Warsong

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  He glanced up at Gilla. “Small but fierce,” he said ruefully as he rose to his feet.

  “You should see the large ones hunt,” she said. “I swear they could pull down an ehat.”

  Cadr nodded absently, watching as the last of the warrior-priests-in-training appeared with sheaves of long grasses in their arms. “That isn’t enough fuel to burn,” he said softly, nodding at the platform where Wild Winds’s body lay.

  “I don’t think—” Gilla stopped as Lightning Strike summoned them to join the circle around the platform. He waited until all were in place before he started to speak.

  “May the elements hear my voice. May the people remember.”

  The response rose. “We will remember.”

  “Birth of fire,” Lightning Strike began. “Death of air.”

  One of the warrior-priests held out a bowl, and blew on the coals within, feeding a few stems of grass that caused flames to leap up. A shiver of awe ran up Cadr’s spine as he joined in the chant. A quick glance at Gilla showed she felt the same. Words and rituals taught by the theas resonated through him as the elements were invoked.

  “Birth of water, death of earth.”

  Another warrior-priest held out a small bowl, dipping her fingers in and let water trickle down.

  “Birth of earth, death of fire.”

  The third warrior-priest knelt, and crumbled a clod of dirt into the bowl in his other hand.

  “Birth of air, death of water.”

  The fourth stepped forward. She too blew on coals, but the fuel she added caused a thin trail of smoke to rise up.

  All four then bowed their heads to the platform and placed their bowls at their feet, rising to re-take their places in the circle.

  “We gather tonight in remembrance of the dead.” Lightning Strike’s voice cracked. “All life perishes. This we know. Our bodies arise from the elements, and return to them when we fall. Our dead travel with us, until the snows.”

  Softly, the others began to chant. Cadr joined in, reciting the dance of the elements, as the theas had taught. “Death of earth, birth of water, death of water, birth of air, death of air, birth of fire, death of fire, birth of earth.”

  Tears ran down Lightning Strike’s face. “We grieve for what we lost. But our loss is as a result of betrayal, by those who themselves are of the Plains.

  Cadr hesitated, as the chant became harsher, angrier. He exchanged another glance with Gilla, but she was taken aback as well. This was not the normal.

  The warrior-priest with the bowl of flame, took it up again, and set flame to the pile of dried grasses under the platform. He returned to his place as the flames mounted. Cadr frowned. There wasn’t enough fuel to—

  “We return Wild Winds to the elements.” Lightning Strike was screaming now, his voice hard and broken. He lifted his face and voice to the sky, raising his hands. The others did as well. “We grieve, but we will also seek to avenge.”

  “Death of earth, birth of water,” the chant was hard, fierce, and the hairs on the back of Cadr’s neck rose. The storm clouds above roiled, as if in response.

  Lightning Strike’s eyes were closed, all of their eyes were closed, as if they were concentrating, summoning the new powers. But the chant continued, speeding up now, faster and faster.

  “—death of water, birth of air, death of air—”

  Cadr fought the urge to step back, to flee a danger that was unnamed and unknown. The flicker of fire drew his attention to the mound below the platform. The flames were growing, changing—

  “— birth of fire,” screamed the voices as one.

  White hot fire roared up, blinding with a flash that burned the eyes.

  Cadr raised his hand to ward his eyes, blinking as vision returned. The platform was gone, the body, gone. The ground below was bare and scorched, and tiny wisps of smoke rose from the soil.

  But the rage still lingered.

  “Aid us,” Lightning Strike cried out, and his voice echoed oddly against the clouds.

  Cadr stepped back now, a wary eye on the clouds, on the warrior-priests. Gilla retreated with him, both of them instinctively moving slowly so as not to attract attention. Cadr had been there when Wild Winds had warned Hanstau of the dangers of this power. If that rage fell on he and Gilla, they had no defenses.

  “Aid us,” Lightning Strike cried out again. The clouds above him lit up with streaks of light. “By the powers that were released by the Sacrifice, aid us to avenge—”

  A yowling sound cut through his words.

  “What—?” Lightning Strike looked down.

  The mother cat was seated at his feet, her tail wrapped around her feet, her shoulders hunched, her head down. She was yowling, a long low mournful cry.

  The cry was echoed as the six warcats rose from the tall grass, all around the circle, as if copying the humans.

  The air crackled as the clouds rolled above, and the wind picked up.

  Gilla stopped, her eyes wide, reaching out to catch Cadr’s arm. “That sound,” she gasped. “Like when the Sacrifice fell from—”

  The air over the earth swirled and tore, and a circle of white appeared and expanded. The inside glowed, and rippled like the side of a tent in a storm.

  With a cry, the small mother cat ran forward, a blur against the grasses. Cadr saw her leap into the white, disappearing into the glow.

  Gilla cried out in dismay.

  “Take cover,” Lightning Strike called out and everyone scattered into the taller grass. Even the warcats, who showed no sign of following their life-bearer.

  Gilla took a step toward the portal, but Cadr pulled her flat beside him. “What are you doing?” He hissed.

  “I think—”

  A man stepped through the portal, carrying a saddle on his back, and packs over both arms.

  Cadr’s eyes widened. He was big, black-skinned like Simus, but broader. Bald, with bushy white eyebrows like caterpillars. He wore only trous, and his chest was covered with ritual scarring.

  “Home!” he boomed in the language of the Plains. He dropped his burdens at his feet and spread his arms wide. “That which was lost is now found. The wanderer has returned.”

  Behind him stepped another man, younger, tanned with long brown hair. He wore tunic and trous, but carried the same saddle and packs that spoke of someone used to travel. But that quick impression was all that Cadr had time for.

  Lightning Strike rose from the grass, lifted a bow, and loosed an arrow at the pair.

  The older man jerked his head, but the younger was faster. His burden dropped, he raised a hand—

  —and the arrow dropped to the ground.

  Others rose, launching their own missiles, all of which bounced off something surrounding the strangers. With a snapping sound the portal closed behind them, but still the young man held out his hand and the shield held.

  Lightning Strike raised his hands, and looked up at the clouds. “I call—”

  “No,” Gilla stood, exposing herself, her hands held out. “The portal, it was like the one the Sacrifice came through.” She stared intently at the strangers as she took another step forward.

  Lightning Strike lowered his hands slightly. “Who are you, stranger?”

  Cadr watched as those thick white eyebrows rose. “Such is the hospitality of the Plains, now? Strange greetings.”

  “Strange times,” Gilla took another step. “I am Gilla of the Snake.”

  The man smiled broadly at her, while keeping a careful eye on Lightning Strike. “Well met, Gilla of the Snake. Ezren Silvertongue spoke of you. I am Obsidian Blade and, this,” gesturing at his young companion. “This is Rhys of the Black Hills, also known as Mage.”

  Gilla narrowed her eyes. “How do we know your words are true?”

  Obsidian Knife laughed. “Ezren said you would doubt. He said to say that he held Cosana as she breathed her last.”

  “You are as you say.” Gilla relaxed.

  Obsidian Blade folded his arms over his ches
t. “Now it is your turn, Warrior. What did Ezren tell Cosana as she died?”

  “A story,” Gilla’s voice shook. “Of how the Lady of Laughter lured the Lord of Light to her tent.”

  “You are as you say,” Obsidian Blade bowed his head at her. “Ezren said to share this truth, that he and his token-bearer are well and bonded.” He flashed a grin. “I doubt that he will be so pleased at the return of that cat.”

  “One more test,” Lightning Strike called out. “If you are as you say, then summon a horse.”

  “Summon a horse?” Obsidian Blade frowned, but his companion spoke up.

  “Drop your trous first,” Rhys demanded.

  Cadr lifted his head and stared, to see that everyone was as puzzled as he was.

  Obsidian Blade rolled his eyes. “I fear Rhys is still learning our tongue,” he explained. “Weapon, not trous,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

  Rhys blushed, but didn’t lower his hand.

  “We cannot trust,” Lightning Strike said grimly. “Call a horse.”

  Obsidian Blade shrugged, threw back his head and warbled a cry, he then repeated the call, summoning two mounts.

  Every warrior-priest-in-training seemed to hold their breaths. Cadr knew his own lungs froze.

  From the herd trotted two horses, nickering and eager, tossing their heads as they walked straight up to Obsidian Blade.

  Cadr relaxed as Obsidian Blade reached out to pat their manes, and looked over at Lightning Strike.

  Lightning Strike lowered his bow. “Welcome to our tents, Obsidian Blade and Rhys.”

  Obsidian Blade nodded his thanks. “Are you the warrior-priests-in-training that were with Wild Winds?”

  “There is much you need to hear, Master,” Lightning Strike walked forward. “For indeed, I think you are the last living warrior-priest.”

  “Well then, let me hear your truths,” Obsidian Blade nodded to Rhys, who dropped his hand. “Over kavage?” he smiled. “And gurt, perhaps?”

  Later, much, much later, when the cooking fires had dimmed and the stars were bright above them, and the kavage drained to the dregs, they finally reached the end of the tale.

  Obsidian Blade insisted that they name him Sidian as they talked. “It has been too long since I have used the other name. I have shed it like a skin,” he explained.

  Rhys was mostly silent. Cadr suspected that was due in part to his knowledge of the language of the Plains. But his eyes were bright and he seemed to follow the talk. As Lightning Strike finished the tale with the burning of Wild Winds body, Sidian sighed. “I have been too long away.”

  “Why did you leave?” Gilla asked.

  “Many years ago, the Warrior-Priests held a senel,” Sidian said. “I vaguely remember that Wild Winds was there, although he was not yet Eldest Elder. The decision was made to send warrior-priests into the lands that circle the Plains, hoping to find some sign of the lost magic, that it could be returned to the land. I was among those chosen to go, and I have wandered long. When Ezren returned, I asked for the aid of High Priestess Evelyn and Rhys to open a portal to the Plains.” Sidian grinned at his friend. “It was Rhys’s idea to focus on the cat.”

  “It worked.” Rhys seemed smug.

  “Truth,” Sidian said. “And now the land glows with the magic of the Plains. But this is all that is left of the warrior-priests?” he gestured to the others seated with them, listening in.

  “Yes,” Lightning Strike sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Except Snowfall, who rides with the Warlord Simus. And Hail Storm, who we think now wields blood magic.”

  Sidian and Rhys exchanged glances. “We have dealt with that before,” Rhys said.

  Cadr squinted at the younger man. While he’d no sign of real age, his voice held a weariness of experience.

  “This Keir is new to me,” Sidian said. “As is Simus. For a Warprize to have appeared,” he shook his head. “The Plains are much changed from the ones I knew.”

  “You must lead us now, Master.” Lightning Strike said.

  “No,” Sidian shook his head, those bushy white eyebrows frowning. “I am too long from the Plains, with no use of my magic for years. Rhys here is more skilled than I.”

  “But not with this wild magic,” Rhys pointed out.

  “We need guidance,” Lightning Strike sounded tired and defeated.

  “When the lesson is needed, a student appears,” Sidian smiled. “I will relearn with you. Rhys can aid us. Gilla knows a few words of Palin, that will help him learn our language quicker.”

  “But what should we do next?” Lightning Strike asked, his plaintive tone clear.

  “We sleep,” Sidian said firmly. “In the morning, we rise, we eat—”

  “And then?” Lightning Strike demanded.

  Sidian raised an eyebrow at his impatience. “And then I think we get out your scrying bowls and talk to this Snowfall of yours.”

  Chapter Ten

  Hanstau breathed easier once they gave Reness a tunic and trous to wear.

  He may be a widower, may be the father of three grown children, but he wasn’t dead, after all. Sharing a tent with a naked woman was all well and good when she was his patient. Quite another thing when she was plotting their escape.

  Her wound was healing well, although she feigned a limp when she walked. She wasn’t very good at it, in Hanstau’s opinion. But every chance she got, Reness worked to regain the strength she had lost while confined.

  She was moving about now, quiet on the grass in her bare feet, making little noise as she eased through a series of slow stretches. The tent flap was closed, their guards outside by a fire eating their nooning. Hanstau had tucked himself closer to the back of the tent to give her room, sitting cross-legged against the wall.

  He’d thought to keep his eyes tightly shut, to recite prayers to the Sun God, or perhaps a few stanzas of the Epic of Xyson that he had memorized as a child.

  But his control was not perfect. His treacherous eyes would not stay closed. He could only hope for forgiveness for the occasional glance, but the mental image was almost worse, brought on by the sounds of the soft movements of cloth over skin and her breathing.

  Her back was turned to him, and she was lunging at an unseen enemy, her trous—

  Hanstau swallowed hard, and closed his eyes firmly. His late wife had been dear to him. Their marriage had been arranged, as was proper, and they’d been well suited to one another. They’d been comfortable with their duty and taking pleasure with one another, and they’d shared pride in their children. He’d mourned her death.

  A whisper of cloth on skin, and his eyes flickered open to see Reness pivot into a slow, steady lunge at an unseen opponent.

  She stole his breath away.

  Enough. Hanstau closed his eyes tight, settled back into his seat, and reminded himself sternly that while it was perfectly normal to be attracted to a healthy, muscular, lovely woman, it was not proper.

  It didn’t help that the tent was warm and the air was still thick with Reness’s unique scent. Hanstau could let himself breathe deep, drift off, dream of—

  He jerked his head up, stiffened his back, and rejected that thought. Time to think on other things. The Epic of Xyson was dull enough to kill any thoughts of—

  A flash of light flickered at his closed eyelids.

  Hanstau opened his eyes a crack to see gold sparkles gathering by his bare toes. He frowned at them. That was another bone of contention. Walking in grass toughened the feet of those of the Plains. His feet were far more tender, and pale. They’d taken his boots as yet another way of keeping him captive. As a result, his guards, even Reness, had commented on his pale feet and long toes.

  If they gave him back his boots, maybe they wouldn’t have to see them.

  The power also seemed fascinated. The sparkles jumped around his feet, and he could almost feel their giggles.

  ‘Practice as a child does,’ Reness had urged him. ‘Try, fail, try again.’

  ‘Wild Winds warned a
gainst that,’ he’d told her. ‘He said he would teach me.’

  ‘That is no longer an option,’ she’d pointed out.

  Hanstau frowned at his toes, wiggling them the tiniest bit. The sparkles scattered, then danced around them, growing brighter.

  He’d seen Snowfall use her powers just the one time, when she had somehow shielded them from the wyverns threatening them. He’d been focused more on his patient at the time, trying to carry the woman to safety with Snowfall’s help. But he seemed to remember that she had pulled the glow within as they’d moved, drawing power into herself. After, Snowfall had been tired, she’d said something to Simus about…

  “I had to carry, and concentrate, and move,” Snowfall shook her head. “Not as easy as I thought.”

  Concentrate… Hanstau thought about that. Snowfall had been talking about her thoughts, but maybe the sparkles could be brought together. Like boiling willow bark down to a thick paste for fever’s foe. Absorbing it through your skin to aid the whole body.

  He wiggled his toes again, and the sparkles clung like gold dust in the dim light. Like putting on joint cream to help stiff fingers and toes. He’d often wondered what caused the stiffness to be so bad in some, and not as bad in others. But the joint cream, applied thickly and then covered well with wool socks warmed by the fire, was a remedy that eased the pain of those that suffered.

  Hanstau stifled a yawn, and continued to stare at the glow as it grew and then diminished, wrapping in and around and through…

  He could see his toes. No. See through his toes. He could see the bones, the muscles, the blood rushing through healthy flesh, see the joints in all their complexity. So many bones. He flexed his foot, and then his ankle, watched the interplay of healthy flesh under the skin, watched bone and muscle work together. Entranced, he stared in wonder at—

  “Antas wants the male,” came a gruff voice from outside.

  Hanstau started, disoriented. The vision was gone, and he was left blinking in the light as the tent flap was thrown open. Had it been a dream? He felt odd, tired, drained and yet… elated.

  Reness had calmly moved, swift and silent to sit on her pallet. She gave him a puzzled glance as one of the guards stepped within their tent.