WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(30)

“But we were met by a warrior-priestess who offered herself as hostage and took us to Wild Winds,” Lander added. “It would seem that the warrior-priests were not all of one mind. Then the Sacrifice occurred, and—” He swallowed, remembering the column of light and the swirling herds of horses around the Heart. “I do not know what to think,” Lander repeated. “But I try to remember that those responsible for what happened are not the warrior-priests that are now with Wild Winds.”

“Well said.” Joden nodded. “You think like a Singer would, and should.”

Lander dared to hope. “You’d take our oaths?” he asked, his eyes locked on the Warlord’s.

“Yes,” came the reply.

Lander’s heart rose in his throat.

“Pull out your swords,” the Warlord commanded. “I will take your oath here and now, conditioned only on my surviving the Trials. Destal and Joden will act as witness to your words.”

“Willingly,” Lander said, with mounting joy, and pulled his sword, taking care not to injure himself in his nervousness. It wouldn’t do to bleed on his Warlord.

The oath passed in a blur, and he found himself stumbling out of the tent, Ouse at his side, as Destal escorted them. He tried to focus on her advice as to the location of their tent, but all he really felt was the heady relief of success. They’d done it; they’d serve Simus, Warlord of the Plains, and who knew where that might lead.

Ouse nudged his arm and they exchanged grins, stumbling after the Token-bearer like two warriors giddy on too much drink.





Chapter Twelve


Simus stepped out of his tent at dawn the next day, dressed in his new armor and ready for battle.

A wide circle of bare earth awaited him, and clustered around were his warriors. Almost all faced him, their faces filled with joy and anticipation. But there were also those with their backs turned, looking out over the Plains, keeping watch.

Simus’s heart swelled and he returned their grins with his own, his face feeling like it might split at any moment.

He strode forward to the edge of the circle, and bellowed to the skies. “HEYLA!”

His people roared their response.

“We have bared the earth,” Simus chanted, making sure his voice could reach the entire crowd. “We ask the earth to witness these Trials.”

“We thank the earth for witnessing our truths,” came the traditional response.

Two braziers sat off to each side, one filled with water, the other with a fire that leapt brightly from precious wood.

Simus moved to the one filled with water. “We have lit the fire,” he chanted. “We ask the fire to witness these Trials.”

The crowd responded. “We thank the fire for witnessing our truths.”

Simus moved to the opposite side. “We have poured the water,” he said, his words a steady beat. “We ask the water to witness these Trials.”

“We thank the water for witnessing our truths.”

Simus returned to the center, and laughed as he lifted both hands, palms up, and tilted his head back. “Skies, we invite you into our midst. We ask the skies to witness these Trials.”

“We thank the skies for witnessing our truths.”

And without prompting, all joined in the last shout of “HEYLA!” followed by laughter, clapping of hands, and pounding of feet.

“I declare myself a candidate for Warlord,” Simus proclaimed, and walked back to his tent entrance where the challenge pole stood. He raised his banner swiftly, a long streamer of red against the sky, cracking against the wind. “Red for the flame that is a Warlord,” Simus recited.

Destal stepped forward. “I request permission to contest for Token-bearer,” she said, and at Simus’s nod hung her banner below his. “Brown,” she said. “For the earth that is a Token-bearer.”

“I request permission to contest for Second,” Yers said, and when Simus gave him the nod, he attached his banner below Destal’s. “White for the air that is a Second.”

“And I for Third.” Tsor stepped forward, and at Simus’s nod, attached his blue banner to stream out with the rest. “Blue for the water that is a Third.”

His warriors, still clustered about, were laughing and smiling. Simus stood in their midst and shared their joy, admiring the banners for just a moment. But he was also very aware of the risks they were taking, tying their success to his. If he failed, they’d have to seek service with another Warlord, losing rank and status. Or worse, return to a thea camp to wait out the season.

But they gathered and stood, smiling and confident, and his heart swelled at the sight.

“Now the hard part,” Destal said after a moment. “The waiting.”

Sighs and groans, and the other warriors started to wander off to see to their duties.

Destal sighed as well. “I’ve a belt to re-stitch.” She settled on a gurtle pad beneath the challenge pole.

Yers shrugged. “I’m off to make the rounds of the Tenths, and see if I can talk to some that have not yet sworn their oaths. Summon me if a challenger appears.”

Tsor placed his pad by Simus’s weapons rack and pulled out a whet stone, clearly intent on sharpening his sword.

Other camps were starting to form around them, but for now few warriors wandered freely. It would be some time before challengers appeared. Simus resigned himself, retreated back into his tent, seated himself on the platform in all his finery, and decided to brood. Majestically. Powerfully. As a Warlord should.