And in the blade of his opponent.
Simus held his sword and dagger before him defensively, drew a breath and considered the man. One Pero of the Badger, who had served as a Tenth with Keir in the past and knew Simus well. An older, seasoned warrior of many campaigns. Grey of hair and dark of skin, Pero was a short and wiry warrior, with strength behind his blows.
Pero had started the fight with cautious intent, probing Simus for weaknesses. No reckless moves from this one. Nor was he quick about it. They’d been at this for some time. Careful, steady, relentless: that was the challenge this Tenth gave Simus. Testing him, that was certain.
The change of tone was also in the faces of the other Tenths who stood around them, silently watching their combat. Simus felt the weight of their judgment as a knot between his shoulder blades.
Simus rolled his shoulders to release that knot as he waited for Pero to make his next move. He’d need to conserve his energies. As tempting as it was to attack, better to—
Pero’s teeth flashed in a grin, as if he’d read Simus’s mind, and rushed in low and fast.
Simus’s sword rang as he blocked Pero’s weapon, and then shifted to try to bring his dagger to bear. Pero was ready for that, and blocked with his shorter blade. Pero stepped back, and to Simus’s surprise, darted a glance off to the side. As if looking for a signal? Approval?
It didn’t matter. Simus took his opportunity and struck hard with his sword. Pero blocked that, but seemingly stumbled and almost seemed to turn into Simus’s dagger, letting the blade cut his cheek.
They broke apart, breathing hard, as the Singer called out Simus’s victory.
Simus stood silent as Pero sheathed his sword with a shrug, and then offered his dagger, hilt toward Simus, the point at his heart. “I offer my surrender, Warlord.”
Simus gave him a long look as he sheathed his own weapons, then grasped the hilt. “I accept your surrender,” he said as he took the dagger. “Well fought, Pero of the Badger.”
“I’d offer my sword as well,” Pero added. “And to serve you as Tenth, if you’ll have me.”
“Willingly,” Simus said. He could see Yers, his Second, off to the side, grinning like a crazed ehat.
“A mistake, Pero,” a voice called from the crowd. “Where’s the gain to be made in an army that does not raid?’
The crowd shifted, and Wyrik stepped forward, a sneer on his face.
“I’ve made my decision, Wyrik,” Pero said mildly. “My Warlord will see to his people’s needs, and the needs of the Plains.”
“Pero’s word is good enough for me.” Another warrior stepped forward. More warriors nodded around him. “I’d offer my blade as well.”
“Fools.” Wyrik was contemptuous, bordering on offending. “How will he provide for you, and for the Tribes? How will he supply the thea camps and see to his warrior’s needs? What of weapons? Armor? Supplies?”
“I will provide,” Simus rumbled, facing the warrior. “There will be no lack for those who serve me.”
“So you say,” Wyrik scowled. “But—”
“So I say,” a new voice called, high and joyful. They all raised their heads to an incoming rider. Simus almost laughed out loud when he recognized her.
“So I say,” the rider repeated as she pulled her horse to a halt. “And I should know, for I have escorted the supplies these last few months and came on ahead to find you. Hail, Warlord Simus.”
“Hail, Methla of the Deer,” Simus laughed, even as he noticed Wyrik fading back into the crowd. “How stood Xy when you left it?”
“Your news would be newer then mine, since we left Xy months ago.” Methla dismounted. “Elois came just as we were planning to leave the border. I did not speak with her, but the Warlord Liam gave me her words.” She dropped her voice, aware of the watchers around them. “Hard to learn of Lord Othur’s death when he was the one that sent his greetings and well wishes with us, and all weapons and supplies you’d asked for, including some of those Xyian crossbows.”
Since Elois had shared her news in senel the day before, all of Simus’s people knew of Othur’s death. Simus clapped a hand on Methla’s shoulder. “Let me take the oaths of these warriors,” Simus said. “Send word back to the caravan of our location. Then we will talk.”
Methla stood on no ceremony once they were in Simus’s tent, but threw her thin, lanky body down on a gurtle pad with a grateful sigh. “Oh it’s good to be back on the Plains.” She glanced at Simus. “I feared that I would have to be the one to tell you of Lord Othur’s death.”
Simus grimaced as he settled down beside her. “A loss to us all, but especially to Lara.”
Methla’s face brightened. “Good to know she had her babes, and twins at that. The elements blessed her.” Methla flashed a grin. “I wonder if she’ll get the traditional birthing tattoos?” she chuckled, gesturing towards her own left arm.
Simus shared her chuckle as Destal served them kavage.
“How goes the formation of your army?” Methla asked.
Yers folded up his long legs to sit on a gurtle pad next to her. “It goes well. With the Tenths that swore oaths this afternoon, I am certain the numbers will increase.”
“It’s late in the season for Tenths to be making their choices,” Methla lifted an eyebrow. “But I am glad to hear things go well.” She paused. “Othur gathered everything he thought might aid you and piled it into wagons. Weapons, leather work, supplies, blankets, pots and pans, and such food stuffs as he thought made sense. I fear it slowed us, but there weren’t enough horses in Xy to carry it all in packs.”
Methla scowled. “Once we reached the border I tried to shift it all to horses, but that
damn fool insisted on bringing his wagon.” She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration.
Simus questioned Yers with a glance, but his Second shrugged. Who was she talking about?
“I tried to explain that the Plains lack roads and something called a ‘wheelwright’,” Methla continued. “That our horses are not trained to pull wagons, and that oxen are damned slow. Now the damn thing’s only fit for firewood as far as I can tell, but he slept in it every night.” She drew in a breath. “Simus, I honor you as Warlord, and I offer honor to Warlord Keir and the Warprize, but if ever I was tempted to kill a Xyian it would be this one. He—”
“Wait.” Simus frowned. “Othur sent a Xyian with you?”
Methla looked at him in surprise. “I thought you knew,” she said. “Othur said you would need someone with his skills. He’s a healer.”
“Like Lara?” Simus asked.
“Oh, no.” Methla rolled her eyes. “He’s a skilled healer, but he’s no Warprize.”
The tent flap rustled, and Destal stuck her head in. “Warlord, the caravan arrives.”
“Send them into the camp,” Simus ordered as he rose to his feet. “We’ll meet them there.”
The main camp was soon awash in milling horses and warriors as the supplies were unloaded, the packs carried into tents set aside for storage. Sal, as supply master, took charge of the chaos, standing back to watch with a growing sense of satisfaction as they unloaded new swords, blankets, pots and pans. Simus was especially pleased to see the weapons, and Othur had included the obsidian and shafts for the making of new lances.
And under every pack, each horse had a new saddle, ready to be given to his warriors. More bounty than from a minor raid, and all in good condition.
Sal came to stand next to him as the laden horses continued to stream into camp. “Othur did well by us,” she said.
“He did,” Simus confirmed. He grinned as he watched Pero and Misa admiring the supplies and the new saddles. His new Tenths, sworn to his service. And word would spread to other warriors that Simus of the Hawk provided for his warriors. His grin threatened to split his face.
Sal coughed, bringing him back.
“See to the distribution in the morning, once you have an idea of what we have here,” Simus said, trying to look se
rious. “Meet the greatest needs first.”
Sal wasn’t fooled, and her smile was just as blinding. “I will, Warlord. But I’ll also set some aside for the others that will swear soon.”
The creak of a wagon wheel warned Simus, and he looked to see one lurching toward him, pulled by two Xyian oxen that looked weary and worn. The man in the wagon looked just as tired, although nothing could disguise that he was a city-dweller. Fat, balding, dressed in Xyian trous and robes in a muted blue, with no weapon in sight. Simus judged him to be at middle-age for a city-dweller. As he walked over, he changed his mind. Not fat, really, just soft around the middle. Pale of skin, like all city-dwellers, and sweating in the afternoon sun. Simus gave the man a smile as he approached. “Greetings,” he said.
Only to receive a blank look in response.
Methla appeared on the other side of the wagon, and gave Simus a look and a shrug. “Warlord Simus,” she said in Xyian. “This is Healer Hanstau of Water’s Fall.”
“Finally,” Hanstau said with a sigh.
“Greetings—” Simus began again, but blinked when Hanstau cut him off.
“I’ve healing supplies that need to be unloaded.” The wagon creaked and groaned as the man struggled to climb down from the wagon seat. “If you will direct me to where I can set up camp and stake my oxen, I’d be much obliged. Some place with an adequate water supply, if you please.”
“You do not speak our tongue?” Simus asked. “Why did Othur send you?”
“Lord Othur.” Hanstau made the correction clear. “Lord Othur called for healers; none answered,” he said grimly. “To run off to the wilds of the Firelands? Anyone would be mad to do so.”
“So, why are you here?” Simus asked.
“Because I was the only one willing to come,” Hanstau pulled out a large white square of cloth and mopped his brow. “Lord Othur and Master Healer Eln made offers such as I could not refuse.” He tucked the cloth away again, and straightened up, staring Simus in the eye. “In exchange for my service for one year, they promised to aid my eldest in setting up his own smithy, as well as a fine apprenticeship for my youngest son as a scribe. My daughters were given positions in the Castle, to serve the Queen and Lady Anna. My late wife would have been pleased and honored to see our children so placed. I considered it my duty.”
Simus glanced at Methla, who refused to meet his gaze. “Well, you have my thanks for your adherence to duty,” Simus said dryly. “I shall have someone escort you, and aid in setting up your camp. Be welcome to the Plains, Hanstau of Xy.”
Simus walked off, and Methla fell into step beside him. “He’s not really that bad, once you get past the pompous stubbornness,” Methla said quite cheerfully. “He knows a few words, like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘where is the privy?’”
“My joy knows no bounds,” Simus said and caught Yers’s eye. “Our healer has arrived, and speaks nothing but the Xyian tongue. Have Cadr assigned to him. He’ll need aid setting up his camp, and have someone see to his oxen.”
Yers nodded. “Cadr is a good choice. The lad speaks Xyian and has an interest in healing. He can learn from him.”
“Well, also put guards on the man. I fear he’ll not adapt to our ways as quickly as the Warprize, and I want someone watching over him at all times. The elements alone know how much trouble he’ll get into.”
“I’ll see it done,” Yers promised. He smiled. “Best you return to your tent. When word of these supplies spreads, I think more will ask to serve. You’d best be ready to take their oaths.”
“I will,” Simus said, and grinned.
There were few challenges that afternoon, but many warriors with questions, and no few offering their swords. Simus took pleasure in the moment as his ranks filled. Tenths appeared as well, which would ease Yers’s concerns. Destal kept up a steady stream of kavage for all comers.
When the time came to lower his banner, Simus emerged from his tent with a feeling of quiet contentment, only to find a challenger waiting. Destal had followed him out, and made a soft sound of surprise.
This one had waited until late in the day and hadn’t made her presence known. No doubt she’d thought Simus worn and tired. A younger woman, holding her shield in front of her body as if to ward off complaints.
Simus sighed as if with regret and glanced at the sun not yet touching the horizon. He sighed again, looking up at the challenge banner, still flapping in the breeze over his head.
“I am Sesson of the Hare,” the warrior announced, her voice only quavering a little, and not with amusement. “I offer challenge, Simus of the Hawk.”
“I accept.” Simus heaved another long sigh of resignation and stepped within the circle. He was careful not to glance at his Token-bearer or Second, for fear they’d dissolve into the laughter they were struggling with.
A Singer was there as well, rather conveniently.
And the hairs on the back of Simus’s neck rose in warning.
The woman warrior stepped into the circle...and pulled a mace from behind her shield.
Chapter Seventeen
Destal sucked in a breath, but Simus knew it was already too late. He was within the circle and a Singer was at hand. And if the eyes of the fearful warrior now glittered with hate, well, Simus had no one to blame but himself.
She’d made her intent clear enough. Simus gave her no quarter. He crossed the circle at a run, ramming into her shield with the shoulder of his sword arm.
She stumbled back, not expecting his rush. It put her off balance, but she managed to keep her shield up, and swing with her mace. Simus grunted but took the hit in order to strike upward with his dagger.
She failed to block him. He thrust the blade deep into her throat, hitting gristle and bone.
The glitter in her eyes vanished. She collapsed to the ground.
Simus stood over her body, breathing hard. For a moment, no one moved.
The Singer cleared his throat. “Done,” he said, “with Simus the Hawk the winner.”
‘The survivor,’ Simus thought grimly as he sheathed his sword. He leaned down, feeling the burning of rising bruises along his ribs and grabbed the dead woman’s mace. Blood still dripped from his dagger onto the ground.
Two warriors approached and both went to one knee before him. “Warlord,” one said. “We were of her camp, and would see to her.”
Simus gave them a nod, and they stepped forward to pick up the body. The onlookers moved away, talking quietly among themselves.
Simus added the mace to his weapons rack, making sure it was easily seen. He grabbed up a cloth and started to clean his dagger. Joden appeared from around the tent and stood silent at his aide.
“A change in tone, indeed,” Simus growled under his breath, angry at himself for not taking the challenge seriously, and for letting her past his guard. His ribs would ache for some time to come. He turned away from the rack to watch the departing warriors with the body between them.
“What was behind that, I wonder?” Joden murmured, as he watched as well. “Did she decide on her own to make a death challenge, or was she sent?”
“Can you find out?” Simus asked.
Destal stood close. “Let me send someone else instead. Joden is a bit too...obvious. But this is hardly a surprise. Warlord, you are going to be a target for—”
“I, PIVE OF THE SNAKE, CHALLENGE FOR WARLORD,” a voice boomed from behind them, and something hard smacked into Simus’s calf.
Simus reacted swiftly and instinctively, jumping forward to gain space from his attacker, then spinning to face him as he drew his sword and dagger. Joden and Destal each jumped to the side, their own weapons out and facing the threat.
Simus’s heart leapt in his throat as his blades came to bear on his attacker—
—a small girl-child, who barely came up to his waist, wielding a wooden sword and dagger, holding them in the position for another assault.
Simus stared.
The child was frozen, her wide eyes taking in his
blade hovering inches from her head. “I—” her voice cracked high in fear.
“Pive,” came an older, calm voice. “Hold.”
Simus knew that voice. He rolled his eyes in its direction, as did the girl-child.
Haya of the Snake stood there, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Dea-mine,” Simus blurted out in astonishment.
Haya raised an eyebrow at him. Simus flushed with embarrassment, but Haya paid him no mind. She focused instead on the girl. “Pive, you have erred. You have attacked an adult warrior, one fresh from a challenge. You struck with no warning and no ritual, and he would be within his rights to kill you.”
Pive swallowed hard, her face screwed up with anger and fear. Simus could see tears starting to well up in her eyes.
“What say you, Pive?” Haya demanded.
The child lowered her weapons, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Her mouth was trembling as she offered her wooden dagger to Simus, placing the blunted point at her heart. “I offer my sur-surrender, Warlord.”
Simus sheathed his weapons, and took her dagger, careful not to smile at this smallest of warriors. “I accept your surrender.”
“Pive...” Haya chided her.
Pive sighed, and gave over her sword to Simus as well.
“Go back and join the others,” Haya said and the girl was off in a flash.
There was an awkward moment as the adults recovered themselves under Haya’s gaze.
“Greetings, Elder Thea Haya,” Simus recovered first. He offered the wooden weapons to Haya, but she shook her head, and gestured toward the rack.
“Impetuous, that one,” Haya said. “She needs to learn consequences.”
Simus snorted softly, but racked the weapons accordingly.
“So, you are not yet a Warlord, I see,” Haya observed. She cast her eye over Joden. “And you, not yet Singer?”
“I—” Joden stumbled. “It is good to see you, Thea. You look well,” he finished lamely.
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