WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(77)

“Greetings, Warlord.” The young one pulled the gurtle to a halt a respectful distance away, and bowed her head to him. She was wearing leathers, and had a new wooden dagger and sword at her belt. She also had a small horn on a cord, which meant she was in charge of her herding group.

“Pive.” Simus gave her a nod. “I see you have won back your weapons.”

Pive straightened, clearly pleased. But her face remained serious. “Yes, Warlord. May I be of service to you?”

Her gurtle started to graze, looking for the best grass.

“Have you seen a warrior collecting fuel?” Simus asked. “She has tattoos on her shoulders—”

“Yes,” Pive said, nodding. “We are keeping close watch on her. She is a warrior-priestess and not to be trusted.”

Simus drew a breath, looking into the child’s eyes. A child only repeating what she had been told.

“This one can be trusted,” Simus said. “Take me to her.”

“As you wish, Warlord,” Pive said, tugging on the reins of her gurtle, and turning it back toward the herd. “Hup, hup” she told her mount.

“MUWAAAAP,” the gurtle protested, but did as it was bid.

Pive plunged into the herd, and the other gurtles moved aside, protesting as they shifted to one side or another. Simus nudged his horse to follow.

Pive angled off, toward another rise. There were other children scattered about, watching over the herds. Not that gurtles took much tending, but it was a common task given to younger children who had not earned their first metal weapons. Simus could remember his days of gurtle tending, not to mention the gathering of fuel for the fires.

They topped the rise, and Simus spotted her, surrounded by a ‘guard’ of children. Her horse grazed nearby, with just a plain saddle, and straps for carrying baskets.

The tightness in Simus’s chest eased. “My thanks,” he said to Pive and urged his horse forward at a faster pace, causing the gurtles to raise a storm of protest.

Simus saw Snowfall raise her head at the sound. She watched as he approached, her face blank and expressionless.




She watched as Simus urged his horse down the rise and headed toward her.

Her heart sped up, and she lowered her gaze to the basket in her hands.

She’d doubted he’d come. After all, she’d lost the challenge. Her duties were now no more than an ordinary warrior’s. His was the role of the Warlord. He should be gathering his warriors and aiding to raise the Council tent this morning, as Essa had commanded.

But her heart had dared hope.

And now that he was here, she found herself torn between joy and a terrible trembling in her bones. It felt as if she had always known that Simus of the Hawk’s loyalty, once given, was absolute. But she didn’t understand where that knowledge came from. That trust. It thrilled and frightened at the same time.

But her heart ached for the one truth she knew well. She’d failed him. She could still serve, but not at his side, as she’d come to wish.

How to face him? How to admit—

But there was no delay, no escape. His horse pounded up, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.




Simus galloped close, and then slid from his saddle. “Snowfall,” he said, and didn’t try to hide his relief.

“Warlord,” Snowfall said, nodding her head.

“I needed to find you.” Simus stepped closer. “To see—”

“I lost,” Snowfall said abruptly.

“I know,” Simus said. “Where did she score on you?”

Snowfall touched her left cheek.

Simus stepped closer again to look.

“She’s good,” Snowfall said, but there was a hint of grudge in her respect.

“There’s no scar.” Simus made it a question.

“I used bloodmoss,” Snowfall said. She looked at him closely. “You are well?”

“Well enough,” Simus said. He took a deep breath. “I had to come find you,” he heard himself babble. “To see if...” Simus stopped himself.

“Well, you have found me.” Snowfall gestured to the baskets of dried dung that surrounded her. “At my duties.”

“We are watching her,” Pive piped up. She trotted closer to the two of them. “We told her she has to find the driest bits for a good fire.”

Snowfall’s mouth quirked ever so slightly. “Yes, they did,” she said.

Simus just stared at Snowfall.

The sun was higher now, and for some reason Simus could see clearly. Clearer. Snowfall was all the more beautiful, standing before him, surrounded by baskets of dried dung.

Her eyes were clear and quiet, but he could read her shame. Her curls danced in the light, framing her face.

The pounding in his heart, the need within his soul...by all the elements above and below, he finally saw the truth.

It wasn’t just her beauty, it was her, all of her, that he wanted. Needed. Her strength, her courage, her— Snowfall tilted her head. “Shouldn’t you be at the raising of the Council tent?”

Joy filled his mind and heart. Simus started to laugh, at himself, at the skies, at his own stupidity, laughing until the horses, the children, the gurtles were all staring at him with concern.

“Warlord?” Snowfall asked slowly, as they all, the horses, the children, the gurtles, all stared at him like his wits had been taken by the winds.