Warsong

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  That hurt the worst. Her face flashed before his eyes, brown eyes welling as she pushed him away. The price of his dream.

  Joden shook his head, clearing his thoughts, tired and drained and too weary for words.

  He stripped, made quick work of a wash, and crawled into his one-man tent with a sigh of thanks. Dawn would come, and with it more questions, more challenges. He took a deep breath and let his body ease into the gurtle pads below him. Perhaps Prest was right. Perhaps it was an obstacle to be faced every day. He yawned, and pulled up the blankets.

  Joden turned, and closed his eyes, deliberately seeking sleep. He listened to the beat of his heart, the crackle of the fire, the sound of his breath. In and out and in… sleep finally came.

  Until he heard his name called.

  “Joden of the Hawk,” whispered an ancient voice. “Come to us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Joden opened his eyes, to find himself in the bright winter lodge with the dead. But the braziers were filled with sullen coals, everyone around them bedded down for sleep.

  Joden sat up, letting his blanket fall around him. There was enough light for him to see Uppor next to him, his thin face and slanted eyes filled with worry.

  “Uppor,” Joden said. “I do not understand.”

  Uppor gestured for him to lower his voice, and leaned his head closer. “Nor do I,” Uppor said with a grim hush. “Events and the winds swirl about us. It passes out of my understanding.” He shrugged. “All we can do is what we can do. Beyond that, it is in the hands of the elements.”

  “Why did you call me?” Joden asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Why did you come?” Uppor countered, then shook his head. “No, forgive me. This is not the time for ritual responses.”

  “Is it ever?” Joden rubbed his face.

  “How else?” Uppor laughed quietly, then grew still. “You know of one named Hail Storm?”

  Joden jerked his head up.

  “He has slain the Ancients.” Uppor glanced around then lifted his hand and touched Joden’s forehead. “See.”

  Hail Storm stared at the lone tent on the horizon and considered.

  There were no horses around, no smaller tents. No warriors around at all, in fact, and that was unusual.

  Still, it might be a source of news, or supplies… or power.

  Hail Storm licked his lips, and headed his dead mount in that direction.

  No one hailed him as he approached. Hail Storm dismounted, threw open the tent flap and stepped inside. He was met with a wave of heat, reeking of old kavage and fermented mare’s milk. Braziers burned brightly in each corner. The heat dried his nose and stung his eyes.

  “Shut the flap, shut the flap,” came a quavering voice. “You are letting out the heat.”

  At the far end of the tent, on the traditional wooden platform, were three bundles of blankets. In each, sat a… person.

  They were old, ancient, wrinkled with spots and very few wisps of hair on their heads. Their eyes were milky and rheumy with age. Hail Storm couldn’t tell their sex, and their skin seemed so faded it was hard to tell what color it had originally been.

  They sat facing him, waiting.

  Hail Storm gathered himself, and stepped closer. He too could play the waiting game of silence.

  Three sets of eyes glittered at him, and the silence stretched on.

  Hail Storm gave up. “And who might you be?” he demanded.

  No answer.

  Hail Storm frowned. “I am—”

  “Hail Storm,” the one on the far left spoke with a soft whisper. “Eldest Elder Warrior-priest.”

  “Hail Storm, stripped of power by the Sacrifice,” the one on the far right cackled, high-pitched and irritating.

  “Hail Storm,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “Wielder of blood magic.”

  Hail Storm narrowed his eyes, his rage just below the surface. But he kept it there, simmering. There was a pallet centered before them. He swept forward and knelt there, not waiting for an invitation.

  He placed his hands on his knees and waited.

  “We are the Ancients of the Singers,” they said in unison.

  “Impressive,” Hail Storm said.

  “Hail Storm is confused,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “What is this, perhaps?”

  “Ancients,” came the cackle. “This is not the way of the Plains.”

  “How can this be?” continued the whispering one in mocking tones. “The elderly among us, no longer useful to the Tribe, they go to the snows.”

  “It would seem that the Singers have secrets,” Hail Storm said.

  “There are songs that Singers do not sing,” The Ancients chuckled. The one in the center grinned, bare gums all that showed. “Tales we do not tell. Songs and stories handed down from Eldest Elder to Eldest Elder. Stories not told to children.”

  Hail Storm cocked his head to one side and considered. “Tales you have not shared with Essa, perhaps.”

  Three pairs of eyes suddenly sharpened, focused on him.

  “You haven’t passed down your knowledge, have you?” It was Hail Storm’s turn to chuckle. “No wonder Essa was always in such a sour mood.” He considered them for a long moment. “I assume you want something,” he said.

  Their glares grew fiercer.

  “The Council restored,” the left one said, in a voice as clear as a bell.

  “Xy destroyed,” the right one said, with a sweet innocent tone.

  “Our knowledge preserved,” said the one in the middle, with a deep timber.

  “Do you always change tone like that?” Hail Storm asked. “I admire the technique.”

  …The stony silence after his words was ice cold.

  “Let me guess,” Hail Storm continued. “You did something that didn’t turn out the way you had planned. The skies know I am well aware that can happen.” Hail Storm glanced around the tent. “Essa and his ilk not obeying your commands?”

  “We are the Ancients,” all three said together. “We are to be obeyed.”

  Hail Storm nodded. “Odd, isn’t it, that we think that change will bring more of the same? Or keep things the way they are?” He shook his head. “Change is hard, and painful and unpredictable. It tears at patterns we thought fixed and unmovable, in ways we can never foresee.” Hail Storm gave them his sweetest smile. “But change does bring new ways. New patterns. New opportunities.”

  “We are the Ancients,” all three said together. “We control knowledge. We hold the power.”

  “Well, as to that,” Hail Storm rose to his feet and pulled his knife. “Let us see who has the greater power, shall we?”

  Joden blinked at the suddenness as the vision cut off.

  “So he has gained in strength, using blood magic long lost on the Plains,” Uppor said.

  Joden sat in silence, listening to the words, considering all the things that Uppor was not saying. The lodge was quiet, the coals in the braziers hissing softly. “So we have lost their songs,” he said.

  “I am not sure it’s a loss,” Uppor replied. “You are not bound by the hatred they may have contained.”

  “They wanted a pawn,” Joden said, and then seeing Uppor’s confusion explained. “A piece in a game played by Xyians.”

  “Ah,” Uppor said. “See, even the dead do not see all things.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Joden frowned, studying Uppor. “Why should I believe you? You are Uppor the Trickster who stole lightning from the sky—”

  “Uppor the trickster, Uppor the thief.” Uppor flashed a grin but it faded quickly. “Because you are the only one who can stop him. No obstacles lie in his path, and the deaths he has planned will only fuel his fire.” Uppor glanced around, then leaned closer. “Joden, a Seer’s gifts differ. Some see the future, see a path to what must be. Some see only the past, weaving through memories imprinted in soil and stone. Some walk in both worlds, the living and the dead. You seem to have some of each, and little o
r no control.”

  “Can it be controlled?” Joden asked.

  Uppor nodded. “Over time, but you do not have time.” Uppor looked at the painting on the wall. Joden followed his gaze.

  It was a map, of the northern part of the Plains and the valley of Xy. Bright sparks appeared in Xy and on the Plains, all heading to one spot on the border. A tiny Liam stood at the top of a tower, his long hair blowing in the wind, his arms folded over his chest.

  “Forces are gathering, Joden,” Uppor gestured to the map. “Forces that will determine—”

  The four bedrolls around the brazier stirred.

  “Muck,” Uppor said and from the tone Joden knew it for a curse.

  Blankets were flung back, and the four warrior-priests rose from their pallets, staring at Joden. From their faces, they were not pleased.

  Twisting Winds rose to his feet, lifting his hands. “Learn, Seer. Magic is a blade that cuts both ways.”

  Summer Sky rose, and lifted her hands. “Learn, Seer. That which was taken is restored. That which was imprisoned is now freed.”

  Stalking Cat rose and spoke, lifting his hands. “Learn, Seer. Embrace the old. Preserve the new.”

  Then, to Joden’s shock, Wild Winds rose from his pallet, lifting his hands. The warrior-priest looked old and tired, but his eyes glittered with strength. “Learn, Seer,” his voice was rough as if with disuse. “The path between life and death is forbidden. Walk it at your peril.”

  They all dropped their hands together, and the winds started to howl. The lodge around them wavered and shifted as the snows began to blow.

  Joden felt himself slipping away. He reached out, and grabbed Uppor’s wrist. “Kalisa?” he demanded.

  Uppor’s face crumpled. “She wanders the snows,” he called as the winds roared around them. “I hope in time she can forgive us.”

  Joden shook his head, and shared his sorrow. “The one she needs to forgive is herself,” he shouted, releasing Uppor’s wrist and letting the winds carry him away.

  He woke, sweaty and shaken in his tent.

  It took Joden forever, stumbling over his words, trying to explain his vision to Keir and Lara. Marcus was there, and he reached out, and put a hand on Joden’s arm. “Breathe,” he said, offering kavage.

  Joden nodded, took that deep breath, and then started using the sing-song voice. It was important that Keir hear and understand.

  Keir did listen, intently. He asked questions, asked Joden to repeat the chant of the warrior-priests.

  In the end, Keir leaned back, and considered his kavage. “Joden, the sparks on the map. How were they placed?”

  Lara rustled through her satchel, pulling out paper and her writing supplies. Joden spread a sheet over the ground and pointed for her to draw. “Here,” he said. He drew a line with his finger, and Lara marked it. “The line is the border of Xy.” He pointed to various location, where Lara placed dots. But Joden shook his head. “These were bigger. Brighter.”

  “And who do you think each is?” Both Keir and Lara leaned forward.

  “Us,” Joden pointed to each in turn. “Liam, at the border.” He gestures to the three sparks on the Plains. “Antas? Simus? And as to the north, perhaps Heath?”

  Keir studied the map. “We cannot move faster than our current pace, for many reasons.”

  “The children” Lara said. “We are slowing you down.”

  Keir shook his head. “More the supply wagons and the Xyian infantry,” he reminded her. “But truth be told I do not want to stand at the border without warriors at my side.” He pointed to the spark closest to Liam’s. “In case this is Antas and not Simus.” He shook his head again. “We will keep our pace. If I am right, all these points will meet at roughly the same time. Then we will see.”

  “What if they get to the border first?” Joden sang.

  “Liam will hold.” Keir glanced at Marcus, who was checking the babies.

  “What if the dead are trying to use us, use you, as a pawn?” Joden argued. “What if—”

  Keir shrugged. “You are a wise and good man, Joden. You have always given me your truths, even when they were painful to hear. Continue to do so, and I will honor that.” He rose to his feet. “But I would give a great deal to know who is closer. Simus? Or Antas?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Antas lifted his mug of kavage to his lips, and hid his grimace behind it.

  His face ached from all this snows-be-damned smiling. Hours of talking had left him with a sore ass, a headache, and a desire to kill something.

  All to good effect, at least. The senel was going well.

  He took another sip, and glanced around the tent. The heat had built up within such that he’d ordered the sides rolled up. It also made sure that all who wished to hear could.

  Ietha had relaxed enough that she was laughing and smiling with his Second. It wouldn’t surprise him if they shared this night. That suited Antas. All the warriors looked well fed and comfortable. His Token-bearer had done well, keeping their guests’ hands filled full of bread and meat and their mugs full of fermented mare’s milk.

  “A pity your Warprize has fled,” Ietha said.

  Antas put on a sad look of resignation as he lowered his mug. “I fear that my poor city-dweller has been misled,” he said. The words came easily, since he’d repeated the lie so many times. “Who knows what Reness has told him. I never should have housed him with her, but with her wound we both thought it best.”

  “It is not right, that she came between you,” Reht swayed a bit in her seat.

  Loyalty and support, that was what he needed from these warriors. He’d come close to losing it the night of the fires. But he’d turned the herd his way.

  “It is not right,” Antas said. “But I live in hope that when I see him again, when we have defeated Keir and his ilk, that he will listen and come to my side.”

  Nods of agreement all around. Antas was deeply satisfied. He lifted his mug and drained it.

  Only to catch a glimpse of the repairs and scorch marks at the top of the tent.

  Hail Storm, of course. It had to have been. A warrior-priest was the only one who had that kind of power, and Hail Storm was the only warrior-priest alive. He’d taken his revenge, the bracnect.

  “As to that, what next, Antas?” Ietha turned, her laughter fading.

  Antas turned to her, and smiled yet again. “The repairs are almost done,” he said. “The supplies that Reht brought have been distributed. My scouts report that Simus and his forces are ahead of us, headed north. The scouts also report that Singers are watching, from a distance, not approaching but not concealing their presence.

  “The Eldest Elder Singer waits and watches,” Ietha scowled.

  “As ever been his practice,” Antas agreed. “I propose that in the next few days, we also march for Xy.”

  Nods of agreement all around. Antas drew a breath. Now was the time.

  “But it is not my intention to engage Simus,” he said, which drew the surprise he knew it would. “I have told the scouts not to make contact, and to avoid any conflict. They will keep watch, and they will warn if Simus turns to attack us.”

  “Why?” Ietha asked.

  “As Warlords, we give our oaths to the Council, and to our warriors,” Antas said. “Their blood is our blood and their flesh our flesh. We are charged not to waste the lives of the warriors entrusted to us.”

  Keir of the Cat wasted the lives of his warriors. He fought Xy, and then allowed it to stand, not raiding or pillaging its wealth for the benefit of the Plains. He wasted the lives of the warriors lost in the filthy sickness of the city-dwellers, and then had the nerve to claim a Warprize and defy the will of the Council,” Antas continued. Not quite the truth, but it would serve. “In doing so, he defied the Elders and the ways of our People. But his insult to our ways did not end with that.

  “Keir also caused Simus to contest as Warlord, and look what devastation that brought down upon us. The Council destroyed, an
d these wyvern fill the skies, killing warrior and horse alike.

  “All of this, Keir the Cat has done. He must be stopped.” Antas took a breath. “But I will not waste lives in battle. I will not set the People of the Plains against one another.”

  The silence was thick.

  “Instead, I will challenge Keir of the Cat. Let our strength and swords determine the winner. If I kill him, his people surrender to me. And if I die,” Antas shrugged. “Then the elements have decided our fates.”

  There was an uproar, but not as much as Antas expected. Instead there were more thoughtful gazes, and considering nods.

  Reht protested, “Keir is a mighty warrior, Antas.”

  “As am I,” Antas said. “Am I not Eldest Elder Warrior of the Plains?”

  There was debate, of course. Antas acknowledged many times that it was a risk. But he countered every argument, and talked more and more of conserving the lives of warriors.

  He ended the senel with promise of more talk, and thanking all for their truths.

  Once the tent was clear, and the sides rolled down, his Second came to stand before him.

  “Sharing with Ietha?” Antas asked.

  Veritt shrugged, then gave him a considering look. “You risk much,” he said.

  Antas dropped his voice, “I risk nothing.”

  Veritt raised his eyebrows.

  “I will challenge Keir to combat to the death,” Antas said. “I will offer this method to resolve our differences, and I will call on him not to spend the lives of his warriors. He will agree, for that is his weakness, Veritt. He will agree, and we will carve out a challenge circle between the two armies, and all will witness our fight.”

  Antas thumped his chest. “If I kill him, so be it. But if he looks to be winning, you will be there. You will cry out loud that he has betrayed his word and attack Keir’s Second. That will give the signal for archers to fire. Keir and Simus will fall dead. If Keir’s Warprize is there, so much the better. She will die too.” Antas smiled and almost enjoyed the ache in his cheeks.