She’d every intention of keeping watch, alert and awake. But the climb had been long and the blankets were warm. As Joden warmed beneath her, her eyelids kept closing… closing…
The call of a night-flyer roused her at dusk.
Joden was now on his side, wrapped around her warmth, his head cradled on her breasts. He was warm, his arms lax. His breathing was strong and regular.
Amyu sighed, enjoying the moment. She needed to waken, to hunt and get fuel for a fire. But she stole a few precious moments wrapped in the warmth of another.
Especially this man. After the confrontation with the Council, she’d only caught glimpses, or served him kavage when he’d talked with Keir or Simus.
And she’d best stop mooning over him, and get to work.
She eased out of their nest, trying not to let the colder air touch him. Joden frowned, but did not waken, curling into the warmth she’d left. He didn’t waken.
Amyu dressed and armed herself as quickly as she could, eyeing the setting sun. “Joden,” she said softly, just in case he could hear. “Joden, I must hunt, for fuel and food, if I can find prey.”
To her surprise, Joden sighed. “P-p-prey,” he lifted a shaky hand to point off to the left. “T-t-there.” he whispered as he fell back asleep.
“Joden?” Amyu asked, but there was no response this time. She studied the man for a moment, and shrugged. “I will return as quickly as I can.”
She climbed down swiftly, and then hesitated before heading in the direction he had indicated. It couldn’t hurt. One place was as good as another.
Amyu crawled back up to the passage much later, then heaved up her pack using the rope she had tied to it. It was heavy, with a full waterskin, firewood, and six dressed mountain rabbits.
Her fear eased when she saw that Joden still lay in the cocoon of bedding, clearly warm and sleeping. He stirred at her arrival, but did not waken.
She bit back all her questions, and set to work.
First was starting a fire. She’d found two flat rocks that she’d brought back with her, so she built the fire on top and around them. Once the flames rose, she filled her pot was water and placed it close to boil.
She unbuckled her sword, keeping it close beside her. Then she knelt and finished cleaning the rabbits. The meat would cook on the flat stones, the bones would go for a broth. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh meat.
She had a thought that they could use the uncured skins to protect Joden’s feet, secured with strips of cloth. Not much protection, but better than nothing for the trip down the mountain.
She eyed the white cloth. She’d cut it, make a kind of tunic from it for Joden, belted at the waist. She bit her lip. What if it was sacred cloth of some kind, for a ceremony?
She shrugged. Well, if it was, it was too bad. It would have to serve their needs.
She shook her head, and focused on her work. The animals had a series of burrows on the side of the mountain, and had been easy targets for her rocks. They hadn’t seemed to even recognize her as a threat. That thought made her shift uneasily, and she glanced over at Joden, still fast asleep.
How had he known? And he’d mentioned airions. How did he know of them?
Once the meat was ready and the bones simmering in the pot, Amyu cleaned her dagger and her hands and indulged her curiosity. She rose, and went to examine the passage.
It went back into the mountainside a fair way, only to end in a sheer rock wall, reminding her of the mountainside at the top of the highest tower of the castle. She searched, but it was all stone, the bricks of the wall going right up to it. No doors, no openings. Silent, solid rock.
Amyu knew the dead were sometimes buried in stone in Xy. Othur’s body had been placed in something called a crypt. But there were no dead here, no places in the walls for bodies in boxes.
Amyu huffed out a long breath. It didn’t matter. She had failed in her search for airions, but even that really didn’t matter. She’d a new goal: to make sure that Joden reached Keir and Xylara safely.
She returned to the fire, to find the stones almost hot enough for cooking. She didn’t want to wait, brushing off the embers and placing strips of the meat on the rock. The sizzle made her mouth water.
The pile of blankets erupted, as Joden stiffened and went into convulsions.
Amyu froze.
Joden’s arm worked free, knocking over the pot of water, setting the coals to sizzling.
Amyu moved then, to push him back from the flames, to try to restrain his body as it shivered and jerked under her hands.
It may have only been a few breaths, but it felt like an eternity before he relaxed, sighed and seemed to slip back into sleep. His breathing was normal now. Amyu’s was not.
After a long moment Amyu covered him up again with the blanket, then set about rebuilding the fire, refilling the pot and setting the bones back to boil after cleaning off the worst of the dirt.
Her hands did the work routinely. But her thoughts raged.
They might kill him if she took him back.
How many times has she seen it? Theas escorting the old, the sick, the feeble away from camp, returning alone? Or taking the mis-born babies out into the wide, wide grasses, returning with empty arms and grieving eyes?
And as her time had come and gone with no babes of her own body, she’d known her failure to the Plains, and her duty. Only the intervention of the Warprize had prevented her from going to the snows.
A fierce need to protect him rose suddenly in Amyu’s chest. She nodded to herself as she placed the pot on the far side of the fire from the sleeping Joden. She’d take him to the Warprize, and Master Eln. They’d not let any kill Joden outright.
And should any warrior bar her way, she’d buy the time he’d need.
As good a way to lose her life as any.
Chapter Thirteen
“There is power in death,” Hail Storm said.
He spoke to the young warriors seated before him using a formal teaching tone. He kept his voice low so as not to be overheard by the theas hovering just out of earshot. The theas had agreed to treat his words as if he were under the bells.
They had met well away from Antas’s main camp and the surrounding thea camps. The less that knew of this, the better.
Antas had ordered the theas to bring the young ones to Hail Storm to be tested. But none of them were pleased, and they expressed it with crossed arms and frowns as they watched. Suspicious, as always.
The young ones before him listened with the wide eyes of youth being told secrets.
Children on the verge of adulthood, who had not yet been through the Rites of Ascension, but were eager to be out from under the control of the theas. Old enough to go to war. Young enough to be shaped to his hand and his will.
Hail Storm sat before them, using a thick cloak to cover his arm, to appear wise and noble and remote as a warrior-priest should. These children had seen the glow of the power of the Plains. They had the potential for power, and certainly, the innocence he required.
No real problem to introduce them to the ways of blood magic. Except for their overprotective theas.
Hail Storm wasn’t stupid enough to challenge theas. Antas may have decided to risk it, but Antas was a fool. Theas were terrors in defense of their charges, and Hail Storm would not risk their wrath.
Persuasion. Seduction. Those were methods he would use. Slower, admittedly, but far more powerful.
“The glow you see now is only the beginning,” he continued, letting his gaze meet each child’s. “For even as there is light in the day, there is darkness in the night. Both are the natural course, following each other over the Plains.”
These young warriors leaned forward, fascinated.
“A new threat to our way of life calls for new ways.” Hail Storm explained. “You would have been tested at your Rite of Ascension, and that is a season or two off.” Hail Storm forgot himself and gestured with his hand to sweep widely over the wide sprawling g
rasslands. “But the Plains needs warrior-priests and you have within you the potential for that power.”
The faces of the young told him he’d made a mistake. They’d focused on his arm, where the hand no longer existed, the cloak draping over, revealing the stump.
Hail Storm dropped his arm, silently cursing his own stupidity. He drew a breath to repair the damage, to explain—
“Hail Storm,” one of the theas approached. “The young have their duties.”
Meaning that he’d had them long enough, he supposed. He gritted his teeth, but graciously nodded his head in agreement. “This time again tomorrow,” he said.
“If the Elder wills,” the thea responded, and gestured for the young to rise. They ran off, each to their own theas.
The thea gave Hail Storm a slight bow, and followed after.
Hail Storm watched them depart and seethed. Yet he did not show his hate, his fury at their insolence. He sat, waiting until they were all gone before he rose to his feet.
Or attempted to rise. The stump put him off balance. What was once a fluid motion, filled with grace was now an effort. He grunted, staggered up—
His hand itched. His missing hand itched. Fiercely, painfully, if he closed his eyes he could see where the twinge was, reach to scratch—
But the hand was not there, and the pain was merciless.
He clutched at the stump, but that brought no relief, so he fumbled in his pouch, for a small handful of dried mushrooms that he crammed in his mouth.
He stood there for long, terrible moments, sucking on the fibers, until at last the pain receded, little by little.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing in the grasses, all alone. No one had witnessed.
The pain was gone. All that remained was the familiar floating sensation.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It was taking more and more of the mushrooms to deal with the pain, and he’d few left. He hadn’t thought when he’d fled the Heart to gather any supplies. But then he’d never thought to have his tattoos stripped from his body, never thought he’d lose his powers, never thought that a simple wound to his arm could bring such festering.
The Storyteller spoke, his green eyes glowing with light. “... but may all the Gods, and all the elements grant that you get exactly what you deserve.”
Hail Storm’s lip curled. Damn that city-dweller. He’d destroyed the warrior-priests, destroyed any hope of restoring the Plains, destroyed any hope that Hail Storm would be supreme in the power the elements granted.
But there were other powers.
Hail Storm straightened, and started the long walk back to Antas’s camp.
The grass caught at his trous legs as he walked. He’d naught else but a cloak and sword, for by tradition, a warrior-priest wore nothing but their tattoos. The sight of his own skin, mottled and pale, shorn of their colorful magical protection was disturbing. Yet, to wear a tunic would be an admission of… failure.
Hail Storm stopped for a moment, sucking on the mushrooms. This rage he held was not letting him focus, and he needed to plan. To think.
There was power in the Plains that he could reach, for death was a constant. Even the place where the gurtles were slaughtered for meat was a source, even if it was a weak one. There were other places where warriors had died that were stronger.
Stronger still was to drain the life of a warrior as they died at his hand.
He paused again, as the memory came of Arched Color’s death at his hands. Her naked body, her eyes glazing… he shuddered, and had to stop again as he hardened in his trous.
He stood, not moving, letting the passion fade.
He doubted that he could kill again like that, at least not in Antas’s camp. As an Elder warrior, Antas should have more respect for him, more deference. But no, Antas had cured him, hadn’t he? Hacked off the injured limb and left him to survive or not as the elements willed.
Hail Storm grit his teeth. What would it be like to drain a warrior of Antas’s strength?
He shook his head, and forced his feet to move. Such thoughts were unrealistic and dangerous. He needed the protection of Antas’s camp for now. Needed to strengthen and heal.
And then there were his... experiments.
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.
Hail Storm’s eyes narrowed at the memory. He’d started small, with dead birds. Used his power to make them move. Just a twitch at first. But soon his skill had grown. Soon, he would try—
He lifted his head at the sound of hoofbeats.
A mounted warrior came over a rise, clearly intent on intercepting him. Hail Storm watched as the rider grew closer.
He watched as the horse abruptly reared, and refused to move closer.
The warrior dismounted, leaving the horse standing in the grass, and approached the rest of the way on foot.
“The Warlord Antas requires your presence in his tent,” the warrior said abruptly with no greeting, no respect. “The Warlord Ietha has arrived, and he would have you there when he summons his Warprize.”
Hail Storm stared at the warrior, who insolently stared back.
Rage built in Hail Storm’s breast at the insult, but lashing out would serve no purpose. Killing this fool would be noticed. So he simply nodded. “I will come.”
The warrior turned on his heel, and strode back to his horse, mounted and rode away without another word.
Hail Storm stood, and focused his anger.
So be it. He would cooperate with Antas, and control his Xyian pet. He’d take the abuse they gave him. He’d be the Eldest Elder Warrior-priest that Antas needed him to be. Gather a new Council, even.
But he’d also gather his power in the meantime. And who was to say where that may lead?
After all, there was no reason a horse had to be alive to be ridden. And much death lay at the Heart of the Plains.
He glanced at the sun, headed down to the horizon. He resumed his slow steady pace. It would take time to return to camp.
Antas would just have to be patient.
As would he.
Sudden rushed footfalls from behind had Hail Storm turning on his heel, his sword in his hand.
One of the young warriors from the teaching session ran up, and threw himself to his knees before Hail Storm. “Eldest Elder,” he said breathlessly. “I am Jahal of the Boar. I would learn of the power from you.” He bowed his head, his blond hair falling around his face.
Hail Storm looked around, but saw no one following. “Excellent,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Your theas?”
“I snuck away, Master,” Jahal explained ever so earnestly. “They are fearful,” he raised his head and looked at Hail Storm through his bangs. There were the scraggly beginnings of a beard and mustache on his face. “I do not fear. I wish to know.”
Hail Storm allowed himself a small, pleased smile. He would have to keep the lad hidden and isolated but that could be done. He reached out, and placed his hand on top of Jahal’s head.
“Welcome, warrior-priest-in-training.”
Cadr was disappointed to discover that magic was rather like work.
Oh, it was interesting, that was to be sure. In the morning, Lightning Strike and the others had taken over a tent, setting up for the ritual. There were discussions about compass points, and how best to proceed. There been no problem with him watching, he’d even helped set out the bowls of the elements and the larger bowl of water in the very center of the tent.
But after that, Lightning Strike had sat on a gurtle pad in the center, with four other warrior-priests-in-training around him. They closed their eyes and sat in silence.
“Disappointed?” came a soft voice, and Cadr turned to find Sidian at his shoulder.
Cadr shrugge
d, then nodded. “I guess I was expecting… more.”
Sidian nodded. “Well, they are reaching out to Snowfall, and they are trying to do it without attracting unwanted attention. Think of it as whispering over the grasses. It may be some time, even days, before they succeed. So until then, we stand watch to protect them. And prepare.”
Cadr nodded.
Gilla had taken her warcats hunting. Others gathered fuel and water. Cadr’s still-healing wounds meant he wasn’t much for the heavier work. Instead, he tended a fire, with kavage and a kettle of soup, and bowls of flatbread near to the ceremony. He also offered to sharpen weapons for any that needed.
Sidian had the others watching for intruders and wyverns, seeing to horses, and packing gear and preparing. Lightning Strike and he had agreed that they would need to break camp and move once they had spoken to Snowfall.
Hours later, Gilla returned with a horse laden with two dressed deer.
“They are still at it?” She asked as she brought the meat to the fire.
Cadr nodded. “They take turns,” he said. “Whatever they do, it takes a lot of out them. They stagger out, exhausted, eat and drink, and then return.”
“It does,” came a new voice and Cadr looked to see Rhys approaching the fire. “It takes a tremendous amount of energy.”
“You can do that?” Gilla asked, a slight blush on her cheeks.
“Not that, exactly,” Rhys grinned. “That is wild magic, and it’s not something I can use. But I draw my power in different ways, and my skills are more—”
“Sidian!” came a call from the tent.
Sidian came at a run, and Cadr, Gill, and Rhys followed. In fact, everyone in earshot came, forcing them to roll up the tent sides.
Cadr peered around Sidian, and then gasped.
Snowfall stood over the bowl, or at least, the image of Snowfall, formed from water. She was frowning at Lightning Strike.
No. Cadr realized his mistake almost immediately. She wasn’t frowning at Lightning Strike, she was frowning with him.
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