Warsong

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “Come,” the warrior gestured. He dropped boots and a hooded cloak at Hanstau’s feet. “Antas summons you.”

  Hanstau reached for the boots, and quickly pulled them on. The cloak was for a much bigger man, and he was lost in its folds. The warrior frowned, pulling the hood up to cover Hanstau’s head. Satisfied, he grunted, and held the tent flap open.

  Hanstau glanced at Reness.

  “Be careful,” she said in Xyian. “Assume nothing.”

  Hanstau nodded in the depths of the hood, and followed the warrior out of the tent.

  It wasn’t far. Hanstau noticed for the first time the size of Antas’s tent, nearly as big as Simus’s. A warrior waited for him at the flap, she bowed him in, holding out her hands for the cloak.

  “Greetings,” she said. “I am Catha, Token-bearer to Antas of the Boar.

  The tent was warm, lit with braziers. It was set up the same as Simus’s had been, with a low wooden platform. A general meeting area, Hanstau remembered. Even the scent of leather, old kavage and sword oil was similar.

  Antas stood before the platform, waiting for him.

  Hanstau steadied himself, and walked toward his captor, looking him in the eye.

  Antas watched him with lowered lids. “You speak our tongue?”

  “A little,” Hanstau said. “Not too well.”

  “Enough, though.” Antas gave a nod of satisfaction. “Come. We will eat, you and I. We will exchange truths. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Hanstau said.

  Antas walked toward another opening. Hanstau followed, only glancing back when he heard the chiming of bells. Catha was weaving a strip into the tent ties.

  This was a smaller area of the tent, clearly Antas’s sleeping area. There were weapons and armor thrown about, piled on saddles and saddle bags. Against one wall of the tent was a raised pallet, large enough for two.

  Off to the side, was something different. Hanstau stared in surprised at an actual table, with wooden stools.

  “Sit.” Antas gestured, as he sat on one of the stools, adjusting his sword out of the way.

  Hanstau sat, and Catha approached with water and cloths for the hand-washing ritual. Hanstau whispered a quick prayer to the God of the Sun for protection.

  There was a small lamp on the table, with an open flame. Hanstau could clearly see that Antas was studying him. He lifted his chin ever so slightly.

  Catha began to bring out food, and kavage. Antas seemed content to eat in silence, and Hanstau had no intention of trying to start a conversation. The food was normal camp fare. Flatbread, some kind of roasted roots, and grilled meat. Hanstau spotted the little red flakes on the meat, so he expected the explosion of spice on his tongue.

  The food was good, the kavage was hot, but it all tasted like ash in his mouth. All he could think of was the brooding man across the table and the huge bed so close at hand. It felt like every breath he took; every move was being tested and weighed.

  Catha was clearing the bowls when Antas spoke abruptly. “Do you know what ‘Warprize’ means?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say something rude in Xyian, but he’d been warned. “I know of Queen Xylara,” he said carefully. “And the Warlord, Keir of the Cat.”

  Antas nodded. “You and I,” he made a gesture toward Hanstau. “You are my Warprize.”

  “No,” Hanstau said.

  Antas considered him through narrowed eyes.

  “I did not aid your people,” Hanstau said. “You did not take me from a battle.” His voice cracked a bit at the look in Antas’s eyes, but he kept on. “And between us, there is no… heat.”

  Antas was silent for a long moment, then he gestured to the pallet. “You. Me. We share.”

  “No,” Hanstau kept his eyes on Antas.

  “No share?” Antas frowned.

  “No man with man share,” Hanstau stumbled a bit. He’d known that this was common among Firelanders. The Queen, Master Eln, both had mentioned this, and been blunt as to its prevalence on the Plains. Hanstau really didn’t take issue if others wished to—

  “Man with woman share?” Antas asked.

  That caught Hanstau by surprise. He looked away as heat rose in his face.

  Antas grunted, as if he’d learned something that pleased him. But then he glared at Hanstau. “You, my Warprize.”

  “No,” Hanstau started, but Antas cut him off.

  “Warprize,” he said, the threat clear. “If not—”

  There was a jangle of bells, and then raised voices from the main tent.

  Antas scowled, rising as Hail Storm came through the opening, Catha in his wake.

  Antas and Hail Storm exchanged harsh words over Hanstau’s head. Hanstau shifted on his seat, not wanting his back to the warrior-priest.

  Hail Storm still didn’t look well to Hanstau. There was a brightness to his eyes that spoke of a low-grade fever. But the stump of his arm looked much better, less swollen, and the redness had receded.

  The two men snarled at one another, Catha hovering behind them. Hanstau couldn’t catch every word, but he got the gist. Hail Storm had broken the bells, pushed past the token-bearer, and Antas was taking him to task for it.

  Hail Storm couldn’t have cared less. He seemed dismissive of Antas. “No matter,” he spat. “We must speak of the young.”

  “We can do so later,” Antas growled.

  Hail Storm’s eye flickered in Hanstau’s direction. “You can court your so-called Warprize later,” he said. “Order the theas to bring me their young warriors. Those that will go through the rites next year.”

  “Even Warlords do not ‘order’ theas,” Antas growled. “Especially concerning the young.”

  “You will if you want them trained.” Hail Storm moved as if to cross his arms, hesitated, and then let them drop to his side. “They will give them to me to be… enlightened as to new ways. Powerful ways.”

  Something about those words made the hair on the back of Hanstau’s neck prickle. The very air around them changed, thickened with disapproval. For a brief moment, he thought to see if he could focus. See the golden power, see if it gathered near Hail Storm. No one would know—

  ‘Don’t assume’ Reness’s advice echoed.

  Hanstau stilled.

  “I will suggest the theas talk to you. Suggest that they send young ones for your training.” Antas growled. “No more.”

  “As you choose, Warlord,” Hail Storm gave a mocking bow, spun on his heel and left. There was silence until the bells at the entrance chimed again.

  Hanstau let out his breath slowly, and looked up to find Antas standing there, watching him.

  “You do not like Hail Storm,” Antas gestured after the man.

  “He is a bad man,” Hanstau said, trying to find other words for his revulsion. “He is without truth.”

  Antas nodded, but there was no agreement in his eyes. “I will do what needs to be done to protect the Plains,” he said slowly, as if trying to make sure that Hanstau understood every word. He stepped closer, looming over Hanstau. “I will claim you as Warprize,” he said, reaching out to caress Hanstau’s face.

  Hanstau jerked away.

  Antas swiftly clamped Hanstau’s jaw, and forced his head back. “You will be my Warprize.” He leaned in, his breath hot on Hanstau’s cheek. “Or Hail Storm will make you.”

  Hanstau froze, pinned by cruel blue eyes.

  A jangle of bells at the door, and Catha appeared. “There is a Singer without. One Quartis, sent from Eldest Elder Singer Essa.”

  Antas hissed in a breath. “I will welcome him. See this one back to his tent, well cloaked. Keep him hidden.”

  Catha nodded, disappearing to get the cloak.

  Antas released Hanstau’s jaw, only to reach down and grab a handful of tunic. He pulled Hanstau up, almost off his feet, toes just touching the ground.

  Hanstau grabbed for the man’s arm.

  Antas pulled him close, and whispered in his ear. “Him or me, understood? Hi
m or me.”

  “Understood,” Hanstau strangled out the word.

  “Consider my truths well,” Antas growled, and released him.

  Hanstau stumbled back a bit, almost tripping over the stool. By the time he regained his balance, Antas was gone.

  Catha and the guards hustled Hanstau back to the tent, stripping off the cloak from his back as he stepped within.

  Reness frowned up at him from her pallet.

  “Shoes,” barked the guard.

  Hanstau toed them off, and kicked them toward him. The guard swept them up with a grunt, and then left, tying the tent flap behind him.

  “You’re shaking,” Reness whispered, rising slowly from her pallet. “What happened?”

  Hanstau stared at her mutely.

  “Here,” she said firmly, in what had to be her ‘mother’ voice. “Come here.” she took his arms and pulled him down to her pallet, urging him to stretch out. She pulled over blankets, covering them both, even though the tent was warm. She crooned to him as one does to a babe, and Hanstau let her. Undignified, but a comfort.

  He lay face up, staring at the tent above them. Reness put her hand on his heart, and her head by his. Hanstau closed his eyes, and felt the tremors slowly fade.

  “Better?” she asked.

  Hanstau let out a breath under the shelter of the soft wool, and breathed in the spicy scent of gurtle wool. He let it out slowly, nodding.

  “Tell me,” she commanded.

  He did, from the start. In Xyian, in a muffled whisper.

  Reness listened, stopping him only once in a while to have him explain a word.

  At the mention of the young ones, her hand pressed on his heart. And stayed that way as he described Antas’s threats.

  The re-telling brought a quaver back to his voice, much to his shame.

  Reness didn’t seem to notice. She listened to the end, and then considered for long moments while Hanstau focused on breathing. On warmth and blankets and the feel of her next to him. Pulling every ounce of comfort he could from his surroundings.

  “He would teach children his ways.” Reness’s voice was flat.

  Hanstau turned his head to look at her. “Wild Winds called it blood magic. I do not know details, but whatever his source of power, the Plains hate it. And hate the wielder, or so Wild Winds said.”

  “And Antas would allow it,” she said, her tone dark.

  “He said he would speak to the theas, that he couldn’t force them.” Hanstau shifted his head to get a better look at Reness. “Is that tradition?” he asked.

  “More than tradition,” Reness replied, but continued without explanation. “You said a Singer was here?”

  Hanstau nodded. “They said ‘Quartis’. From the eldest Elder Singer.”

  “Well.” Reness shifted her head closer to Hanstau’s. “That’s a saddle that will rub him raw.”

  “Why?”

  “He is not following our ways,” she explained. “If you are indeed his Warprize, he should be affording you the respect and courtesy that you are entitled to.”

  “Such as?” Hanstau asked.

  “Have you been presented to his warriors? Offered a guardian? Have you been courted by other Warlords?” Reness shook her head against his shoulder. “At the very least, you must be offered a chance to leave the Plains and return to your people. He has not.”

  “He will not.” Hanstau realized with a sickening feeling. “Not until he controls me.”

  “Which he will not do,” Reness said with more confidence than Hanstau felt. “He can’t publicly claim you as Warprize without giving you certain rights. We can use that against him.”

  “Reness,” Hanstau looked at her doubtfully. “I am not sure Antas is someone you can finesse.”

  Reness rose up on her elbow, looking down at him. “What is ‘finesse’?”

  Hanstau sighed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Joden shielded his face against the fierce gale blowing snow and ice into his eyes.

  He walked against the wind, unable to see, leaning in against the storm in order to stay on his feet. The winds howled, and battered him back. Where had the storm come from?

  He’d been singing, or at least, he thought he’d been singing. He’d been struggling against the wind for so long he’d lost all track of time. There’d been people, and flames and bare earth. Now there was only the thick snow against his bare legs, the harsh blasts, and the cold.

  It bit into him, and he felt every inch of his nakedness. He tried glancing around, looking for tents, for other warriors, for shelter.

  So very cold.

  Horses. If he could find a herd he could shelter in their midst, share the warmth of the herd. Where there were horses, there were camps. He drew a deep breath; the cold hurt his lungs. He threw back his head and warbled for a horse, and listened.

  But all he heard was the howl of the winds, and his own harsh breathing. No hoofbeats, no neigh of acknowledgment. Nothing.

  A cry echoed back to him. A human, the warble of a scout.

  Joden peered through the blinding snow, blinking against the ice crystals forming on his lashes. “Here,” he bellowed. “Here, here!”

  A man stumbled out of the snow, a warrior, his leathers tattered and shredded, hanging from his body. His head down, hair covered in ice, he ran right into Joden. Joden reached out, grabbing him by the shoulders to keep them both from tumbling down into the drifts.

  The man lifted his head, blinking to see.

  “Iften,” Joden gasped in horror.

  The blond looked terrible, wasted and pale, ice encrusted on his eyebrows and beard. For a moment recognition flared in those eyes, then hope, then—

  Hate.

  Iften pushed him away, jerking back to stand there, his face twisted in a scowl. “You! Oath-breaker. Liar. Faithless one, you betrayed—

  Joden stepped toward the man. “Iften, we need shelter,” Joden shouted to be heard over the storm. “Join with me and—”

  “Never,” Iften screamed, and threw himself away from Joden, lost in the blinding snow. “Never, never, never,” his screams became one with the wind. Even his footprints disappeared.

  Joden stood, dazed, trying to think. Iften was dead. Cursed by the Warprize, killed by the Warlord Keir.

  Joden hunched down, wrapped his arms around himself and tried to shelter in place. The drifts grew around him as he stared at the melting snowflakes on his arms.

  Was he dead?

  But he was cold, so cold, and the winds weren’t stopping. He rose to his feet, struggled through the drifts that had mounded around him, and struggled on against the blasts. Dead or not, he needed to find…

  A light flickered ahead.

  Joden blinked, staring hard. It had to be an illusion.

  No, it was there, one of the lights left outside a winter lodge in the worst of the storms. Joden started for it, struggling through drifts, the wind bringing tears to his eyes.

  The winds faded, the snow eased. The doorway down into the lodge beckoned. Joden went down the stone steps, and pushed past the oiled leather that served as the first door. He stopped to shake the ice and snow from his hair and wipe as much damp from his skin as he could. Old courtesy, taught to every child. He shivered as the winds outside strengthened, and then pushed through the inner hanging door.

  A wave of merriment, heat, and music swept over him, as good-natured laughter urged him in.

  The lodge was crowded, filled with warriors of all ages. Wreathed in smiles, they pulled him in, laughing and welcoming. Sitting, standing, all were sharing in a meal, with smoke rising from cooking pots. Somewhere drummers beat a joyous pattern.

  Joden was so tired, he couldn’t make out the words, didn’t understand what they were saying. He just basked in the joy they radiated and let them guide him deeper into the lodge. Food and sleep, and then he’d worry about the rest.

  The crowd parted, forming a path, and gentle hands pulled him along, toward the place of honor. A
wooden platform was there, as it was in every lodge, but the painting on the wall behind it was bright with color, and the hangings that surrounded the platform made it feel like a tent.

  A brazier burned brightly in the center, and five people gathered around it, one sleeping by its side. Of the four seated there, three were clearly warrior-priests, and they were all Elders. Joden expected to make his bows and retreat back into the crowd.

  One of the five was sleeping on a pallet, just below the painted wall, covered in blankets. But the other four all turned to greet him with smiles, and made a place for him close to the heat. Hands urged him onto the platform to sit, and the man to his right grinned and handed him a mug of steaming kavage.

  Joden sat on the offered pallet and reached for the mug with a nod of thanks, only to find his hand close on nothing. The mug crashed to the ground.

  Silence filled the lodge.

  “Ah,” said a male voice. “You are not yet with us.”

  Joden looked over to his left, to see a thin man, with a thin, angled face. His black hair gleamed in the light, as did his dark eyes, one of which was surrounded by the tattoo of a bird’s wing. He was smiling at Joden with an open, yet curious look.

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

  “Nor do I,” said the man with a laugh. “But understanding comes. We will talk, you and I. And we will see.”

  The activity around them rose again, but muted by the hangings. The others seated with them returned to eating, sharing bread and kavage and roasting long skewers of meat over the brazier.

  Joden looked at his hands. “I feel the heat,” he said. “Why can I not drink?”

  “What is your name, warrior?” The man asked.

  “Joden of the Hawk.”

  “Be known to us, Joden of the Hawk. To your right is Twisting Winds. Next to him is Summer Sky. Beside me is Stalking Cat.” The man reached for his kavage.

  “And you are?” Joden asked.

  “Uppor of the Fox.” the man glanced at Joden.

  “But you are—” Joden stuttered to a halt. “You are the Trickster. I have sung of you, how you stole from each of the elements to create the horses of the Plains. But you are a Singer? You—”