Warsong

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “It’s nothing,” Yers said.

  “Did Simus become Warlord?” Keir’s impatience was controlled, but it was clear.

  “I do not know for certain,” Yers said. “On the last day of the Trials, at the last hour, I rescinded my oath and challenged Simus. And lost.”

  Every Plains warrior in the room went still. Amyu saw Heath give his bonded Atira a glance, but she gave him a quick shake of her head.

  “I feared that Simus had been corrupted. Influenced.” Yers said flatly. “I feared… I still fear that he will take those warriors loyal to you and turn on you under the influence of that warrior-priestess.”

  “You lost?” Keir said.

  “Yes,” Yers swayed slightly. “A head blow.”

  “Simus pulled it,” Keir said and there was no question in his voice.

  “I do not know.” Now Yers looked away. “As soon as I could stand, I took to horse to bring you word.”

  “So, we do not know,” Keir said. “We do not know if Simus is Warlord. If Joden lives. If this Snowfall is Simus’s token-bearer.”

  “No,” Yers said. “I left, and I rode… things get confused after that.” He frowned, blinking at both the Warlord and the Warprize. “I remember riding, and black birds flying over,” he said slowly. “Big, black birds…”

  The Warprize stood and walked forward. “Yers, come. You’re exhausted. Let’s have Heath take you to the kitchens and get you kavage and food, and I will send for Master Eln.”

  “But the Warlord needs—”

  “Obey the Warprize,” Keir told him. “Not that she will give you any alternative.”

  Lara threw him a smile, then reached out and lifted Yers’s chin. “You may think you have recovered, but your eyes are still not quite right.” She took him by the arm and headed toward the main doors, Heath following behind. “Are you seeing double by any chance?”

  Their voices faded off as they left the room together.

  Marcus appeared from the shadows behind the Warlord’s throne. “Yers is a good warrior. His truths have always been strong.”

  “He is angry,” Atira pointed out. “And rage blinds one to truths.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the doors. “To rescind on the last day? Challenge at the last hour?”

  The doors opened, and Lara came back inside, a worried look on her face. Keir rose as she advanced.

  “He clearly took a bad head blow,” Lara said. “It’s a wonder he could ride at all.”

  “He is of the Plains,” Marcus snorted. “He could ride dead.”

  “I do not know what to think,” Keir said. “Or what to believe. Simus loathes the warrior-priests as much as I do, but—”

  “Keir,” Lara put a hand to his chest. “I was once told by someone I trusted that I was to be a slave to a vicious Warlord.” She looked up into her Warlord’s eyes. “Wait for Simus. Hear his truth.”

  “The plan was that Simus would become Warlord. Guard Xy’s border with Liam’s help so that I could return next season to try to become WarKing.” Keir covered Lara’s hand with his own. “If only we knew what was really happening.”

  “If Joden was here, you know what he would say,” Lara said.

  “If you wish to hear the winds laugh, tell them your plans.” Marcus snorted.

  “True enough,” Keir said. “I will wait for word. In the meantime, we need to keep working on those potential weapons to use against the wyverns when they return. I’ll not leave Water’s Fall helpless before them.”

  Amyu followed behind as they all swept from the room, intent on their tasks. The Warprize was trained as a healer, and she cared deeply for the lives of her people. It was what made her a great Queen and Warprize, for she considered the people of the Plains her people as well.

  But Amyu was a warrior of the Plains, and whatever else she might be, child or adult, she could make her own decisions and give her life to the Tribe—both of her tribes—on her terms.

  She followed behind, silent and determined.

  She was going to find the airions.

  She was going to fly.

  Chapter Three

  Blue sky above. Crows calling in the distance. Flies buzzing nearby. Grass tickling his nose.

  Pain.

  Splayed out on his back, Cadr blinked through crusty eyes. His throat hurt, hurt bad. He gritted his teeth and managed to drag a hand over to find his neck covered in dried blood and grass. He pulled his hand back and blinked at the pale-yellow leaves of bloodmoss in his hand.

  He let them fall from his fingers, and tried to roll over, to shade his eyes from the sun. His head throbbed.

  He took a deep breath, and coughed.

  Then he couldn’t stop coughing, deep, hard hacks, bringing up blood and spit. His vision greyed, then went black as the agony washed over him.

  When he came back, he was lying in his own filth, face down in the grass. His ribs ached. Someone was nearby, trying to rouse him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t really hear, but he felt like it was someone he could trust.

  “Did I oversleep?” he asked, groggy and confused. But the words didn’t come, only rough, guttural noises.

  There was no tent, no bedroll… just the grass and the sun and the stink of clotted blood.

  He risked a shallow breath. And then a deeper one. His lungs hurt, his throat hurt, but he could breathe. He rolled over and then paused, breathing through the hurt. He let the pain wash over him.

  Someone moved in the distance, near the horses.

  He curled in, forced himself to sit, wrapped his arms around his chest and tried to focus.

  He was wearing leathers… no weapons, his belt gone, knives gone, boots gone. He frowned as he stared at his feet, toes pale against the green grasses. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He’d been riding. He saw a sword come at his throat, and then-

  His head jerked up, eyes open, muscles screaming in protest. He’d been escorting the Xyian healer Hanstau with Wild Winds, to join the other warrior-priests in hiding with Lightning Strike, one of Wild Winds’s apprentices. They’d been attacked—

  He staggered to his feet, breathing through the aches and pains, looking around for—

  Bodies.

  He staggered over to Wild Winds, and dropped to his knees next to the man, struggling to roll him over. But the cold tattooed flesh under his fingers told him the truth before he saw the wounds.

  Wild Winds was dead.

  Cadr forced himself to his feet. He stumbled around, searching. There’d been others with them, two warriors…

  Their bodies were close by, also stripped of weapons and what could be taken fast.

  Of Hanstau, there was no sign. Antas and his warriors must have taken him with them, dead or alive.

  Alive, Cadr hoped.

  He returned to Wild Wind’s body and collapsed, uncertain what to do next. His energy was waning, and exhaustion was close. He’d no idea where or…

  Someone was standing next to him, oddly colorless boots, blades of grass sticking through them.

  He stared at them, then scraped at his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

  There was a horse close, nosing him with stiff whiskers and warm breath against his cheek.

  Cadr blinked, looked up. “Gils?” he croaked.

  His tall, thin, colorless friend stood there, his curls dancing in a breeze that Cadr couldn’t feel. His usual bright grin was gone, only worry in his eyes. Gils reached out and put a hand on the horse’s shoulder.

  The horse snuffled, and slowly went to its knees, easing down next to Cadr, a clear invitation to mount.

  Except Gils was dead, wasn’t he? Of the sickness that had killed so many… Cadr shook his head, hurting and confused. Gils was dead. He blinked up at his friend, his dead friend, washed of color, cold and—

  Gils raised his eyebrows. It was such a familiar gesture that it made Cadr’s heart hurt worse than his throat.

  One truth was clear through his anguish. His friend had never let him down
in life. The snows wouldn’t change that.

  Cadr staggered to his feet, but Gils was pointing, jabbing his finger.

  Pointing at Wild Winds’s body.

  With the last of his strength Cadr dragged the body over, and draped it on the horse’s shoulders. The animal lurched to its feet as Cadr kept the body balanced.

  Cadr stood there, breathing hard. Then he put his head against the horse’s neck. “I don’t think I can mount,” he admitted, the shame almost overshadowing the pain.

  Gils walked backward a ways, gesturing.

  The horse took a step.

  Cadr went with it, leaning on the animal, gripping its mane, balancing Wild Winds’s body. Half-blind, hurting, every step brought new anguish. He didn’t look to see where they were going, just concentrated on taking one more step.

  The horse stopped.

  Cadr turned his head to see a place where a rise had been partially dug out. An animal, maybe, starting a den.

  Gils was there, and the horse stepped forward, sidling close to the rise. Cadr released his grip, and half fell, half climbed the bit of rise, then mounted the horse. The horse shifted under him as Cadr shifted the body so it was balanced over his knees. He leaned forward and buried his hands in the horse’s mane.

  “Where?” he croaked.

  Gils started walking.

  The horse followed.

  Cadr nodded. So be it. He wasn’t even curious. All he had to do was stay on the horse. He was a warrior of the Plains. He would stay on.

  Stay on. All he had to do was stay on.

  Stay on.

  Stay on…

  The flap of the tent was pulled back and Hanstau was hustled inside.

  He was blinded by the darkness, compared to the sun outside. But he caught the stench of sickness as rough hands on his shoulders forced him down. With his hands tied behind his back, he had no real balance. Hanstau let his legs fold, but then fell to the side to lessen the pain.

  His captor, the big blond warrior, had no sympathy with Hanstau’s pain. That had been made clear when he had been taken. He scowled, and uttered a command. The two warriors behind Hanstau reached down and grabbed his arms.

  Hanstau’s vision cleared as they pulled him up to his knees.

  Before him, stretched out on a pallet, was a naked man covered in tattoos from the waist up. He must be a warrior-priest. Hanstau had not met one, but they had been described to him. The man’s eyes were bright and feverish, and there was sheen of sweat over his colorful torso. The cause was obvious.

  The man’s left arm was gone. Hacked off with something sharp would be Hanstau’s guess.

  The blond warrior was talking, but since Hanstau didn’t have the best grasp of the Plains language, he ignored him. Instead, he focused on the wound. It was swollen and red, with clear pus oozing from burn marks.

  “Are you people savages?” Hanstau asked. “You cauterized that?”

  Silence was his only answer, and Hanstau looked up, realizing he had interrupted his captor. The man’s face was red and furious. He pointed at the tattooed man, and used one of the only Xyian words he seemed to know.

  “Warprize,” he said, and continued on with what seemed to be a demand that Hanstau treat the wound.

  Hanstau might not be a warrior, but he could and did glare right back at the man. He’d been dragged away from his escort, watched this man butcher poor Cadr and the others, strip their bodies without a care, and then drag him off on horseback. “I am a Master Healer of Xy,” he spat the words, making sure his scowl was as harsh as his captors. “My hands can heal but they cannot be forced.”

  The confusion in their faces forced him to use one of the few words he knew of their language. “No.”

  The blond snarled and made as if to strike.

  The warrior-priest spoke then, and his voice sent shivers up Hanstau’s spine. He didn’t understand his words, but he knew that tone, that expression. The warrior-priest thought he had

  the upper hand.

  The blond grunted, and barked a command. Hanstau was forced to his feet, out into the sun and marched to another tent close by. He only had a glimpse of the warriors guarding this tent before he was pushed within.

  There was a woman inside.

  Much like the warrior-priest, she was naked and ill. But she was staked down, her limbs taut, tied with leathers straps that seemed to bite into her flesh. From the look of her swollen and chaffed wrists, she’d been captive for some time.

  She turned to look at him, her eyes dull and uncaring.

  Once again Hanstau was forced to his knees, but this time the blond knelt by the woman, pulled a dagger, and put it to her throat. The blond spoke harsh words, his eyes focused on Hanstau’s face.

  Her face blank, the woman spoke. “Antas of the Boar says heal Hail Storm, or he will kill me.”

  To Hanstau’s shock, the woman spoke in Xyian. “You are of Xy?” he blurted out.

  “Refuse him,” the woman closed her eyes as if weary. “For I would die.”

  Hanstau sucked in a breath.

  Antas, the blond, narrowed his eyes and pressed the knife deeper into her flesh.

  Hanstau bit his lip, staring at Antas in open defiance. But then, as he knew he would, as Antas knew he would, damn him, Hanstau lowered his gaze and bowed his head in submission.

  “Why?” the woman asked.

  The question came after Hanstau had treated Hail Storm. His hands free, with his satchel nearby, he knelt by her side and ignored the question. “You speak Xyian,” he said.

  “Some,” she said. “If the words are simple. I was taught by the Warprize as we journeyed. Who are you?”

  “I am Hanstau of Xy, sent by Queen Xylara to serve as a healer to Simus of the Hawk.”

  She sighed, and looked away. “I am Reness, Eldest Elder Thea of the Plains. Now prisoner and sick to death of it.”

  “How did this happen?” Hanstau stared at her leg.

  “Word came that I was needed at a thea camp not far from the border,” Reness said. “I left the Warlord and Warprize to continue on their journey. I thought to follow later. But the words that were brought to me were false, and Antas took me prisoner.” Reness looked bleak. “Do not ask me how long it has been since I have seen the sky.”

  “I meant, how did this happen?” Hanstau gestured to her leg.

  “Ah,” Reness grimaced. “Creatures came, huge winged creatures, and attacked the camp. The tent collapsed on top of me. As they pulled me out, one of the poles pierced my leg.”

  Hanstau nodded, reaching out to turn her calf toward him. “Only a few days, then.”

  At her questioning look, he continued. “Those creatures, those wyverns, they attacked our camp as well.”

  “The Heart?” she asked slowly. “They attacked the Heart?”

  “Yes,” Hanstau said absently. “I must see to this. How do you say, ‘I need hot water’?”

  She blinked at him. “The wound is deep and it throbs and is full of rot. It will kill me, for which I thank the elements. If my hands were free, I’d go to the snows.”

  “By the Sun God,” Hanstau sat back on his heels and frowned. “What is this fascination that you people have with killing yourselves? I grant you that it’s deep and I am sure it hurts. But all it needs is cleaning and stitching. I might be able to use bloodmoss on it if I can clean it well enough.” He started to rummage through his satchel. They’d searched it for weapons and left everything a jumble.

  He glanced over to find Reness staring at him

  Hanstau returned the look calmly. He was no warrior, although he’d lost a bit of his belly since leaving Xy. “I will clean it,” he repeated. “Heal it as best I can, as fast as is safe. Then we will find a way to be free. Both of us.”

  “You are no warrior,” Reness said as if convincing herself. “But you have steel in you.”

  Hanstau got to work. Demanding hot water from the guards, he worked as best he could as Reness grunted in pain.

  �
��I’m sorry,” he said. “But if I am to use bloodmoss I can’t leave any dirt behind. There are some splinters.”

  Reness gasped. He could tell that she was forcing herself to breathe.

  “That warrior-priest,” he started to talk. “Hail Storm—”

  “No names,” Reness hissed in Xyian. “They listen.”

  Hanstau nodded. “There is something wrong with that one. He stared at me as I worked on his arm, as if looking into my soul.”

  “They are said to have powers,” she replied.

  “Not anymore,” Hanstau said. “Supposedly.”

  “What?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me the news of the Plains.”

  “I wasn’t there for all of it,” he told her.

  “Tell me your truths,” she demanded.

  So Hanstau talked as he washed the wound and dug for splinters. He spoke of what he had heard about the warrior-priests losing their tattoos and their powers. He mentioned the

  warrior-priestess with the partial tattoos that had offered to serve Simus.

  He told her of Wild Winds’s death.

  Finally, he sat back, satisfied. “We will wait until tomorrow, when the swelling has gone down. Then we can decide if we want to risk the bloodmoss. Faster healing, but if there is debris within it will cause greater problems.

  But Reness was staring at the ceiling above them, her brows drawn together. “So Antas has a warrior-priest, one that claims to be the Eldest Elder. He has me, the Eldest Elder Thea. And now you, his Warprize.”

  “Why does he think I am his warprize?” Hanstau said. “From what I understand of the all the requirements, I am not.”

  “Truth is no obstacle to Antas.” Reness shifted her gaze to look at him. “For him, the truth is what he says it is.”

  There was a spark back in her eyes, and her color was much better. Hanstau felt the deep pleasure that came from aiding another as he reached to start cleaning his mess.

  “Antas really only needs one thing,” Reness continued.

  “What is that?” Hanstau asked.

  “All he needs now for his own Council of the Elders?” she said. “Is a Singer.”