WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(24)

A pillar of light that appeared, piercing the night sky, so bright he’d had to shield his eyes. And then the rings of light that had followed, racing through the grass and disappearing.

No word had come, from Hail Storm, from the Heart. Antas had ordered his warriors not to approach the Heart. Whatever ceremony the warrior-priests had conducted, he’d wait to hear from them before approaching. But it was unsettling, and he wondered—

A rustling in the alders alerted him, and Antas raised his head. It was Veritt, his Second, who threaded his horse through the alders and drew close.

“The camp that lies over two rises,” Veritt pointed with his chin, “it’s a thea camp. Haya of the Snake is the Elder Thea.” He gave Antas a quick grin. “Not the friendliest of warriors.”

Antas frowned. “With a tongue as sharp as her blades and not afraid to speak her mind.”

“Do we approach her?” asked Veritt. “We could return to our camp, wait for word from the warrior-priests.”

Antas considered. “Her voice cuts like a dagger, but it carries weight. If she moves the camp again, we may not find her until after the Trials. Let us talk to her, then return to our camp.” He mounted, ducking alders as he settled in his saddle. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Veritt lowered his eyes, and bowed his head. “Yes, Warlord.” Then he snapped his head up, and flashed another grin. “Just as glad you’re the Warlord. You have to do the talking.”




Antas made no secret of their approach, leading his men in a slow walk over the rises toward the tents of the thea camp.

Haya was waiting for them, the canny old gurtle, standing there, tall and straight and silent. Her white hair shone against her tan skin. Her dark eyes were like flint, cold as the Snake of her Tribe.

Antas slowed his horse, glancing around, looking for likely young warrior-children, but the camp was unusually silent. Antas wondered at that as he signaled a stop to his warriors, and dismounted.

“Greetings, Elder Thea Haya of the Snake,” he said lightly. “I’d speak with you, if you would.”

Haya studied him, then her gaze swept over the warriors of his party. Her eyes returned to Antas and she gave him the slightest of nods. “Antas of the Boar.”

Leaving off the honors he was entitled to. Antas kept a scowl from his face.

“The bodies of two of our young warriors have returned to the camp.” Haya’s voice was flat and hard. “We are preparing to mourn our dead,” she continued, giving a pointed look to the clouds on the horizon. “Now is not the time.”

“Death comes in an instant,” Antas said. “Even to the young.” He heaved a great sigh of sympathy. “But the dangers that threaten come in an instant as well. Best to be prepared.”

There was movement in the tent behind Haya. A man emerged, his head bald, his face brown and wrinkled in a frown.

Antas gave him a nod. “Greetings, Weaponsmaster, Seo of the Fox.”

Seo nodded in greeting, but said nothing.

“Do you bring news of the Heart?” Haya asked, not relaxing her stance. “Of the lance of light that pierced the sky?”

“No,” Antas answered truthfully. “That is a concern for the warrior-priests and I have had no word as to its meaning.” That was honest enough, although he was certain that Hail Storm would have a tale to tell when next they met. “No, Haya, I would speak of the Trials, and the dangers to our young ones.”

There was a long pause then, with nothing to be heard but the wind in the grass.

“It would be good to hear whatever news you bear,” Seo said.

Haya’s face was unreadable, but she lowered her arms. “I offer you and your warriors the shelter of my tent. Come within. Speak your truths.”

Antas entered Haya’s tent to find that her courtesy was a warm one, with a brazier glowing, hot kavage offered, and bowls of gurt placed within easy reach. But there was no warmth in Haya’s eyes as she gestured him and his Second to take their seats.

“This is Quartis,” Haya said shortly, indicating the younger man already seated to her left. He had the tattoo of a bird’s wing around his eye, and feathers braided into his long hair.

“Greetings, Singer.” Antas eyed the man warily, but Quartis’s face and nod were neutral and proper in all respects.

Antas gestured to the warrior who had followed him within the tent. “My Second is Veritt of the Bear.”

Haya sat, her back still and straight. “My people will offer kavage for your men, and see to their horses. As I said, I can offer you little time. I’ve two young warriors to mourn for this night, and a sorrowing camp.”

“Death comes in an instant,” Antas repeated, taking the kavage. The young warrior who served him limped slightly as she moved about with mugs and a pitcher. “A hard lesson for the young of the Plains to learn.”

“So it is,” Haya said. “Your truths?”

Blunt and to the point. Antas cleared his throat. “As Elders, you were at the Council of Elders when—”

“No,” Haya cut him off. “I was not in the Council that day.” She caught Antas’s glance at Seo. “Nor was Seo,” she continued. “Reness was there, but I have not heard her truths.” Haya paused, studying Antas intently. “I have heard many tales of what happened, but we did not see.”