WarDance

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “What are you—” Hail Storm struggled again, but the warriors over him were grim-faced and hard. One of them grabbed his injured arm and pulled it straight out from his body. As the pain flared, Hail Storm bit through his lip in an effort not to scream.

  “I’d grant you mercy, warrior-priest,” Antas said, stepping closer, “if I did not need you. Although your value is doubtful. So I will cure you in my own way.”

  “No,” Hail Storm snarled. “I will not survive—”

  “Need finds a way,” Antas said.

  “Do this, and I will kill you,” Hail Storm shrieked, but Antas was unmoved.

  “You have to live,” Antas said, shrugging. “Then I will fear.” He brought the axe down in a swift, powerful blow.

  Bone shattered and flesh burned.

  Everything stopped, even his breath. It was as if it was happening a distance away, to another. Hail Storm watched as the warrior lifted his severed arm, and tossed it into the fire.

  The arm lay there, reddened by the coals, charred at the end. His fingers...its fingers moved. Hail Storm reached with his power, and watched as the singed fingers formed a fist.

  But then everything crashed down on him. The sounds of the warriors, the sizzle of scorched flesh. His lungs demanded air.

  Hail Storm gasped, and then screamed until his breath was gone and the pained darkness claimed him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Simus crawled to the edge of the rise, keeping to the taller grasses. This was where he’d first encountered Wild Winds and Snowfall; it would give them a good view of the Heart and the lakeshore nearby. Elois was next to him, keeping her head as low as she could.

  Simus just stared at the destruction. The Council tent was flat, covering the stone Heart, a pile of shredded leather and splintered poles. Bodies, too, of warriors that had fallen trying to defend themselves. “Skies above,” he swore.

  All along the shoreline, as far as one could see, a writhing mass of wyverns flew, flapping their wings and snarling and hissing at one another.

  Nothing else moved. Nothing dared.

  “They had no warning, I’m sure,” Elois choked, but kept on. “The warning horns mingled with the ceremonial ones and the chanting. They didn’t have a chance.”

  “Smart move on your part, knocking down my own tent,” Simus said.

  “We waited, Tsor and I.” Elois’s voice hitched. She paused, then continued. “We waited for you. Else we’d have been down there with them.”

  “Has there been any sign of survivors?” Simus nodded toward the devastation.

  “Not so far,” Elois said. She sighed. “At one point, something moved within. The beasts attacked the tent and then tore into it like it was a living thing. I don’t know if any are still alive underneath. Two rescue attempts failed,” she added, nodding toward where a cluster of warriors lay dead.

  “Tsor took some of the younger warriors, to stalk the beasts,” Elois continued quickly. “Not to attack, but to watch and learn. He told them to stalk as if hunting prey, but to make no attacks.”

  Simus grunted, still considering the mound that was the collapsed Council tent. It was—it had been—the largest of the tents on the Plains, covering the circular stone with tiered seating for the Elders. It lay in shambles now, but it was possible that under its weight, someone survived. Perhaps...was Joden under that mess?

  Simus squashed the thought. Best to deal with what he knew. Better to focus on the problem at hand.

  “And those that have gathered there?” Simus asked, deliberately not looking behind him at the warriors gathered out of sight of the Heart.

  “What remains,” Elois grimaced. “Thirds and Fourths, and the odd Tenth. All lost since their Warlords and Seconds were within the Council tent.” Elois snorted. “And them supposed to take over command if the leaders fall.”

  “Go easy,” Simus said. “They’ve never had to deal with something like this. We’ve had to face much that is new and different since dealing with Xy.”

  “But nothing like this,” Elois said.

  “No,” Simus agreed. “Nothing like this.” He took one last look. “Let’s return.”

  They crawled back to the group of warriors waiting, kneeling and sitting in the grass. Their hunched shoulders, and anxious scanning of the skies, was telling.

  Snowfall and Hanstau sat to one side. Snowfall, with his permission, was trying to contact Wild Winds. She had a small bowl of water in her hands that shimmered with her power. She met Simus’s eyes, and shook her head slightly before returning to her efforts. So, then: Wild Winds was either dead or unconscious under the debris.

  Simus sat before the group, Elois on his right. “I will call this senel to order,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  That brought startled heads up to glare at him.

  “By what right,” one warrior growled.

  “Because no one else did,” Simus said firmly. “We must make decisions, and quickly.”

  There was a muttering, but no further protests.

  “Tsor, my Second, has taken warriors to watch and learn about the creatures. When they return, we will mount a rescue attempt.” He looked around the group of roughly thirty warriors.

  “Another?” one voice said. Simus raised an eyebrow in the speaker’s direction. “Nona, Third to Osa of the Fox,” she said. “We risk more deaths, and there may be no one to aid.” She scowled at him. “My Warlord would say save the living.”

  “Mirro, Third to Loual of the Boar,” a male spoke up, his voice flat and angry. “And why would you try, Simus, when those that opposed you are dead?” Mirro’s face contorted as he spoke. “You may be the last living Warlord on the Plains, and you and Keir of the Cat would be free to—”

  “I would not want to win that way,” Simus said simply. “Nor would I serve a WarKing that would take that path to power.”

  Silence fell over them.

  “Those are our best down there,” Simus continued. “Our Warlords, Elders, Seconds, and Token-bearers. We know not if they live, but we must try to save them.”

  That brought a stir within the ranks.

  “How?” challenged another. “Those creatures—”

  “How is this different from an ehat hunt?” Simus flashed the warrior a tight grin. “We need musk teams to draw the monsters away, and then we send in rescuers to dig out the survivors. I think—”

  There was a roar of hissing from the Heart. “Something is happening,” Simus said and crouched to go back to the edge of the rise. This time he was followed by a handful of warriors, and his people.

  “Ah, no,” Elois whispered.

  Simus saw that the edge of the tent was moving as someone struggled out. The wyverns had already caught the movement and were growing agitated.

  “Don’t move, don’t move,” Elois whispered, but it was a hopeless plea. The warrior emerged from cover, and bolted directly for them, running with everything she had.

  Simus watched in sick fascination, helpless and yet unable to look away. Two wyverns rose with single wing beats, and flew toward their prey with wide, spread wings.

  The warrior was close, close enough that they could all hear her ragged breathing. The warriors behind Simus shifted, bringing out bows and crossbows, preparing for—

  The nearest wyvern plunged down and hooked its claws in the warrior’s back, bearing her down to the ground. As the woman struggled, the wyvern hissed, whipped its tail around, and stung her.

  Movement around Simus ceased. All knew what that meant. The outcome was inevitable, or so he had been told. Simus looked down at his hands, knotted in tight fists.

  The other wyvern came up, and for brief moments they fought over the body, driving each other off. As if the creatures had lost interest, both took to the air and glided back to the lakeshore.

  The downed warrior moaned.

  “The poison will take her soon. We’ve seen this before,” Elois whispered. “Poor—”

  A stir in the grass and Ha
nstau took off, running down the rise.

  “What?” Simus’s jaw dropped. The pudgy healer ran like a pregnant gurtle toward the fallen warrior. The wyverns hadn’t noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of—

  “That city-dweller has lost his wits,” Mirro said harshly.

  “I need him,” Simus growled. “I need his skills. Elois, Tsor, crossbows and lances. We will try—”

  A hand touched his arm. “I can save him.” Snowfall looked at him with bright eyes. “Permission?”

  Simus hesitated, then nodded, and she was running, following the healer to her death.

  Snowfall took off running as fast as she could, following the healer, keeping an eye on the wyverns. The creatures were stirring, their snake-like heads starting to turn toward the movement.

  She’d have little time.

  Ahead of her, Hanstau slid in the grass, down, next to the wounded warrior, hunching over her as if he could protect him. Snowfall threw herself down on the opposite side of the injured warrior. “Quiet,” she whispered, and drew on the power around them.

  Hanstau’s eyes went wide, staring at her hands but he shook himself, and nodded, going still.

  With a deep breath, Snowfall threw a veil up over all three of them.

  The wyverns rose on their haunches, craning their long necks, but after what seemed like an eternity, they lowered themselves down and resumed their squabbling.

  Snowfall breathed a sigh of relief, only to feel the power flicker. She’d never attempted a veil this large, and if it failed—

  “What are you doing?” Hanstau asked, his voice the barest whisper.

  “Hiding us,” Snowfall explained. “But they can hear, and maybe scent.”

  “This may have not been my brightest idea.” Hanstau’s face was dripping sweat. He was looking at the warrior’s back even as he tried to watch the wyverns. “But I couldn’t let her just die.”

  Snowfall grabbed his wrist. “We can’t stay here,” she said, trying to even her breathing. “I may not be able to keep us safe.”

  Hanstau bit his lip. “Can we move? Can you help carry her? I can’t alone, but—”

  “We will try,” Snowfall said, but then she glared at him. “But if I say for you to run, you will drop her and leave us, and run for your very life. Simus needs you more than—” She frowned at the stubborn expression on the healer’s face. “Swear it.”

  “No need for dramatics,” Hanstau said. “Let me get her up, and her arms over our shoulders.”

  Snowfall didn’t have the time to argue. “Move slowly,” she said.

  “About all I can do,” puffed the healer as he eased the unconscious woman warrior into a seated position, her arm over his shoulder.

  Snowfall moved in on the other side, and they got her to her feet.

  Hanstau cast one last look back. “So far, so good,” he observed.

  Snowfall nodded. “Move with me,” she cautioned and then put all her focus on maintaining the veil and carrying the warrior, trusting Hanstau to guide them.

  Her steps blurred into the weight of her burden, the pain, and the power.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Simus’s stomach sank into a deep pit as the flame of his heart ran toward certain death.

  He’d found her and to lose her now, without knowing her mind, without sharing their bodies, without telling her everything he wanted to share with her for all of their lives—

  “Ready lances,” he croaked as he watched Hanstau and Snowfall throw themselves down by the wounded warrior. They’d no chance against two of the beasts.

  Snowfall put her hand on Hanstau’s shoulder, who was leaning down, reaching for the warrior.

  “Run back,” Elois whispered. “Get back here now and maybe—”

  They disappeared. Suddenly there was nothing but grass and...

  Simus sucked in a breath, as the warriors around him gasped.

  “Where—” Nona breathed.

  “There.” Mirro pointed with his chin. “Watch the grass.”

  Simus focused, and saw the grass was moving. Slowly, surely, toward them.

  “A Xyian,” Mirro breathed. “A city-dweller. No weapon in hand, and he charges down there.”

  “There is more to them than you know,” Elois spoke up.

  Simus said nothing, casting glances between bent blades of grass and the wyverns. Until finally he heard Snowfall’s breath, and the shallow panting of a wounded warrior. And the heavier panting of his Xyian healer.

  With an audible ‘pop’ they appeared at the edge, and willing hands pulled them over and down, out of sight of the Heart. Simus had Snowfall in his arms. Relief filled him as her arms enclosed him, and he felt her warm, solid body against his.

  She pulled back, and there was a smile in her eyes she’d let only him see. “Just tired, Warlord. I had to carry, and concentrate, and move.” She shook her head. “Not as easy as I thought.”

  “Faela,” exclaimed a warrior as the wounded woman was laid down on the grass, Hanstau at her side, digging into his satchel. Willing, careful hands were cutting back the armor, exposing the sting to his view.

  “You had to know you were dead,” Mirro said, kneeling by the healer. “Why would you—”

  “I am a healer,” Hanstau said absently, in broken Plains language. “I have my own oaths. Now be silent and let me work.”

  Elois knelt at the wounded warrior’s head, offering a waterskin. The warrior took a swallow, then spat it out. “I am Faela, Token-bearer to Ultie. I bring word—” Her mouth snapped shut against a groan. Hanstau was working on her back.

  Simus knelt beside Elois. “Tell us,” he commanded.

  The warrior blinked against the sweat on her face, and strained to look up. “Many live, some badly hurt, but yet they breathe. If you could—”

  “Wild Winds?” Snowfall asked.

  Faela grunted against the pain as Hanstau pressed down on the wound. “I do not know,” she said through gritted teeth. “Osa, Ultie—although Ultie is wounded badly in the leg. Other voices, whispering in the darkness. No one dares move.” Her breath was gasps now, her words broken. “I...closest to the edge. My choice, to bring word...”

  Hanstau swore under his breath and spoke in his own tongue. “Warlord, whatever this poison is, nothing I have counters it. It eats at her from within.” He sat back, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He glanced at his bag again, as if considering his options, then shook his head. “Grant her mercy, Warlord.”

  Simus was surprised, but he knelt by Faela’s head. “Faela,” he said. “The healer can do no more.”

  Faela let her head sink down on the grass. “The snows will cool this pain, Warlord,” she gasped out. “Let it be done.”

  “You will be remembered,” Simus said.

  Faela mumbled something Simus didn’t catch, and then made a final effort to lift her head. “I would see the sky,” she said.

  Willing hands turned her, and Simus stepped back to let those that knew her best conduct the rite.

  “The fire warmed you,” someone began the chant.

  The warriors around her responded in unison. “We thank the elements.”

  Hanstau moved back, making room, swallowing hard as he angrily shoved jars and bottles back into his satchel.

  “Lara fought against the granting of mercy,” Simus said softly.

  Hanstau paused and took a deep breath. “My Queen is a gentle lady, and a Master Healer, but she lacks my years.” The pudgy healer with the soft hands looked up at Simus with hard eyes. “I know when to offer my surrender to Lord Death.”

  “We can kill them,” Simus said. “Just like we bring down ehats.”

  “With all due respect, Warlord, ehat musk does not eat flesh and bone,” Nona said.

  They’d given Faela mercy and seen to her body as best they could. Now Simus had gathered them once again, out of sight of the Heart. Hanstau sat beside Simus, staring at the satchel in his lap.

  “So now we know some liv
e beneath that wreckage,” Simus said.

  “Without the Warlord, there are no raids. Without raids, there will be no Plains,” another offered.

  “Without Elders, there is no Council,” another said glumly.

  “Lances work to kill the creatures,” Simus continued, not letting them sink into despair. “Crossbows may, with a good hit. But we need not kill. Just create enough of a fuss to draw them off and let others move in, and pull those that live from the debris. I have an idea—”

  A rustling from the grass around them. Simus stopped talking at the sound of a soft bird call. Tsor, and a handful of younger warriors, crawled into view, all grass-stained and sweating.

  “Tsor, what word?” Simus said, as the group made room for the newcomers.

  Tsor crawled up and sat cross-legged next to him. The young ones sprawled out in the grass before him, sharing a waterskin.

  “There’s so many, Warlord,” Tsor said. “They fill the shoreline as far south as we ranged. But only on the shoreline. They seem drawn to the water’s edge.” He took a long drink. “They are mock-fighting, and seem to have an area that they defend against all comers. An area that they return to if they are roused. Also, they are piling up their kills.”

  “Kills?” Simus asked.

  “A few have a small heap of dead gurtles close by,” Tsor said. “Ouse there has an idea.”

  Ouse sat up, facing Simus, waiting for permission to speak.

  “Give me your truths, warrior,” Simus nodded.

  Ouse swelled with youthful pride. “Warlord, they remind me of young stags at mating season. Testing themselves against each other.”

  “Mating?” Simus narrowed his eyes in thought. “Can you sex them? Are there females?”

  They all shook their heads. “Not that I’ve seen,” Tsor said. “Not that any of us have seen. No teats, so we think they might be egg layers.” He hesitated, and then continued. “I think they may be more like night-flyers than hawks. But that is as good as asking the wind. I’ve no proof.”