we need.”

  Yers and the warriors around him were scowling, fingering the hilts of their swords.

  As if she’d read his mind, Snowfall came up beside Simus, water and platter in hand, a few clean cloths over her arm. “Warlord,” she said.

  Simus took up a cloth, and ran it over his face, head, and the back of his neck. It felt good to wipe off the sweat.

  “Come, Simus of the Hawk,” Wyrik bellowed. “Pick up your children’s weapons now, I dare you.”

  Simus continued to wipe his face.

  Snowfall stood patiently.

  Wyrik continued to rant.

  Simus tossed the cloth off to the side, and accepted a mug of water. It was cool and sweet and he drank carefully. Deliberately.

  “Your death will be at my hands, and mine alone,” Wyrik shouted.

  Snowfall continued to patiently wait. Simus thought he could see a glimmer of approval in her eyes. He looked over the selection on her platter, and picked out a hunk of the dried meat. Not too big, but not too small either.

  He tore off a bite, and started to chew.

  “Death to you!” It seemed Wyrik was starting to repeat himself. Some of the warriors exchanged quick glances with each other, and smirks. Simus tore off another bite and made sure to keep his face bland as Wyrik screamed at him. It wouldn’t take long for—

  Someone in the crowd snickered.

  Which was all it took. Tension shattered, smiles broke out all around, and warriors eased their stances. Wyrik’s flair for the dramatic had stumbled.

  Wyrik realized it as well, glaring at the warriors. He then focused on Simus. “You stall,” he snarled. “Coward.”

  Simus swallowed the meat, and then finished off the water. He took another cloth to wipe his hands. “My thanks,” he said to Snowfall.

  She gave him a nod and stepped back.

  Simus considered his weapon’s rack, and took up an axe and a shield. He turned, brought his shield up, with his weapon ready and fixed his gaze on Wyrik with an intent stare.

  “Finally,” Wyrik roared, bringing up his own shield and banging his axe upon it. “Face me, Simus of the Hawk. Face my—”

  Simus leapt into the circle and charged, not wasting breath on words.

  Wyrik warded him off, and it began. There was no art in this fight beyond survival. This was brute force, with axes clashing against shields, looking for any opening. This was battle, life or death, and no quarter taken or claimed.

  Simus reached deep within for the strength he needed. Wyrik was fresh, but Simus was warm and ready. They were equal in strength, as far as he could tell. Equal in skill, perhaps. Yet Simus knew there was more to fighting than strength and skill, for he was determined to win.

  Strangely, Wyrik grew oddly cagey, wary even, as sweat ran down his pale, white face. Simus frowned at the change of tactics. He pressed his advantage, but Wyrik was cautious, backing away. Simus followed up, taking a swing at Wyrik’s legs.

  Wyrik went down on his back, for no reason that Simus could think of, but he wasn’t about to lose his chance. He raised his axe high, swinging for—

  The power rose, took Snowfall in its grip, and tightened around her.

  She was frozen, suspended, with all movement stopped. Her breath in her throat, the dread exploded in her chest. Here. Now. Simus.

  The crowd shifted then, as if allowed. She saw one warrior pull a light, handheld crossbow out from under concealment, loading a bolt with slow movements.

  Here. Now. Simus, rang through her soul.

  The warrior took aim.

  “DOWN,” Snowfall screamed.

  Simus heard Snowfall’s warning, dove for the dirt, and rolled, bringing his shield up to defend himself.

  A bolt hit his shield, biting deep.

  A warrior stood frozen behind him, a crossbow in his hand, aimed at Simus. For a long, timeless moment there was silence. Then with a roar, Simus’s warriors reached for the assassin and plunged their daggers into his body.

  Simus rose in fury, and spun to face Wyrik. “This is your honor?” he shouted. “This is your truth?”

  Wyrik scrambled to his feet. “Yes,” he screamed back. “Yes, yes, a thousand times over, for the sake of the Plains and the elements themselves. You—”

  Simus threw away his shield and took his axe into both hands. “This for your treachery,” Simus spat, and swung.

  Wyrik raised his shield, but Simus’s rage gave him a new strength. His axe fell
again and again as he beat Wyrik back, until the wooden shield finally cracked into shreds and fell off Wyrik’s arm.

  Simus raised his axe again. Wyrik attempted to ward off the blow. But Simus bore down and his axe broke the haft of Wyrik’s weapon, slicing down into his collar bone. It continued on, parting flesh and cracking ribs.

  Wyrik stood for a moment, life fading from his eyes. Simus yanked his axe up, and Wyrik’s body fell to the dirt.

  Simus stood, breathing heavily into the silence, as blood stained the challenge circle. He made a sharp gesture, and hands reached out to drag Wyrik’s body away. “So much for his truths,” Simus said, and then stepped out of the circle to clean his weapon.

  “Anyone else?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, glancing at the setting sun.

  “Warlord,” Yers spoke from behind him. “I would ask for your token.”

  Stunned, Simus looked up. Yers stood opposite him, over the bloodied challenge circle, his face taut with anguish.

  Simus opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He gestured for Snowfall to take his token to Yers. “You hold my token, Yers of the Cat,” Simus said. “What truths would you tell me?”

  “I would rescind my sword-oath,” Yers said simply.

  Simus dropped his gaze to his token. The decorative feathers moved; Yers’s hands were shaking.

  “I would ask the reason,” Simus said, wishing desperately that this wasn’t so public, for warriors to witness. The tale of this would be all over the camps. Even now, more warriors came running to see. The very air was filled with silent expectation.

  “We started this venture, you and I, at Keir’s side.” Yers voice was low and intense, but his words carried. “Keir of the Cat has made it clear that he would see the destruction of the warrior-priests and changes to our way of life.”

  “Truth,” Simus said. “Nothing has changed.”

  “Yet you cavort with warrior-priests,” Yers pressed. “You allow one to contest for Token-bearer. Joden is nowhere to be found. His truths have been silenced for all I know.” Yers took a deep breath. “You are bewitched. You are under the sway of our enemy.”

  “Bewitched by one that just saved me from treachery?” Simus glanced over to where Snowfall stood. Outwardly, she seemed cool and calm, but he sensed that she was shaken. He wished he had time to reassure her, but he turned back to Yers. “She could have just as easily let that warrior shoot me in the back.” Simus drew a deep breath. “And as I told you before: Joden has gone with the Singers to face his own Trials.”

  “Yet he has not been seen,” Yers said. “And no word as to his going? No farewells? No. He does not support you and I fear you have silenced him.” Yers glanced at Snowfall.

  “Yers, plans never last beyond the first exchange of blows,” Simus argued. “We are warriors, we know that.” He spread his hands for emphasis. Heads began to nod in the crowd. “From the moment that pillar of light pierced the sky above us, we have had to adapt. As the grass bends to the wind, so must we bend in the winds of change.”

  For a moment, Simus thought he’d reached him, then Yers’s eyes went hard. “No. I cannot bend that far.”

  Simus rubbed his forehead and sighed with regret. “So be it. I release you from your oath.” He watched as Snowfall retrieved his token. “I cannot thank you for these truths, Yers, for I am sorry to lose you at my side. Will you return to Xy? If so, I ask that you take word to—”

  “No.” Yers reached out and took a shield and mace from another warrior. Simus watched in disbelief as he stepped into the challenge circle and took a defensive position. “I offer challenge.”

  The crowd’s reaction was no less stunned then Simus’s. His jaw dropped. “Yers—” Simus was almost without words. “Yers, what are you doing?” Simus didn’t bother to hide his pain.

  “What I must.” Yers’s face screwed up in determination.

  “Yers.” Simus’s anger rose. “You offered your truths to me, and I heard them and released you from your oaths. This—this is different.”

  “I cannot let you become the Warlord that aids Keir,” Yers spat. “I do not trust you.” He jerked his head in Snowfall’s direction. “I do not trust this.”

  Simus’s gut lurched. “Does it come to this?”

  “I would be the better choice,” Yers said. “Most of these warriors gathered here will support me once you have been defeated.”

  Simus bared his teeth. “I will not offer you my dagger,” he warned.

  “Nor will I,” Yers said.

  Simus glanced at the sun as he armed himself. The glowing disk still hung over the horizon. Not that it mattered. Even were it full dark, this challenge from within must be answered.

  Simus took up his shield, and paused for a moment, as if considering weapons. He was tired; Yers had not faced nearly the number of challenges Simus had this day. He was determined; so was Yers. No, what gave Simus pause was that Yers knew him. They’d sparred for years, fought beside one another. Simus drew a breath. Should he offer his dagger? Preserve both their lives?

  But even as he had the thought, he knew he would not yield. Yers had fallen in the same trap the warrior-priests had—that doing the same things in response to change was to court defeat.

  Simus took up his own mace, and entered the circle.

  If Yers knew him—well, the same was true for Simus. He knew Yers, now didn’t he?

  In moments, they clashed in the center of the circle, the first exchange of blows a violent one. Yers drove Simus back, and then retreated, circling him, looking for weakness.

  Simus kept his guard up, turning to face his enemy. Whatever else Yers had been, he was the enemy now.

  Yers moved in, and pressed Simus hard, to the very edge of the circle. The watching warriors faded away, giving them room.

  Simus kept his shield high and defensive, striking only when he had advantage, getting in blows more often than Yers, but not enough to stop the man. Sweat rolled down both their faces, but Simus never dropped his gaze.

  Yers backed away, as if catching his breath. Simus didn’t follow up on that, too experienced to take such an obvious opening.

  Yers grinned, and for just a moment Simus saw his sparring friend of old. But then the moment passed, and Yers’s eyes narrowed and he rushed in, trying to bash shields and get close enough for a killing blow.

  Simus took his rush head-on, and fended off Yers with a flurry of strikes that forced the other man back. Rage filled him then, pure anger that coursed through him, giving strength to the blows he hammered down on Yers’s shield.

  In the end, it wasn’t strength or skill, but pure luck that caused Yers to leave an opening. Simus surged forward, striking for Yers’s head.

  In the split-second before he hit, Simus pulled his blow. Not all the way, but just enough, just enough to render...

  His mace struck Yers’s head.

  Yers slid down in a boneless pile.

  In the silence that followed, Simus stood, heaving in gulps of air. Yers didn’t move, but he was still breathing.

  Simus took a step forward, and stood over Yers’s body, mace and shield in hand. He gave the crowd around him a hard look. “I am the Warlord of this army,” he roared out in his anger and frustration. “Who would offer challenge? Who would rescind their oaths?”

  He waited in the last light of the sun, the air thick with silence. Simus drew a breath, feeling the sting of sweat in his eye. He blinked to clear his vision and watched with satisfaction as the warriors around him knelt and bowed their heads until none were left standing except Elder Haya and Weaponsmaster Seo.

  Haya stepped to his side. “Warlord,” she said, acknowledging his rank with a nod of her head. “No one will offer challenge. No one will rescind.”

  Simus waited, looking over the bowed heads, waiting for a protest. “So be it,” he said. “Tsor, you are Second. See to Yers. Get him to the healer.”

  Tsor rose to his feet. “I will see it done.”

  Seo
was at his other side. “Let me see to your weapons, Warlord.”

  Simus glanced over, but Snowfall was talking to Elois, so he let Seo take his mace and shield from his hands. With Haya at his side, he stepped inside the tent, grateful for the dim coolness within. Simus stopped. It seemed like a fog surrounded his mind and body.

  “Dea-mine,” Simus spoke, his voice sounding odd to his own ears. He blinked, trying to focus on Haya, but she was right by his side.

  “Battle-fatigue.” Haya was brisk as she started unbuckling his armor. “Not a surprise, given your efforts this day. Let me see to you.”

  Her words echoed, as if from a distance, just as it had when he’d been in her tents. That familiar sound meant ‘safe’ and ‘secure’, and Simus let himself relax into that reassurance.

  And just as she had in the past, she stripped him down, bid him drink water as she wiped him down with cool cloths, and then chivied him into his pallet and under a blanket. “Sleep, Warlord,” she commanded, as only a thea could.

  Simus gave in at that point, closing his eyes. For just a moment, he relished the pleasure of victory, but sleep was swift to claim its own.

  Snowfall reached for Simus’s banner, her hands shaking. Tsor was stripping down Yers’s banner, and his own, his face a snarl of anger. She’d lower Simus’s, then hers, then follow them into the tent. Her heart was pounding in her throat even as she moved. It had been so close, the warrior with the cross-bow, then Yers. It was a wonder that—

  Someone came up from behind her.

  Snowfall spun, dagger in hand without thought, Simus’s banner in the other.

  Elois stood there, grim in the dying sunlight. She glanced at Snowfall’s banner, still streaming from the pole, then fixed her gaze on Snowfall.

  “I offer challenge, Snowfall of the warrior-priests, for Token-bearer.”

  Simus woke, warm and relaxed, and then drew a breath as the memories hit him. He’d won.