Warsong

by Elizabeth Vaughan

The creature moved then, enough that he could roll free, running away as soon as he was on his feet, to the cheers of the others.

  The monster took some time to die, but die it did.

  In the end, they all stood there, around the body, breathing hard, looking at one another with hope and relief and terror.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Quartis panted, bracing himself on his knees.

  “I don’t know,” Para gasped, trying to catch her breath. “We tried arrows, but nothing hurt it, so we took a chance to lure it back to you. We thought the four of us could kill it, but look.” She pointed north.

  Joden turned, squinting against the sun. In the far distance there was a disturbance in the air, as if hundreds of the beasts were flying, circling—

  “Is that the Heart?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “I think it is,” Thron said softly.

  “We should return—” Joden took a step forward.

  “No,” Quartis coughed and spat. “No, we have strict orders. Straight south for two days then wait.” His voice strengthened. “Here we stay, candidate.”

  “I thought that thing had me,” Para said. “I must see to my horse.”

  “I’ve bloodmoss,” Joden said, releasing the urge to get on his horse and go. “It might aid it.”

  “My thanks,” Para said, lifting a trembling hand to her forehead, smoothing back wisps of black hair that had escaped from her braid. “I thought for certain I was headed to the snows.”

  “Look at the size of that thing,” Thron marveled. “It has to be, what, three horses? Four?” He walked over to the head, trying to pull it to its side. “See its horns?”

  Joden could take the time now to wonder at its size, and the two curled horns that lay atop its head.

  “You should take one for yourself.” Thorn grinned at Joden. “Yours was the killing blow. Make a good sounding horn, I should think.”

  “Only if you take the other,” Joden said. “You brought it down.”

  Quartis had started to walk around. “Mind the tail,” he called. “Something drips from that stinger.”

  Thron nodded, probing the jaw with his dagger. “Look at the teeth,” he pried open the jaw. “Whatever it is, it eats meat, to be sure.” He looked up at Joden. “Let’s see what it tastes like, eh?”

  It tasted rank, as foul a meat as they’d ever had.

  “Almost like its already spoiled,” Para said, grimacing. They all stood around the fire, as the meat sizzled in a spit.

  “Might be the ichor in the stinger,” Joden said, sniffing at his piece.

  “Well, it was worth trying,” Quartis said.

  “But the skin will make a fine, tough leather.” Thron was pleased. “Think there is enough time to skin the beast before Essa arrives?”

  Quartis was looking north.

  “He is there, isn’t he?” Joden asked. “With the others.”

  Quartis glanced at him, then looked back to the north. “Yes, but we wait. We’ll set watch on the skies for another, if one comes this way. Skin the beast, see to Para’s horse—”

  “That bloodmoss worked,” Para said, with a nod of thanks to Joden. “I’d heard the Warprize had brought it to the Plains, but I’d not seen it in action.”

  “I’ve extra,” Joden said. “And I’m willing to share. You have to be careful though,” and explained to all of them the cautions that the Warprize had explained to every member of Keir’s army.

  They moved the camp then and dug fire pits around the corpse, setting watch to fend off scavengers during the night.

  In the morning they set about rendering the carcass, taking skin and bone and sinew. It was a messy, time consuming task, but they each took turns, watching the skies and the grasses for riders as the others toiled away.

  When they took a break for a quick nooning, Thron handed one of the curved horns to Joden. “You have to make your own, you know,” Thron offered. “Part of the trials. These will be something special. Not sure what kind of sound they will make.”

  “You boil it first, right?” Joden asked.

  Thron nodded, running his hands over the deep black horn. “To remove the cartilage. Takes most of a day. Once it softens you carefully pick the insides clean, dry it, and then measure its depth to carve out a blow hole. Once that’s done, you sand it and then polish it with oil. I like to use sweetfat for a deer or ehat horn, but this might need—”

  “Riders,” Para called.

  Five riders, coming fast from the north.

  “Is that Essa?” Joden asked quietly.

  Quartis shaded his eyes, his beads rattling as he nodded.

  Essa was riding hunched over, as if injured, his face a mottle of black and blue bruising on the one side. He pulled his horse to a stop, and he and his escort walked their horses forward. Essa glared at the carcass through swollen eyes. “You killed one?” he asked, clearly surprised.

  Quartis walked forward. “We did, Eldest Elder, but it took all four of us. Joden had the honor of the killing blow. You know of these things?”

  “Wyvern, the Xyians name them,” Essa said. “Something out of legend, or so that healer claimed. They attacked the Heart, destroyed the Council tent, and killed many.”

  Gasps surrounded him, but Joden spoke, “And Simus?”

  “Survives.” Essa seemed less than pleased. “And is named Warlord, to stifle your further questions.” He looked at Quartis. “Have you tested him?”

  “Yes,” Quartis said. “He is qualified in the teaching chants, and in his fighting abilities.”

  “And collecting dung,” Joden added dryly.

  “Good,” Essa ignored him. “We must leave. Now.”

  “But the carcass,” Para gestured toward the hulk, really only half done.

  “I will give you an hour to gather what you wish, after that we ride,” Essa said. “We will aid you. The more we know about the monsters, the better off we are. Beware the sting in its tail. The poison is dangerous.”

  His escort dismounted, and made offers to help as Para and Thron shared out kavage and gurt. Essa dismounted as well, and Joden confronted him. “Why do we ride? What is so urgent?”

  “There are those that wait for us,” Essa said sharply. “More to the point, they wait for you, Joden of the Hawk.”

  Chapter Two

  Amyu ran up the stairs of the highest tower of the Castle of Water’s Fall and burst through the trapdoor at the top into sunlight and clean clear air. She strode to the low wall that surrounded the top of the tower, and with a puff of breath, tried to send her frustrations out into the wind.

  The City of Water’s Fall, the largest in Xy, stretched out below her. Beyond that the fields and forests went on and on in the valley sprawled below. Some of her fellow Plains warriors swore that they could see the Plains themselves from here, but the Warprize denied the truth of that.

  The wind seized her brown hair, whipping it around her head. Amyu caught the long strands in her hands, and bound them up in a quick knot.

  “What’s got you so het up?” came a familiar voice.

  Amyu looked over to find the old Xyian guard named Enright sitting in his usual position, on a bench facing the low wall, working on repairing a bit of armor. His crossbow sat beside him, cocked and ready, and an alarm bell sat on his other side.

  “Runnin’ up those steps in full armor,” Enright snorted. “This some test of the Firelanders?”

  She’d found him here when she’d first sought out the highest point of the castle. He was a white haired older man, with pale skin and big, bushy eyebrows. He’d been placed on watch duty after the initial wyvern attack during Atira and Heath’s bonding ceremony. Watchers had been placed all around the castle and the city walls, keeping an eye on the skies for the return of the monsters.

  Enright had welcomed her with a nod, and hadn’t said much that first day. “I knew how your people feel about the crippled and maimed,” he’d explained later. “Didn’t think it was proper to sta
rt talking.”

  He’d been right. She’d been shocked to the core to see his leg of wood, strapped on tight over his trous. On the Plains, such a warrior would have gone to the snows without a thought. But he… at first, it had left her speechless.

  And when she’d found the words to say that to him, he’d fixed her with a glare. “What, you think my worth was in my toes?”

  She’d learned then that Heath, the new Seneschal of the Castle of Water’s Fall, had made use of older, experienced warriors for guard duty against the monsters that had attacked the castle. Even those wounded in battle. “Nothing wrong with their eyes, ears, or wits,” Heath had explained to the Warlord and Warprize, refusing to remove the guards even after the monsters disappeared from the skies.

  Still, it had taken Amyu, and all the other Plains warriors, awhile to get used to the idea. It still bothered her as she settled on the bench next to the Xyian warrior. Those of the Plains went to the snows when they were hurt past healing. When they were no longer of use to the Tribe.

  Or like her, when they failed to reach adulthood.

  “The stairs are no effort,” she said as she settled on the bench. “It’s leather armor, not like the metal you wear.” She took a minute to adjust her sword and dagger.

  “Well, come on,” Enright said. “Tell us your worries, then,”

  Amyu opened her mouth then stopped. “Us?” she asked.

  Enright gestured behind him.

  Amyu turned on the bench to look back.

  The tower was built into the mountain, and its top was a half-circle, with the low wall running all around. Large baskets stood at intervals along the walls, with bees hovering around them. And over all, the mountain towered above, its craggy walls stark and unforgiving.

  Beyond the trapdoor, Prest of the Wolf stood, pressed against the stone, in almost the exact middle of the half-circle, his normally brown skin was sickly pale, with sweat beading on his forehead.

  “Prest?” Amyu asked.

  “Amyu,” Prest said, his eyes firmly on the stone beneath his feet.

  Amyu exchanged a glance with Enright, who simply shrugged.

  “Prest, what’s wrong?” Amyu stood, and approached the big warrior. Prest was a big man, one of the Warprize’s personal guards. A handsome one at that, with his dark skin, bright smile and short black hair. She’d heard that he’d had long braids until he’d been soaked in ehat musk during a hunt with the Warlord Keir.

  “Fear,” Prest said, not looking up.

  Amyu paused, puzzled, then worked it out. “You’re afraid? Of this?” she gestured with a wide sweep of her arm.

  “He thinks he can overcome his fear of heights,” Enright spoke up.

  Prest closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Fear holds you still when you need to move, and moves you when you need to be still.”

  “Fear makes you silent when you need to be loud, and loud when you need silence.” Amyu recited the next part of the teaching chant. “Fear closes your throat, makes it hard to breathe. Fear weakens your hand and blinds your eyes.”

  Prest opened his eyes, glaring out at the vista as he finished the chant. “Fear is a danger. Know your fear. Face your fear.”

  “It’s a fear,” Enright called over. “It’s not like fighting, something you can train yourself to. Stand there for days, it ain’t gonna help.”

  “Yes, I can,” Prest said through gritted teeth. “All it takes is practice.”

  “Which you have been at for days,” Enright snorted, and patted the bench. “Come, lass, leave him to it and tell me what makes you stomp up all those stairs. We could hear you a mile off.”

  Leaving Prest to it, Amyu straddled the bench, taking care to adjust her own weapons as she sat. “It’s just that the Warlord and the Warprize… I mean…” Amyu stuttered to a stop.”

  “I knew the lass when she was a young girl, defying her father to become a healer.” Enright didn’t even look up from his work. “She is a true Daughter of the Blood and a damn good Queen, but that don’t mean she is perfect. Go ahead.”

  Amyu crossed her arms over her chest. “They won’t listen,” she burst out. “The Warlord is fixated on those weapons called ballista and I know, I know,” she added for emphasis. “Airions are out there, they have to be. If wyverns exist, why not airions?”

  “Airions?” Prest’s voice wobbled, but his interest was clear.

  “Horse-eagles,” Enright said. “You’ve seen them on the tapestries hanging in the castle.”

  “Winged horses?” There was a distinct quaver to Prest’s voice.

  “Winged horses,” Amyu confirmed. “With fierce beaks and sharp claws.” She pressed her lips together in frustration, and couldn’t sit still another moment. She jumped off the bench to pace. “There are pictures in the oldest scrolls the Archbishop has that show airions and wyverns fighting in mid-air. And there are warriors mounted on those Airions.”

  Prest had a pained expression. “Could you sit back down?”

  Amyu gave him an exasperated look, but settled back onto the bench. “No one will talk to me, including that old lady cheesemaker, who’s told stories of them in the past.” She looked out over the distance, and sighed. “How can Xyians forget when they write down their words? We of the Plains do not forget.”

  “How do you know that?” Prest asked.

  “Eh?” Amyu looked at him, shocked. “We of the Plains remember.”

  “But if we didn’t, how would we know we forgot?” Prest pointed out.

  Enright snorted. “Don’t know nothing about that, but I can tell you that things get forgotten. You’re speaking of ancient days,” he said. “Folks got enough on their hands with the day to day, much less thinking on the past.”

  “There are airions,” Amyu said. “There have to be.”

  “If there were,” Enright looked at her with his bushy eyebrows raised. “Why didn’t they appear with the wyverns?”

  “I don’t know,” Amyu said. She looked at the sheer wall of the mountain towering above them. “And there’s no way to go up to find them.”

  “Eh?” Enright snorted. “Well, not up there, lass. The mountain above us and to the city walls is sheer and treacherous to keep any from trying to attack from above. But the mountains beyond the walls to either side are covered with goat tracks and filled with caves.”

  “They are?” Amyu stood and went to the low wall to look further out.

  “Aye, for any fool-hardy enough to climb them,” Enright said. “Those trails are wild and narrow. One foot wrong and you could find your death fast enough.”

  “Why would any seek those paths?” Amyu asked.

  “Mountain goats,” Enright said. “Their pelts are prized. There’s also a mountain rabbit that lives up there with fur as soft as anything. They’re a bugger to catch, though.”

  “And caves?” Amyu said.

  “Aye, but there you have to have a care as well. Bears and collapsing rocks and ice can be a problem,” Enright gave her a wide grin. “I used to climb on the rocks with my friends when I was a lad. We’d—”

  Horns blew in the distance.

  Enright levered himself up from the bench as Amyu stood, and they both went to the wall to look out.

  “Wyverns?” Prest called.

  “Nah,” Enright said. “Messenger, by the look.”

  Amyu shaded her eyes. “With guards, it looks like. Maybe from the border.”

  “Word from Liam or Simus then,” Prest said. “About time. The Warlord is out of his mind with worry.” He dropped to his knees, and started crawling toward the trap door. “Best we get back to our duties.”

  Amyu gave Enright a shrug, and stepped forward to open the door as Prest slithered over.

  “That’s an improvement, that is,” Enright said. “Last time he was on his belly.”

  Prest muttered under his breath as he crawled head first through the opening.

  Amyu followed behind, shutting the door as she moved down the steps. Prest
sat at the bottom, breathing hard, color returning to his skin. “You did not feel the tower move under your feet?” he asked. “As if it shifted in the wind?”

  “No,” Amyu said.

  “Do not mock me,” he growled.

  “I would not, warrior.” Amyu said, moving a few more steps down. “We should find the Warlord.”

  “Yes,” Prest stood and took the lead, heading down quickly.

  Amyu saved her smile for his back.

  “Simus has betrayed you, Warlord,” Yers said.

  Amyu watched him from behind the Warprize’s throne. Yers’s hands were shaking, his eyes not really focused as he held the Warlord’s token.

  “Give me your truths, Warrior,” The Warlord’s voice was a deep rumble.

  “It started out so well,” Yers spoke of a confrontation with a warrior-priest, of Simus’s reaction and Joden’s intervention. “That night, the pillar of light… did Eloix tell you of it?” Yers asked.

  Amyu sucked in a breath. Yers didn’t know, couldn’t know, that Eloix died bringing her message to Keir.

  The Warprize glanced at the Warlord, but the Warlord nodded. “She brought us word,” he said firmly.

  Yers nodded. “I started to worry when Snowfall appeared. She’s a warrior-priestess, who had been Wild Winds’s apprentice.” Yers shook his head, and rubbed his nose. “Simus took her oath, and allowed her to contest for Token-Bearer.”

  Keir took a breath. “A warrior-priestess?”

  “Yes,” Yers said. “Well, she only had partial tattoos. But still… Simus allowed it. I couldn’t understand it. He seemed to come under her influence more and more.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Then Joden disappeared.”

  Both the Warprize and Warlord jerked in their seats. Keir leaned forward. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

  “Simus said that the Eldest Elder Singer had demanded that Joden go with him to enter the Trials of a Singer,” Yers said. “I couldn’t find any who had seen him depart, and it felt wrong. Without farewells? Without good wishes?” Yers shook his head, then winced and put a hand to his head.

  “You’re hurt,” Lara said.