WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(18)

The water had cooled his arm, but it still pulsed with pain. He grunted, tempted once again to try to use magic to heal it. But every time he tried to focus his will to such a thing, the power would slip from his grasp, as if it opposed the healing. He’d waste no more on another attempt.

He pulled his arm out, and knelt down to drink deeply, feeling hot and dry. He’d managed to escape from the Heart without being seen, and he’d make sure to stay under cover. But he still had allies. Still had options. He’d wait for darkness, and find them.

The stars would show him the way to the camp of Antas of the Boar.

There he’d find welcome. Food, drink, rest, and aid for his vengeance.





Chapter Eight


“Warlord,” Yers said from beyond the tent flap.

Simus came awake quickly, his eyes snapping open, reaching instinctively for his sword. Angry voices were just outside, but even as his fingers brushed the hilt, he recognized the normal sounds of the camp. Warriors moved about, meat sizzled over a fire, pots clattered, and the smell of kavage was in the air.

He eased back within his blankets, the gurtle furs soft against his skin. The recent happenings tumbled through his head. This change—the deaths of the warrior-priests, and Wild Winds’s openness—could it be trusted?

The tent above his head held no answer, nor, he suspected, would the open skies. It was something he’d have to keep careful watch on, his eyes open, his weapons ready.

“Warlord,” the voice repeated.

“Come,” he said.

Yers pushed the flap aside. “Destal has taken Eloix’s place for the time being. “ He carried a mug of kavage in his free hand.

Simus threw back the bedding, and sat naked, cross-legged on his pallet. He reached for the mug as Yers offered it to him. “What news?”

Yers went to one knee beside his pallet and lowered his voice. “The hunting party left soon after you slept and attracted no attention. They have already returned with two good-sized bucks. They tell me that Eloix left them as soon as they were out of sight of the camp.”

The kavage was strong and hot in Simus’s mouth. He welcomed the bitter taste, and the surge of energy it brought.

“There was some commotion in the camp of the warrior-priests shortly after you bedded down. Wild Winds went down to the dead, then returned to his tent.” Yers looked over his shoulder at the tent flap. “And now the Warlord candidates have gathered outside, demanding to talk to you. Ultie, Osa, Nires, Reht, and Zioa are among them, along with others I do not know. I told them that if you did not have kavage first, you’d emerge from the tent with a bared blade.” Yers flashed a grin. “They accepted it, but it is not in their nature to be patient.”

“I take it they’ve talked to Wild Winds.” Simus rubbed his hand over his face and yawned.

“They must have, as irritated as they all are,” Yers agreed. “And did not like what they heard.”

“Simus,” Ultie bellowed from outside. “Drink your damn kavage out here.”

Simus rolled his eyes, and handed the mug to Yers. He swept his armor and weapons into a great armful, and took the mug back. “Rouse Joden,” he ordered and strode out the tent.

The Warlords were gathered just beyond his campfire. His warriors were clustered at the fire, cooking the evening meal. Their glances reflected their quiet amusement as he walked past them.

Simus marched right up to the center of the Warlords dropped his gear at Ultie’s feet. Ultie scowled, but Simus just smiled.

Osa snorted, her green eyes bright as she admired his form, standing in the middle of all of them, naked as a babe. He raised his mug to her, set it in the grass, and reached for his trous. “Ultie of the Needle-rat, how may I aid you?’

“You can explain what has happened,” Ultie growled. “We return to find the Heart a battlefield, and—”

Simus made a great show of flapping out his leather trous and then put them on, hopping around on first one leg and then the other. While Ultie sputtered out his demands, Simus took the time to consider the others.

A few faces he didn’t know; new candidates for Warlord, he assumed. Far too few of those, and that wasn’t good. The Plains would suffer if the traditional number of armies didn’t form.

Osa had her arms crossed over her ample breasts, clearly amused. Simus knew she’d talked to Keir about his goals and hadn’t expressed more than a general interest. He already knew better then to offer her the warmth of his bed. Osa’s preference was for women, and she held to her ways.

Simus already knew Ultie would offer no support. But no real opposition either, at least until anyone attempted to stop Ultie from doing whatever Ultie wanted to do.

Reht and Zioa were a different matter. Reht was a short woman: short of stature, short of hair, short of temper. The amber of her eyes matched the golden brown of her skin. Simus was not sure of her opinion as to Keir, but she was giving him an amused smile through her almond eyes.

Zioa was taller and easily excitable, always talking with her hands, always pushing her thick black hair back behind her ears. She reminded Simus of an old, ivory-handled dagger he’d had long ago, with weathered handle and a sharp blade. Zioa’d been friendly in the past to both Keir and him, and she was grinning at him now. Simus decided to count her as friend to their cause.