WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(72)

Simus continued to wipe his face.

Snowfall stood patiently.

Wyrik continued to rant.

Simus tossed the cloth off to the side, and accepted a mug of water. It was cool and sweet and he drank carefully. Deliberately.

“Your death will be at my hands, and mine alone,” Wyrik shouted.

Snowfall continued to patiently wait. Simus thought he could see a glimmer of approval in her eyes. He looked over the selection on her platter, and picked out a hunk of the dried meat. Not too big, but not too small either.

He tore off a bite, and started to chew.

“Death to you!” It seemed Wyrik was starting to repeat himself. Some of the warriors exchanged quick glances with each other, and smirks. Simus tore off another bite and made sure to keep his face bland as Wyrik screamed at him. It wouldn’t take long for—

Someone in the crowd snickered.

Which was all it took. Tension shattered, smiles broke out all around, and warriors eased their stances. Wyrik’s flair for the dramatic had stumbled.

Wyrik realized it as well, glaring at the warriors. He then focused on Simus. “You stall,” he snarled. “Coward.”

Simus swallowed the meat, and then finished off the water. He took another cloth to wipe his hands. “My thanks,” he said to Snowfall.

She gave him a nod and stepped back.

Simus considered his weapon’s rack, and took up an axe and a shield. He turned, brought his shield up, with his weapon ready and fixed his gaze on Wyrik with an intent stare.

“Finally,” Wyrik roared, bringing up his own shield and banging his axe upon it. “Face me, Simus of the Hawk. Face my—”

Simus leapt into the circle and charged, not wasting breath on words.

Wyrik warded him off, and it began. There was no art in this fight beyond survival. This was brute force, with axes clashing against shields, looking for any opening. This was battle, life or death, and no quarter taken or claimed.

Simus reached deep within for the strength he needed. Wyrik was fresh, but Simus was warm and ready. They were equal in strength, as far as he could tell. Equal in skill, perhaps. Yet Simus knew there was more to fighting than strength and skill, for he was determined to win.

Strangely, Wyrik grew oddly cagey, wary even, as sweat ran down his pale, white face. Simus frowned at the change of tactics. He pressed his advantage, but Wyrik was cautious, backing away. Simus followed up, taking a swing at Wyrik’s legs.

Wyrik went down on his back, for no reason that Simus could think of, but he wasn’t about to lose his chance. He raised his axe high, swinging for—




The power rose, took Snowfall in its grip, and tightened around her.

She was frozen, suspended, with all movement stopped. Her breath in her throat, the dread exploded in her chest. Here. Now. Simus.

The crowd shifted then, as if allowed. She saw one warrior pull a light, handheld crossbow out from under concealment, loading a bolt with slow movements.

Here. Now. Simus, rang through her soul.

The warrior took aim.

“DOWN,” Snowfall screamed.




Simus heard Snowfall’s warning, dove for the dirt, and rolled, bringing his shield up to defend himself.

A bolt hit his shield, biting deep.

A warrior stood frozen behind him, a crossbow in his hand, aimed at Simus. For a long, timeless moment there was silence. Then with a roar, Simus’s warriors reached for the assassin and plunged their daggers into his body.

Simus rose in fury, and spun to face Wyrik. “This is your honor?” he shouted. “This is your truth?”

Wyrik scrambled to his feet. “Yes,” he screamed back. “Yes, yes, a thousand times over, for the sake of the Plains and the elements themselves. You—”

Simus threw away his shield and took his axe into both hands. “This for your treachery,” Simus spat, and swung.

Wyrik raised his shield, but Simus’s rage gave him a new strength. His axe fell again and again as he beat Wyrik back, until the wooden shield finally cracked into shreds and fell off Wyrik’s arm.

Simus raised his axe again. Wyrik attempted to ward off the blow. But Simus bore down and his axe broke the haft of Wyrik’s weapon, slicing down into his collar bone. It continued on, parting flesh and cracking ribs.

Wyrik stood for a moment, life fading from his eyes. Simus yanked his axe up, and Wyrik’s body fell to the dirt.

Simus stood, breathing heavily into the silence, as blood stained the challenge circle. He made a sharp gesture, and hands reached out to drag Wyrik’s body away. “So much for his truths,” Simus said, and then stepped out of the circle to clean his weapon.

“Anyone else?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, glancing at the setting sun.

“Warlord,” Yers spoke from behind him. “I would ask for your token.”

Stunned, Simus looked up. Yers stood opposite him, over the bloodied challenge circle, his face taut with anguish.

Simus opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He gestured for Snowfall to take his token to Yers. “You hold my token, Yers of the Cat,” Simus said. “What truths would you tell me?”

“I would rescind my sword-oath,” Yers said simply.

Simus dropped his gaze to his token. The decorative feathers moved; Yers’s hands were shaking.

“I would ask the reason,” Simus said, wishing desperately that this wasn’t so public, for warriors to witness. The tale of this would be all over the camps. Even now, more warriors came running to see. The very air was filled with silent expectation.