WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(85)

Everything stopped, even his breath. It was as if it was happening a distance away, to another. Hail Storm watched as the warrior lifted his severed arm, and tossed it into the fire.

The arm lay there, reddened by the coals, charred at the end. His fingers...its fingers moved. Hail Storm reached with his power, and watched as the singed fingers formed a fist.

But then everything crashed down on him. The sounds of the warriors, the sizzle of scorched flesh. His lungs demanded air.

Hail Storm gasped, and then screamed until his breath was gone and the pained darkness claimed him.





Chapter Thirty-Four


Simus crawled to the edge of the rise, keeping to the taller grasses. This was where he’d first encountered Wild Winds and Snowfall; it would give them a good view of the Heart and the lakeshore nearby. Elois was next to him, keeping her head as low as she could.

Simus just stared at the destruction. The Council tent was flat, covering the stone Heart, a pile of shredded leather and splintered poles. Bodies, too, of warriors that had fallen trying to defend themselves. “Skies above,” he swore.

All along the shoreline, as far as one could see, a writhing mass of wyverns flew, flapping their wings and snarling and hissing at one another.

Nothing else moved. Nothing dared.

“They had no warning, I’m sure,” Elois choked, but kept on. “The warning horns mingled with the ceremonial ones and the chanting. They didn’t have a chance.”

“Smart move on your part, knocking down my own tent,” Simus said.

“We waited, Tsor and I.” Elois’s voice hitched. She paused, then continued. “We waited for you. Else we’d have been down there with them.”

“Has there been any sign of survivors?” Simus nodded toward the devastation.

“Not so far,” Elois said. She sighed. “At one point, something moved within. The beasts attacked the tent and then tore into it like it was a living thing. I don’t know if any are still alive underneath. Two rescue attempts failed,” she added, nodding toward where a cluster of warriors lay dead.

“Tsor took some of the younger warriors, to stalk the beasts,” Elois continued quickly. “Not to attack, but to watch and learn. He told them to stalk as if hunting prey, but to make no attacks.”

Simus grunted, still considering the mound that was the collapsed Council tent. It was—it had been—the largest of the tents on the Plains, covering the circular stone with tiered seating for the Elders. It lay in shambles now, but it was possible that under its weight, someone survived. Perhaps...was Joden under that mess?

Simus squashed the thought. Best to deal with what he knew. Better to focus on the problem at hand.

“And those that have gathered there?” Simus asked, deliberately not looking behind him at the warriors gathered out of sight of the Heart.

“What remains,” Elois grimaced. “Thirds and Fourths, and the odd Tenth. All lost since their Warlords and Seconds were within the Council tent.” Elois snorted. “And them supposed to take over command if the leaders fall.”

“Go easy,” Simus said. “They’ve never had to deal with something like this. We’ve had to face much that is new and different since dealing with Xy.”

“But nothing like this,” Elois said.

“No,” Simus agreed. “Nothing like this.” He took one last look. “Let’s return.”

They crawled back to the group of warriors waiting, kneeling and sitting in the grass. Their hunched shoulders, and anxious scanning of the skies, was telling.

Snowfall and Hanstau sat to one side. Snowfall, with his permission, was trying to contact Wild Winds. She had a small bowl of water in her hands that shimmered with her power. She met Simus’s eyes, and shook her head slightly before returning to her efforts. So, then: Wild Winds was either dead or unconscious under the debris.

Simus sat before the group, Elois on his right. “I will call this senel to order,” he said, keeping his voice low.

That brought startled heads up to glare at him.

“By what right,” one warrior growled.

“Because no one else did,” Simus said firmly. “We must make decisions, and quickly.”

There was a muttering, but no further protests.

“Tsor, my Second, has taken warriors to watch and learn about the creatures. When they return, we will mount a rescue attempt.” He looked around the group of roughly thirty warriors.

“Another?” one voice said. Simus raised an eyebrow in the speaker’s direction. “Nona, Third to Osa of the Fox,” she said. “We risk more deaths, and there may be no one to aid.” She scowled at him. “My Warlord would say save the living.”

“Mirro, Third to Loual of the Boar,” a male spoke up, his voice flat and angry. “And why would you try, Simus, when those that opposed you are dead?” Mirro’s face contorted as he spoke. “You may be the last living Warlord on the Plains, and you and Keir of the Cat would be free to—”

“I would not want to win that way,” Simus said simply. “Nor would I serve a WarKing that would take that path to power.”

Silence fell over them.

“Those are our best down there,” Simus continued. “Our Warlords, Elders, Seconds, and Token-bearers. We know not if they live, but we must try to save them.”