WarDance

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  But he relished the challenges. Blade against blade under the open sky, with his blood singing through his body. And, of course, the admiring glances of those that gathered to watch.

  And they did gather. Simus grinned, but he wasn’t fool enough to glance around to see who watched.

  His opponent seemed to take his grin as a dare. Her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared as she darted toward him. She brought both swords up, aiming to slash through his guard.

  Simus waited, then slipped to her right at the last moment, parrying the first blade and dodging out of the reach of the other. He slashed with his dagger at her wrist as she went past him. She continued on, turning to face him, but cursed as blood dripped from her hand.

  “Done,” called the Singer from the side. A murmur of approval from those gathered, as talk rose around them.

  Simus lowered his weapons then. “Well fought,” he said.

  “Well stuck,” she replied. She pulled her dagger from her belt, and held it up, the blade at her heart, blood dripping down her fingers.

  “Misa,” Simus took the offered dagger, token of her surrender and nodded toward her hand. “I’d offer bloodmoss for that, if you would.”

  She cocked her head with a curious look. “I’ve heard of the Warprize’s blood-eating plant. I’ll try it, and thank you for the offer.”

  Cadr, young warrior with long brown hair, and large brown eyes, stepped forward with a leather sack, and applied bloodmoss to her hand. Speaking softly he explained how it worked.

  Simus watched them as he accepted a scrap of cloth from Destal, and started wiping down his blades. It was all well and good for Simus to talk about the changes a Warprize would bring, but better yet to show hard-headed warriors the benefits of new ways. And if there were those in the crowd that listened, and leaned in to see, well, all the better.

  “Use it only when the wound is clean, like this,” Cadr was explaining. “Never if there is dirt or debris within. And once it’s used, throw it to the ground.” The dried yellow leaves on Misa’s hand turned pale green. “It will seed itself to the earth and grow more for the next season.”

  “Hmmm.” Misa nodded, her eyes wide as she stared at her hand where the cut had been. She lifted her hand so that others could see. “Maybe even drop some where you field-dress a kill.”

  “Not a bad thought,” Simus said, giving her an approving smile. “That’s an idea to spread.”

  Someone in the crowd snorted, and moved off. Simus caught a glimpse of Loual walking away, Wyrik at his side.

  Misa tilted her head and caught his eye once again. “I would come to your next nooning,” she said.

  “You would be welcome,” Simus replied. “I will see you tomorrow, then?”

  “Tomorrow.” Misa accepted a small bundle of dried bloodmoss from Cadr before she walked off.

  “She’d be a good one,” Oxna said softly. As his first Tenth, she’d be watching for likely recruits.

  Simus nodded absently as he sheathed his weapons and cast an eye at the sky. The sun had reached the horizon; that would be the last challenge for this day.

  Yers was already reaching to pull down the challenge banners for the night. “It goes well so far,” he said glumly. “But I worry for the lack of Tenths.”

  “They will come,” Oxna said. “I suspect they are taking our Warlord’s measure.”

  Simus shrugged. “It is a concern, but it is also early days yet.” He clapped Yers on the shoulder. “Give it time.”

  “And if they don’t join us?” Yers said.

  “I’ve given it some thought,” Simus admitted. “We’ve a fair number of warriors that could be trained—”

  “You wish to speak with the Warlord?” Destal’s voice cut through his, drawing Simus’s attention to a tough-looking older woman warrior standing near them. She was grey and wrinkled, but there was strength in her stance.

  “I do,” the woman said, and bowed her head to Simus. “I am Faela of the Deer, Token-bearer to the Warlord Ultie. He asks you to his tent for this night’s meal.”

  Simus raised an eyebrow, and shared a glance with Yers. “When?” Simus asked.

  “Now, if it would so please you,” she answered. “I would take you to him.” She glanced around. “He asks that you come alone.”

  Simus raised both eyebrows.

  “Warlord,” Yers cautioned.

  Simus just shook his head at Yers and gestured toward Faela. “Lead the way.”

  The grass tickled Snowfall’s nose as she pressed herself down and watched Simus of the Hawk walk off toward Ultie’s camp.

  She considered following, but only for a moment. She didn’t know Ultie by sight, but by reputation, and that was formidable. His camp was bigger, with many seasoned warriors moving around. She wasn’t sure she should try to overhear what was said; it bore the risk of discovery.

  To her chagrin, it wasn’t the easiest thing to conceal herself, even with the bright power that lay at her hand. She had to concentrate on her veil at every moment. Sitting in one spot wasn’t bad, but she did press the grass down under her. Moving was harder, and if she forgot herself she could lose her concealment altogether.

  She didn’t want to find out how the warriors would react to her sudden appearance in their midst.

  No, it was enough for now. She pulled in her powers, settled the veil over her body, and started to slither through the grass between the tents to return to where she’d camped. She’d hunt tonight; eat something more than dried meat and gurt. A hot meal, hot kavage, a warm bed...then she would think on what the last few days had shown her.

  She paused to let a group of warriors leading horses move off before she continued. Their talk was teasing, and light. Scouts, it seemed, about to make their rounds.

  Such a difference between this and a warrior-priest camp. The old camps full of warrior-priests had been quiet, stifled, aware of their loss of powers and the secrets they kept. But here? Laughter, work, shared tasks. So very odd, and yet, very welcome.

  She waited, patient, until they moved off.

  Once she was far enough, she stood, stretched and walked the rest of the distance. She’d moved her camp to a small pond where the alders grew thick. There was nothing but game trails around it, and she deemed it safe enough. She used her power to keep her veil up, though. Just in case.

  The sun was high enough that she could set a few snares for rabbits that were as thick as the alders. Once that was done, she walked to the other side of the pond, knelt, dropped the veil, and focused.

  The power was there, all around her, golden and bright, moving like water around her. She took a moment to bask in its glow, feeling its presence, slowing her breathing to match its rhythms.

  She turned her attention to that sense of dread that lingered under her breasts. It was still there, and yet not there, and as much as she tried to commune with it, there was only apprehension. An underlying fear...no, that was too strong. Worry was a better way to describe it.

  But no amount of focus, or probing, provided more information. Snowfall opened her eyes, blew out a breath in frustration, and once again wrapped her veil around herself.

  She would keep trying. For now, she needed to move.

  She put herself through the paces of fighting an imaginary foe with her knives. The moves were old and familiar, but Snowfall pushed herself to make each form perfect. It wouldn’t do to lose her skills now. Besides, the leather corselet she wore was still uncomfortable, chaffing in places. She was so used to nudity that any cloth on her breasts felt odd. But naked skin offered no protection against a blade. Maybe if she reworked the lacings, the fit might be better.

  Once she was done with her forms, sweat dripping into her eyes, she decided that lacings could wait. She stripped down, easing herself into the cold water of the pond, and scrubbing herself with sand. It felt good to be clean. It felt even better when she heard a squeal from one of the snares. She’d caught a fine, fat rabbit for her supper.

 
She cleaned the meat, wrapped it in wet leaves with some ogden roots, and set it roasting in a small fire pit that she dug. Kavage brewed close by, and her stomach rumbled as she settled in to wait for it to cook.

  She pulled the corselet over, and started to work on the laces. But while her fingers picked at the strings, she glanced over her shoulder and considered all that she had seen.

  Her mouth had dropped open when Simus had planted the first pole to raise his tent. With his own hands. She shook her head at the wonder of it.

  He’d laughed, wrestling with the sides, cursing mistakes that he made, and bellowing with joy even when the pole and tent had collapsed on his head.

  Simus strutted, true enough, certainly putting on a display. But there was an openness about him, a joy in living, in breathing, as if he was inviting the elements to admire his prowess in a way that didn’t offer insult to others. Snowfall frowned at the fire as the wet leaves sizzled. It was hard to explain, but certainly his warriors had taken no offense, sharing in his mirth.

  Snowfall shook her head, puzzled. She’d not taken offense either, even catching herself laughing with him at one point.

  Simus was like no warrior-priest she’d ever met before, and she was fairly certain that he was unlike other Warlords as well, although she’d not dealt with any directly. But Simus had looked every inch a Warlord when he had stepped from his tent to open the challenge circle.

  Gleaming armor, his gold rings in his ears glittering in the sun. The smile, so bright, so hopeful.

  It would be hard to see that smile dimmed.

  Snowfall frowned at herself, and poked at her dinner with a stick. That was not a consideration. Wild Winds had charged her to see for herself, and she needed to stay on task.

  She’d never seen the ceremony for the opening of a challenge circle before, although she knew the ritual from her days in the thea camps. She’d known the words, but not the excitement, the pride of the warriors involved. It seemed to her that they’d all felt the power of the man they called Warlord. Simus was charming, handsome, and there was an allure about him that she’d felt brush her own skin.

  He was skilled with his weapons as well. She’d watched him meet every challenge, and his fights were a pleasure to watch. For such a big man, he moved with grace and speed. Moreso than she had expected.

  Yet, again, he didn’t crow of his victories, or shame his opponents on their loss. He was polite and gracious, and quick to offer aid, as he had offered the bloodmoss.

  Snowfall frowned again. It had to be false. Simus was, of course, trying to win hearts and swords, and as such would seek to hide his flaws.

  The meat was sizzling, and Snowfall pulled the bundle from the fire, hissing in pain as she pulled back the leaves. A good meal, hot kavage, and she’d sleep well. Tomorrow she’d return and get as close to Simus’s tent as she could.

  There were flaws, she thought as she took a bite of the juicy meat. And she would find them.

  Ultie’s tent wasn’t quite as large as his own, but Simus frowned when he saw that it had been placed at the center of his warriors’ tents. Not the usual set-up for the Trials. Still, there was a wide pathway, and the usual challenge circles. But as Faela lead the way Simus noted a tension more at place in a camp at war than at the Trials. Instead of preparing to enjoy the evening meal, warriors seemed guarded and alert.

  They watched him pass with less than friendly eyes.

  Faela strode right up to the tent and entered without so much as a greeting. Simus followed, to find himself confronted by Ultie, a few Singers, and a thin, bruised man in battered armor.

  “Essa?” Simus blinked, uncertain. This was not the proud Eldest Elder Singer that he’d last seen at the Warprize’s confirmation, with his splendid colored robes. The Singer’s tattoo was around his eye, but—

  “Simus of the Hawk,” Essa said and there was no mistaking that voice, even if it was filled with anger. “I would ask for your token.”

  Simus’s hand was on his brooch before he could gather his thoughts.

  “I hold your token, Simus of the Hawk. Are you the one trying to kill me?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Essa’s face was a mask of calm, but Simus could see a wildness in his eyes. Essa held the brooch in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of his sword.

  The other Singers, clearly Essa’s guards, also had their hands on the hilts of their swords.

  “No,” Simus said quickly and firmly, keeping his face still, hiding his shock. Now was not the time to mock this man.

  “Hunting us like ehats, attacking both night and day, destroying my tents and supplies, killing my people?” Essa’s voice cracked, but he brought it back under control.

  “No,” Simus said. “And if you wish, I will repeat my words for the open skies to see and hear.”

  “Told you,” Ultie said to Essa.

  Essa stared at Simus hard, but Simus met his glare and didn’t drop his gaze until Essa looked away.

  “Well, someone is,” he said. “Someone has.” He ran his free hand over his face. “What was Reness thinking to wander off to Xy? And where is Wild Winds? And what in the name of all the elements was that shaft of light? Ultie says that you witnessed that night and spoke with Wild Winds. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Simus said.

  “What did he say?” Essa demanded.

  “I will tell you all I know,” Simus said. “Although Joden would tell it better.”

  “Why in the name of the elements would I trust Joden?” Essa spat.

  “What?” Simus demanded, startled.

  “I am not sure I trust any of the Plains at the moment, except those of my tents,” Essa continued. “I came to Ultie because—”

  “Because if I wanted you dead, you would be,” Ultie rumbled. “And since you aren’t, I don’t.”

  Essa choked out a laugh. “The only certainty left in an uncertain world.”

  “Sit,” Ultie commanded, gesturing to the gurtle pads. “We need kavage and food for this talk, and bells on the flaps. Faela, see to the bells, then see to our meal. Essa, return Simus’s token. You will eat, yes? And then we will listen as you speak of what has happened to you.”

  Simus settled on the gurtle pad Ultie indicated, arranging his sword and dagger beside him. The other warriors sat as well, except Essa. The man was clearly agitated and started to pace back and forth as Faela wove a strip of bells into the tent flaps.

  Ultie himself passed the water and cloths for hand-washing. “Faela has enough to see to, and I want no more warriors within.”

  Simus nodded his understanding, and whispered a prayer to the elements as he washed. They all did, except Essa, who continued to move around the tent, muttering under his breath until they all had completed the ritual. Then he spun on his heel and glared at Simus.

  “Never, in all my years as Eldest Elder have I been assaulted,” Essa growled, his anger clear in every gesture. “I usually winter in the lodge closest to the Heart,” he continued. “But there was a—” Essa hesitated. “A Singer that I wished to speak to, about the events of the last Council. So I went south, and when the snows grew deep, we took to a lodge and wintered there.”

  He continued to pace as he talked, his scabbard swinging on his hip, threatening everyone’s heads. Faela dodged around him as she served spiced gurtle meat, flat bread and roasted ogdan roots. Simus’s stomach rumbled.

  Ultie gestured for the others to start eating. Simus reached for bread and meat.

  “When we emerged, I conducted the Rites of Ascension for a few of the thea camps, as was normal. But the warrior-priests conducting those rites with me acted strangely.” Essa still held Simus’s cat brooch in the hand he was waving about. Faela ducked under his arms with the kavage pitcher and mugs. “I should have listened to my instincts, for they were telling me something was wrong. Perhaps Adaya would still live if I’d—”

  Essa’s warriors were shaking their heads, and one spoke. “There is no way
to know that, Eldest Elder. And no one blames you but yourself.”

  Ultie rolled his eyes and gave Faela a nod. She stepped into Essa’s path with a mug of kavage and waited.

  Essa stopped, sighed, and took the mug.

  Simus helped himself to more of the spicy gurtle and roots.

  “We were attacked.” Essa stood there, staring at the kavage. “It was clear they wanted me captured and my warriors dead. We managed to break free, but more warriors appeared and harried us. I lost warriors and gear to them as they would appear out of nowhere—” He took a swig of kavage, and cleared his throat. “Then one night a warrior-priest appeared with warriors and attacked me with foul power, freezing me in place so that I could not so much as move. My warriors fought, and fought well, but the only thing that saved us was a bolt of light piercing the night sky. The warrior-priest fell to his knees, screaming, and suddenly I could move and breathe and I killed him.”

  “Well done,” Simus said.

  Essa stopped there, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. “After, I noticed his tattoos were gone, as if ripped from his body. What do you know of that?”

  “Sit,” Simus said. “Even if you did not hold my token, I would share what I know.”

  “Hard to listen, much less think when you are stomping around like that,” Ultie muttered around a mouthful of bread.

  Essa huffed, but settled on a gurtle pad. He balanced Simus’s brooch on his knee, and held his kavage mug in both hands.

  Simus cleared his throat. “For me it started when a warrior-priest popped up from the grass and forbade us to approach.” He continued, going through the events of that day and into the night.

  One of the warriors closest to Essa nudged his arm, and offered bread and meat. Essa’s eyes never left Simus’s face, but he took a piece of the flat bread and nibbled at it. Yet as Simus’s story progressed, the bread was abandoned as Essa listened in grim silence.

  “And Wild Winds disappeared?” Essa demanded at the conclusion of Simus’s tale.

  “I awoke to find him and his people gone, and angry Warlord candidates gathered outside my tent demanding explanations.” Simus glanced at Ultie.