WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(19)

Nires of the Boar was off to one side, one of the most experienced Warlords. Blond of hair and beard with streaks of grey, his skin wrinkled and creased, but a warrior to be respected. The winds had it that Nires had lost track of the number of seasons he’d fought. He stood with one hand on his hip, the other on his sword hilt, but the stance was casual and interested. Simus caught his eye, and realized that the man was studying him even as he was being studied.

But at his side stood two whose faces were openly hostile.

Ietha, a tall, thin woman with a permanent scowl on her horse face. Her brown hair was pulled back in a horse-tail, which only emphasized her height. Her slanted eyes and sand-colored skin were lovely, but those dark eyes were unamused.

Loual stood beside her. The man looked like the weathered stone of the walls of Xy, but Simus wasn’t about to tell him that. Loual wasn’t looking at him, his eyes hooded, focused on the ground. Simus knew well that he had spoken against Keir. He stood now with arms crossed, as if to reject any new idea that came his way.

Last of all, Kiza, lovely Kiza was laughing at him, making no secret of her delight. Her of the pink skin like the morning sky, and reddish hair piled high on her head. The least likeliest of Warlords, but Simus knew her blade was dangerous, having sparred with her before. He flashed a grin at his old friend. She winked back.

“—dead warrior-priests, needles of light in the sky,” Ultie said, not used to being ignored. “What say you?”

Simus didn’t reply until he’d stomped his feet into his boots, belted his trous, and swept up his mug of kavage. “My thanks for your courtesy.” He gave Ultie a mocking nod.

“Fool,” Ultie growled. “Explain this.” He swept his hand toward the Heart. “The dead strewn about, the camps torn asunder. This is no laughing matter.”

Osa picked up Simus’s leather tunic and shook it out, offering it so he could slip it on. He gave her a nod as he offered his mug to Kiza, accepted Osa’s aid, then started on the buckles.

“What happened?” Ultie demanded again. “The night was filled with strange lights and noises. We return to the Heart only to find a battlefield with no enemy that any can see.”

“Didn’t Wild Winds and his people explain?” Simus asked, retrieving his kavage mug.

“We would talk to him,” Osa said. “If he were here.”

Simus stared at her, then turned.

Wild Winds’s tent, and those of his followers, were gone.

Simus blinked, unable to believe. The tent was gone, the area clear, with only the grass swaying in the wind. “He was here,” Simus said slowly, frowning. “He must have moved his camp.”

“Nowhere that we can find,” Ietha grumbled.

“What did he tell you?” Ultie demanded.

Simus caught a glimpse of Joden and Yers returning, both of them looking just as surprised as he was. They must have heard what Osa said, since both seemed as confused as Simus felt. The whole camp gone? Simus’s frown deepened. Where had the old warrior-priest taken the young ones in training? And why? It made little sense.

Under his confusion, he felt a pang at the idea that he’d seen the last of those cool, grey eyes.

He let the regret go as he turned to Osa. “I’m happy to share what I was told,” Simus said. “Joden heard everything as well, and can speak to the truths that—”

“I’ll not listen to that city-lover’s lies,” snarled one of the group.

Joden roared, and charged to attack.

The other warriors faded back and away as the one who’d offered insult fumbled with his sword. A critical mistake, given Joden’s speed and rage. Simus crossed his arms over his chest and settled in to watch.

Warriors tended to listen to Joden’s calm voice and reasonable words, to hear his wisdom and songs, and think nothing of the sword at his side. But Joden, he of the broad smiling face and solid build, was a warrior first, even if his heart was full of song. Yes, warriors tended to forget that, until they saw him in battle.

Certainly, this one had.

The fumble with the hilt gave Joden enough time to close. Joden hadn’t bothered to draw a weapon. He came in fast, leading with his shoulder and slammed into his foe. The man went down, hard, sword still in its sheath. He lay there stunned, his breath gone.

Joden backed off, pulling his sword, his eyes smoldering. “Draw your sword, bragnect, so that I might prove my truth on your ass.”

Osa stood to one side, fairly close to Simus’s shoulder. “Who is that?” Simus asked under his breath.

“One Wyrik,” Osa muttered. “Of the Boar. He was Second under Reht of the Horse last season.”

Simus grunted as he watched Wyrik stagger to his feet and pull his sword. A big man, hardened from long years of combat. “The same Tribe as Antas then,” Simus said.

“With much the same attitudes as Antas,” Osa observed. “But the Tribe of the Boar are not all of one mind. Witness Nires there.” Osa nodded toward the older fighter.

Nires was frowning, glaring at Wyrik with disapproval.

“Oh,” Osa said and winced, which drew Simus’s attention back to the fight. “Wyrik had better watch—”

Joden whipped in fast, fended Wyrik’s blade with his own, and then punched him full in the face. With a satisfying ‘crunch’, blood began spurting from Wyrik’s nose.