WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(107)

Hanstau clung to Cadr’s arm, hanging for a long moment before Cadr dropped him to the ground. Harder to fall off then he’d thought; he lost his breath and his wits as he hit the ground.

The horses continued on, but Hanstau followed his instructions to stay down, and hidden.

He hunched in the grasses for long moments, breathing hard, listening to the sudden sounds of combat. There were shouts, and horses neighing, and the clang of sword on sword. It took a moment for him to realize they were being attacked.

He raised his head slowly.

Warriors had surrounded Wild Winds and his people, and the fighting was intense. Hanstau jerked back down, but he caught a glimpse of a downed warrior near him, groaning.

Hanstau started crawling.

The warrior was dead by the time he got to her, but there was another close by. Cursing at the waste, Hanstau crawled over.

A thigh wound, a bad one, cut right through the leather. Hanstau got to his knees and spread the edges open further. A clean wound. He took out a small bit of bloodmoss and got to work. The warrior never roused, but he was breathing evenly.

The fighting continued, joined with flashes of fire, and the smell of burning flesh. Hanstau refused to be distracted, concentrating on his patient until the wound was sealed. He dropped the bloodmoss, now pale green. It would grow and sprout for the future, with any luck.

But there was another warrior, moaning, well within reach. Hanstau crawled over, and flipped the warrior over.

It was Cadr, white and pale, his limp, bloody hands sliding away from his neck.

Hanstau reacted without thinking. He clapped bloodmoss over the cut, regardless of its state. It was the boy’s only chance. He slapped a bandage over that, which quickly soaked with blood. “Aid him, God of the Sun,” Hanstau prayed, knowing the wound was beyond anything he could close. He’d done what he could. Hanstau looked at the lad’s pale face with deep regret, then moved on.

The noise around him had subsided, but there was another warrior down nearby. Hanstau crawled again, focused on saving what wounded he could.

But when he turned her, the chest wound was too frightful to close. And the life had already faded from her open eyes.

“Have mercy on her, Goddess of the Moon and Stars,” Hanstau whispered, and reached to close her eyes.

Except a large, gloved hand reached down and grabbed his wrist, wrenching it away and up.

The hand forced Hanstau up onto to his knees. A warrior towered above him, a bloody sword in his other hand. Hanstau blinked into the sun at the large, solid man looked down at him, his blond hair and beard glowing in the light.

“Antas,” a voice called, and only then did Hanstau realize that the sounds of fighting had stopped.

“Here,” the blond called out.

“Wild Winds is dead.” Another warrior approached. “We couldn’t take him alive.”

“No matter,” the blond above him said, his eyes never leaving Hanstau’s. “I’ve found something better.”

Hanstau jerked his wrist, trying to free himself, but the warrior...Antas...just laughed. His white teeth gleamed against his tanned skin, as he leaned down and spoke.

Hanstau’s blood went cold. He knew that word.

“Warprize.”





About THE AUTHOR


Elizabeth Vaughan is the USA Today Bestselling author of Warprize, the first volume of The Chronicles of the Warlands. She’s always loved fantasy and science fiction, and has been a fantasy role-player since 1981. By day, Beth’s secret identity is that of a lawyer, practicing in the area of bankruptcy, a role she has maintained since 1985. More information can be found at her website, WriteandRepeat.com.

Beth is owned by incredibly spoiled cats, and lives in the Northwest Territory, on the outskirts of the Black Swamp, along Mad Anthony’s Trail on the banks of the Maumee River.





Acknowledgments


No one writes a book without major support from friends and family. I can’t name all of you, but know that I am grateful for your love and support.

But there are some special people who must be thanked:

As always, my writer’s group: Helen Kourous, Spencer Luster, and Marc Tassin.

To Mary Gustafson, for her help with my lovely and yet disgusting wyverns.

To Carolyn Wielinski, my dance advisor, who said ‘let me show you’ and twirled me around the salon like I was a princess.

To Dylan Birtolo, my knight in shining armor. Literally. A member of the Seattle Knights, Dylan was willing to answer questions about prolonged periods of combat with different opponents.

To Elizabeth Candler, Beth Cogley, Stephanie Loree, Denise Lynn, Patricia Merritt and Molly Reed, all victims of various versions of the book, and willing to give comments to a needy writer.

To Maurice Broaddus, Gay Mercer, and Jewel Strahan, who patiently answered any question I asked.

To my editor, Anna Genoese and my copy editor, Katherine Crighton for all their efforts to make me a better writer.

Finally, to Kathie McMillan. Really sorry about that night at gaming when I rolled that critical greater cleave into your paladin’s body. They were using you as a shield and I honestly thought you were already dead.