WarDance

  Snowfall reached for more mugs and bowls, and scrubbed each thoroughly before setting them out to dry in the grass.

  She’d no desire to leave her master. Now that the Plains was awash in the power—

  She paused for a moment, letting herself see the golden glow that lay within the land, pulsing softly, like a long, slow heartbeat. For a moment she considered how one could use it to wash dishes, and then chided herself at the idea. Foolish to waste power in such a way.

  Besides, washing gave her time to think. To consider Wild Winds’s position.

  The hunting party mounted their horses, and set off at a trot. A weight lifted from her shoulders with their departure.

  She glanced at the tent again, considering the man who slept within. Simus was handsome, certainly. Tall, muscular, dark, with a bright smile. But he knew it well, and she wrinkled her nose at his manner. Loud, boisterous, and with an arrogance of his own, much like elder warrior-priests. Snowfall allowed herself a slight quirk of her mouth. He’d expressed his interest in her body with his eyes, and she’d ignored him. She doubted Simus of the Hawk was used to being spurned.

  Yet her tattoos had reacted to his presence. Snowfall winced inside. At some point she would have to share that with her master. She knew full well he’d use it to support his argument.

  Snowfall sighed, and reached for another bowl. Wild Winds’s insistence that she leave his side felt like he was rejecting her. Now that the power had returned, now that they could use their gifts freely, they could relearn all that had been lost. And yet, he would send her away.

  A yawn caught her off guard. Enough thought. She turned back to her work, and finished quickly. Her own tiredness was stalking her now, and she would need to wake soon enough to prepare the evening meal.

  The last of the bowls done, she cleaned the cooking area, and stood to stretch. She’d enough time to catch some sleep before—

  Movement caught her eye. Lightning Strike was coming, running hard. He ran up to her, with an apologetic look. “Wake the Eldest Elder. There is something he needs to see.”

  “He’s weary, as are we all,” Snowfall said, frowning. “Won’t it wait—”

  “No.” Lightning Strike shook his head. “It’s Mist.”

  Wild Winds stood over Mist’s body, sprawled in the center of her ruined tent. His old friend had made her choices, but it struck hard to see her cold and lifeless. She’d told him that she would seek the snows, but something was wrong—

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Lightning Strike said. “I thought to seek her out, since she was special to you, Eldest Elder. I found—”

  “Mist.” Wild Winds knelt and reached out to take her left hand as he called her name in a ritual as old as the Plains themselves.

  “She didn’t die at her own hand,” Lightning Strike pointed out in a low voice.

  Wild Winds looked at the wounds that had been inflicted on her, by a sword nowhere to be seen. But as he touched her cold flesh, his skin crawled. There was a taint on her body, of a life drained with foul intent.

  “Blood magic,” he whispered.

  Lightning Strike and Snowfall both stiffened, their hands on their weapons. Snowfall scanned the area, her eyes narrowing.

  “Mist,” Wild Winds called again, as the ritual required, taking her right ankle in his hand. “Mist, Elder of the Warrior-Priests, answer me.”

  Silence, her eyes lifeless and unseeing, stripped of her tattoos.

  “Mist,” he called twice again, grasping her left ankle and hand and when silence was his only answer, he leaned over her, and closed her eyes. He stood and looked out over the Plains that now contained a new danger.

  “Hail Storm lives?” Snowfall asked softly.

  “Hail Storm lives,” Wild Winds confirmed.

  Hail Storm crawled under the cover of some low aspens, by a creek bed that ran fast and cold. He lowered his swollen forearm into the water, and hissed as it covered the angry red scratches. He looked about, fearing he’d been overheard, but the area was clear.

  Curse them, curse them all: the Sacrifice, his Token-bearer, and that damned animal of theirs that had injured him so. His rage was greater than his pain, and his pain was fierce.

  The four scratches ran the length of his forearm, deep and sore. He’d let them bleed, and the cool water helped leach out some of the heat, but it seemed to him that the red was moving up his arm. His fingers felt fat and swollen. It had been hard to grip the hilt of the sword when he’d killed Mist.

  At least he’d been able to use her death. Drain her life force to add to his reserve of magic. And that was where the injury was the deepest. Far worse than the loss of his rank, pride, and tattoos. Far worse than his inability to summon a horse, for even that he could deal with.

  Hail Storm clenched his jaw, taking up a handful of sand to scrub the pus from his wounds. The pain of his body was incredible, but not more so than what he suffered now. No. The very worst was the magic pulsing in the land, magic that he had once been able to reach out and touch. Drain. Use.

  Now the power fled before him, even as he reached, faster even than the horses that avoided his presence. All he had now were the reserves he’d created from the blood magic he’d practiced.

  He would have wept, but that his rage filled him with hate. For Wild Winds, for Keir of the Cat, and for any who supported them.

  The water had cooled his arm, but it still pulsed with pain. He grunted, tempted once again to try to use magic to heal it. But every time he tried to focus his will to such a thing, the power would slip from his grasp, as if it opposed the healing. He’d waste no more on another attempt.

  He pulled his arm out, and knelt down to drink deeply, feeling hot and dry. He’d managed to escape from the Heart without being seen, and he’d make sure to stay under cover. But he still had allies. Still had options. He’d wait for darkness, and find them.

  The stars would show him the way to the camp of Antas of the Boar.

  There he’d find welcome. Food, drink, rest, and aid for his vengeance.

  Chapter Eight

  “Warlord,” Yers said from beyond the tent flap.

  Simus came awake quickly, his eyes snapping open, reaching instinctively for his sword. Angry voices were just outside, but even as his fingers brushed the hilt, he recognized the normal sounds of the camp. Warriors moved about, meat sizzled over a fire, pots clattered, and the smell of kavage was in the air.

  He eased back within his blankets, the gurtle furs soft against his skin. The recent happenings tumbled through his head. This change—the deaths of the warrior-priests, and Wild Winds’s openness—could it be trusted?

  The tent above his head held no answer, nor, he suspected, would the open skies. It was something he’d have to keep careful watch on, his eyes open, his weapons ready.

  “Warlord,” the voice repeated.

  “Come,” he said.

  Yers pushed the flap aside. “Destal has taken Eloix’s place for the time being. “ He carried a mug of kavage in his free hand.

  Simus threw back the bedding, and sat naked, cross-legged on his pallet. He reached for the mug as Yers offered it to him. “What news?”

  Yers went to one knee beside his pallet and lowered his voice. “The hunting party left soon after you slept and attracted no attention. They have already returned with two good-sized bucks. They tell me that Eloix left them as soon as they were out of sight of the camp.”

  The kavage was strong and hot in Simus’s mouth. He welcomed the bitter taste, and the surge of energy it brought.

  “There was some commotion in the camp of the warrior-priests shortly after you bedded down. Wild Winds went down to the dead, then returned to his tent.” Yers looked over his shoulder at the tent flap. “And now the Warlord candidates have gathered outside, demanding to talk to you. Ultie, Osa, Nires, Reht, and Zioa are among them, along with others I do not know. I told them that if you did not have kavage first, you’d emerge from the tent with a bared blade.” Yers
flashed a grin. “They accepted it, but it is not in their nature to be patient.”

  “I take it they’ve talked to Wild Winds.” Simus rubbed his hand over his face and yawned.

  “They must have, as irritated as they all are,” Yers agreed. “And did not like what they heard.”

  “Simus,” Ultie bellowed from outside. “Drink your damn kavage out here.”

  Simus rolled his eyes, and handed the mug to Yers. He swept his armor and weapons into a great armful, and took the mug back. “Rouse Joden,” he ordered and strode out the tent.

  The Warlords were gathered just beyond his campfire. His warriors were clustered at the fire, cooking the evening meal. Their glances reflected their quiet amusement as he walked past them.

  Simus marched right up to the center of the Warlords dropped his gear at Ultie’s feet. Ultie scowled, but Simus just smiled.

  Osa snorted, her green eyes bright as she admired his form, standing in the middle of all of them, naked as a babe. He raised his mug to her, set it in the grass, and reached for his trous. “Ultie of the Needle-rat, how may I aid you?’

  “You can explain what has happened,” Ultie growled. “We return to find the Heart a battlefield, and—”

  Simus made a great show of flapping out his leather trous and then put them on, hopping around on first one leg and then the other. While Ultie sputtered out his demands, Simus took the time to consider the others.

  A few faces he didn’t know; new candidates for Warlord, he assumed. Far too few of those, and that wasn’t good. The Plains would suffer if the traditional number of armies didn’t form.

  Osa had her arms crossed over her ample breasts, clearly amused. Simus knew she’d talked to Keir about his goals and hadn’t expressed more than a general interest. He already knew better then to offer her the warmth of his bed. Osa’s preference was for women, and she held to her ways.

  Simus already knew Ultie would offer no support. But no real opposition either, at least until anyone attempted to stop Ultie from doing whatever Ultie wanted to do.

  Reht and Zioa were a different matter. Reht was a short woman: short of stature, short of hair, short of temper. The amber of her eyes matched the golden brown of her skin. Simus was not sure of her opinion as to Keir, but she was giving him an amused smile through her almond eyes.

  Zioa was taller and easily excitable, always talking with her hands, always pushing her thick black hair back behind her ears. She reminded Simus of an old, ivory-handled dagger he’d had long ago, with weathered handle and a sharp blade. Zioa’d been friendly in the past to both Keir and him, and she was grinning at him now. Simus decided to count her as friend to their cause.

  Nires of the Boar was off to one side, one of the most experienced Warlords. Blond of hair and beard with streaks of grey, his skin wrinkled and creased, but a warrior to be respected. The winds had it that Nires had lost track of the number of seasons he’d fought. He stood with one hand on his hip, the other on his sword hilt, but the stance was casual and interested. Simus caught his eye, and realized that the man was studying him even as he was being studied.

  But at his side stood two whose faces were openly hostile.

  Ietha, a tall, thin woman with a permanent scowl on her horse face. Her brown hair was pulled back in a horse-tail, which only emphasized her height. Her slanted eyes and sand-colored skin were lovely, but those dark eyes were unamused.

  Loual stood beside her. The man looked like the weathered stone of the walls of Xy, but Simus wasn’t about to tell him that. Loual wasn’t looking at him, his eyes hooded, focused on the ground. Simus knew well that he had spoken against Keir. He stood now with arms crossed, as if to reject any new idea that came his way.

  Last of all, Kiza, lovely Kiza was laughing at him, making no secret of her delight. Her of the pink skin like the morning sky, and reddish hair piled high on her head. The least likeliest of Warlords, but Simus knew her blade was dangerous, having sparred with her before. He flashed a grin at his old friend. She winked back.

  “—dead warrior-priests, needles of light in the sky,” Ultie said, not used to being ignored. “What say you?”

  Simus didn’t reply until he’d stomped his feet into his boots, belted his trous, and swept up his mug of kavage. “My thanks for your courtesy.” He gave Ultie a mocking nod.

  “Fool,” Ultie growled. “Explain this.” He swept his hand toward the Heart. “The dead strewn about, the camps torn asunder. This is no laughing matter.”

  Osa picked up Simus’s leather tunic and shook it out, offering it so he could slip it on. He gave her a nod as he offered his mug to Kiza, accepted Osa’s aid, then started on the buckles.

  “What happened?” Ultie demanded again. “The night was filled with strange lights and noises. We return to the Heart only to find a battlefield with no enemy that any can see.”

  “Didn’t Wild Winds and his people explain?” Simus asked, retrieving his kavage mug.

  “We would talk to him,” Osa said. “If he were here.”

  Simus stared at her, then turned.

  Wild Winds’s tent, and those of his followers, were gone.

  Simus blinked, unable to believe. The tent was gone, the area clear, with only the grass swaying in the wind. “He was here,” Simus said slowly, frowning. “He must have moved his camp.”

  “Nowhere that we can find,” Ietha grumbled.

  “What did he tell you?” Ultie demanded.

  Simus caught a glimpse of Joden and Yers returning, both of them looking just as surprised as he was. They must have heard what Osa said, since both seemed as confused as Simus felt. The whole camp gone? Simus’s frown deepened. Where had the old warrior-priest taken the young ones in training? And why? It made little sense.

  Under his confusion, he felt a pang at the idea that he’d seen the last of those cool, grey eyes.

  He let the regret go as he turned to Osa. “I’m happy to share what I was told,” Simus said. “Joden heard everything as well, and can speak to the truths that—”

  “I’ll not listen to that city-lover’s lies,” snarled one of the group.

  Joden roared, and charged to attack.

  The other warriors faded back and away as the one who’d offered insult fumbled with his sword. A critical mistake, given Joden’s speed and rage. Simus crossed his arms over his chest and settled in to watch.

  Warriors tended to listen to Joden’s calm voice and reasonable words, to hear his wisdom and songs, and think nothing of the sword at his side. But Joden, he of the broad smiling face and solid build, was a warrior first, even if his heart was full of song. Yes, warriors tended to forget that, until they saw him in battle.

  Certainly, this one had.

  The fumble with the hilt gave Joden enough time to close. Joden hadn’t bothered to draw a weapon. He came in fast, leading with his shoulder and slammed into his foe. The man went down, hard, sword still in its sheath. He lay there stunned, his breath gone.

  Joden backed off, pulling his sword, his eyes smoldering. “Draw your sword, bragnect, so that I might prove my truth on your ass.”

  Osa stood to one side, fairly close to Simus’s shoulder. “Who is that?” Simus asked under his breath.

  “One Wyrik,” Osa muttered. “Of the Boar. He was Second under Reht of the Horse last season.”

  Simus grunted as he watched Wyrik stagger to his feet and pull his sword. A big man, hardened from long years of combat. “The same Tribe as Antas then,” Simus said.

  “With much the same attitudes as Antas,” Osa observed. “But the Tribe of the Boar are not all of one mind. Witness Nires there.” Osa nodded toward the older fighter.

  Nires was frowning, glaring at Wyrik with disapproval.

  “Oh,” Osa said and winced, which drew Simus’s attention back to the fight. “Wyrik had better watch—”

  Joden whipped in fast, fended Wyrik’s blade with his own, and then punched him full in the face. With a satisfying ‘crunch’, blood began spurting from
Wyrik’s nose.

  “Ever have I spoken my truths,” Joden growled. “Even at the cost of friendship.” He danced back from the blood spray.

  Wyrik’s only answer was to spit, raise his blade and charge forward. A charge that Joden met head on, catching Wyrik’s sword with his own and forcing it up. For a breath they struggled, then broke apart.

  “You lied to Antas,” Wyrik snarled, his voice thick and wet. “You said the city-dweller was no Warprize, then turned and—”

  “But I saw my mistake.” Joden’s anger distorted his face. “A Warprize must be discovered during the course of a battle, or on or near a battlefield. As Lara was. A Warprize must render aid to the Warlord or his men. As Lara did.” Joden never took his eyes off his opponent, but he raised his voice for all to hear. “Finally, a Warprize must be attractive to a Warlord, must spark feelings of desire.”

  “As the heat of the sun that shines in the height of summer,” Simus announced. “And that is certainly true of Lara and Keir. Lara is a true Warprize to her Warlord.”

  “Aye,” Joden growled, circling Wyrik, looking for an opening. Wyrik watched him warily.

  “I may not support Lara and Keir in all things,” Joden said. “But I will ever speak my truth, even if it means I admit my mistakes. And I will prove it on your—”

  “Enough,” Nires’s deep voice rumbled over them. “This gets us no answers. Withdraw your words, Wyrik. Or we’ll leave the two of you to resolve your truths.” Nires’s voice went dry. “From what I have seen, I have a feeling that Joden will have the last say.”

  Chapter Nine

  Wyrik stood, breathing hard as the blood ran down his chin to drip on his chest. His eyes never left Joden’s.

  “I’m willing to leave it here.” Joden took a step back and sheathed his blade. “The day has been a long one, and I feel the need for kavage.”

  “Spoken as a Singer-to-be,” Simus called out. “What say you, Wyrik?”

  Wyrik swung his glare at Simus, then back to Joden. “I withdraw my words,” he spat, then stomped off, pushing through the crowd.