WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(58)

What would it be like, to ride such a thing?

Iian was gathering up his scrolls and books. “I’ve more reading to do,” he said, sounding pleased.

“I would help you with those,” Amyu offered.

“I thank you, but—” Iian gestured at her leathers and wrinkled his nose.

“Ah.” Amyu grimaced and nodded.

Iian returned her nod amiably, as he rolled and stacked his scrolls carefully. “Amyu, why didn’t the Warlord send you as a messenger?”

Amyu’s throat closed, but his question was an honest one. He was Xyian, he’d have no way of knowing. “It would not serve,” she replied. “To my people, I am a child who will never go through the Rite of Ascension. I should have gone to the snows long ago for my failure to produce warriors for the Tribe. In their eyes, I am a failure.”

“Oh. I see.” Iian studied her, no judgment in his gaze, just a natural curiosity. Then, like a wise Singer of the Plains, his gaze sharpened, and his eyes bored into hers. “And in your eyes, Amyu? In your own eyes, what are you?”

She found she had no answer.





Chapter Twenty-Three


Antas of the Boar felt no need for the usual courtesy. He just threw back the tent flap and stepped in to Hail Storm’s tent without so much as a greeting.

“Ugh.” Antas curled his lip at the stench. He stared at the mound of bedding before him. “You stink like a rotting carcass.”

The tent reeked of stale, sick sweat and piss. Hail Storm lay on his pallet of gurtle pads, covered in blankets and furs. At least Antas thought it was Hail Storm. As he’d been told, the man’s ritual tattoos were gone.

Hail Storm turned his face toward Antas, eyes dull and glazed. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that glistened as he blinked against the light.

“So.” As much as it disgusted him, Antas stepped farther in and let the tent flap close behind him. “I return to my camp, expecting to find a powerful Eldest Elder of the Warrior-priests, his followers with him, rejoicing in the Sacrifice and ready to join with my warriors.”

Hail Storm closed his eyes and turned his face away.

Antas crouched by his pallet. “Instead, I am told strange tales about that pillar of light and the deaths of all of the warrior-priests. Except you, who crawled into my camp more dead than alive and demanded succor.”

“Not all.” Hail Storm’s voice was a rasp. “Wild Winds and his followers live.”

“Even better,” Antas snorted. “You could not even kill that sickly old man? What of your plans, Hail Storm? What of your magic?”

“I still have power,” Hail Storm turned his head back and snarled.

“And what of this?” Antas waved his hand over the mound of blankets.

“It is nothing,” Hail Storm said. “A minor wound.”

Antas reached out and yanked back the blankets.

Hail Storm’s arm was swollen to twice its normal size, the skin purple and bloated. White puss oozed from the wounds, and red streaks traced vivid paths up toward his shoulder.

“Nothing?” Antas said grimly. “I don’t wonder at the smell, now. You look like a bloated, dead gurtle.” He paused, considering the man. “Why do you not heal yourself?”

“My powers are strong, but they do not lend themselves to healing,” Hail Storm admitted stiffly.

“Anyone else, and I’d grant mercy without asking,” Antas said.

Hail Storm fixed him with a glare, and Antas saw strength flood into those dark eyes. A quick move, and Hail Storm flourished a dagger in his good hand. “Do not think it,” he growled.

“As you wish, Eldest Elder.” Antas rose to his feet. “I will leave you to your suffering.”

The dagger disappeared under the blanket. “We had a plan, you and I,” Hail Storm said. “You should follow through with it.”

“Aye, true enough,” Antas said. “I planned to go to the Heart, set up camp and join the Trials.” He curled his lip at the thought. “But that was with the support of the warrior-priests with you as Eldest Elder. Now—”

“I am Eldest Elder,” Hail Storm rasped.

Antas looked down at the sickly man before him. “You just said that Wild Winds lives.”

“I am Eldest Elder,” Hail Storm repeated, his eyes glazed, the sweat pouring off him. “Attack the Heart.”

Antas gave the man an astonished look. “Attack the Heart? Do you think me a fool?”

“You ignore my advice at your peril.”

“I will listen to your advice if you live.” Antas spun on his heel, and strode out of the tent, grateful for the fresh air.

He swept the stench away from his nose with a deep breath of clean air.

Veritt, his Second, and Leda, his Third, were waiting for him, a polite distance away. Antas walked toward them shaking his head. “Come,” he said. “I’ve a need for kavage after that.”

They fell in beside him. “You saw?” Leda said.

“I did,” Antas growled. “And I think it’s likely he will die of that wound. Any other warrior, and I’d grant him mercy. But we need him.”

Leda nodded. “I’ll assign some warriors from punishment detail to care for him. At the very least they can see him cleaned and fed.”