WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(87)

Snowfall put her hand on Hanstau’s shoulder, who was leaning down, reaching for the warrior.

“Run back,” Elois whispered. “Get back here now and maybe—”

They disappeared. Suddenly there was nothing but grass and...

Simus sucked in a breath, as the warriors around him gasped.

“Where—” Nona breathed.

“There.” Mirro pointed with his chin. “Watch the grass.”

Simus focused, and saw the grass was moving. Slowly, surely, toward them.

“A Xyian,” Mirro breathed. “A city-dweller. No weapon in hand, and he charges down there.”

“There is more to them than you know,” Elois spoke up.

Simus said nothing, casting glances between bent blades of grass and the wyverns. Until finally he heard Snowfall’s breath, and the shallow panting of a wounded warrior. And the heavier panting of his Xyian healer.

With an audible ‘pop’ they appeared at the edge, and willing hands pulled them over and down, out of sight of the Heart. Simus had Snowfall in his arms. Relief filled him as her arms enclosed him, and he felt her warm, solid body against his.

She pulled back, and there was a smile in her eyes she’d let only him see. “Just tired, Warlord. I had to carry, and concentrate, and move.” She shook her head. “Not as easy as I thought.”

“Faela,” exclaimed a warrior as the wounded woman was laid down on the grass, Hanstau at her side, digging into his satchel. Willing, careful hands were cutting back the armor, exposing the sting to his view.

“You had to know you were dead,” Mirro said, kneeling by the healer. “Why would you—”

“I am a healer,” Hanstau said absently, in broken Plains language. “I have my own oaths. Now be silent and let me work.”

Elois knelt at the wounded warrior’s head, offering a waterskin. The warrior took a swallow, then spat it out. “I am Faela, Token-bearer to Ultie. I bring word—” Her mouth snapped shut against a groan. Hanstau was working on her back.

Simus knelt beside Elois. “Tell us,” he commanded.

The warrior blinked against the sweat on her face, and strained to look up. “Many live, some badly hurt, but yet they breathe. If you could—”

“Wild Winds?” Snowfall asked.

Faela grunted against the pain as Hanstau pressed down on the wound. “I do not know,” she said through gritted teeth. “Osa, Ultie—although Ultie is wounded badly in the leg. Other voices, whispering in the darkness. No one dares move.” Her breath was gasps now, her words broken. “I...closest to the edge. My choice, to bring word...”

Hanstau swore under his breath and spoke in his own tongue. “Warlord, whatever this poison is, nothing I have counters it. It eats at her from within.” He sat back, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He glanced at his bag again, as if considering his options, then shook his head. “Grant her mercy, Warlord.”

Simus was surprised, but he knelt by Faela’s head. “Faela,” he said. “The healer can do no more.”

Faela let her head sink down on the grass. “The snows will cool this pain, Warlord,” she gasped out. “Let it be done.”

“You will be remembered,” Simus said.

Faela mumbled something Simus didn’t catch, and then made a final effort to lift her head. “I would see the sky,” she said.

Willing hands turned her, and Simus stepped back to let those that knew her best conduct the rite.

“The fire warmed you,” someone began the chant.

The warriors around her responded in unison. “We thank the elements.”

Hanstau moved back, making room, swallowing hard as he angrily shoved jars and bottles back into his satchel.

“Lara fought against the granting of mercy,” Simus said softly.

Hanstau paused and took a deep breath. “My Queen is a gentle lady, and a Master Healer, but she lacks my years.” The pudgy healer with the soft hands looked up at Simus with hard eyes. “I know when to offer my surrender to Lord Death.”




“We can kill them,” Simus said. “Just like we bring down ehats.”

“With all due respect, Warlord, ehat musk does not eat flesh and bone,” Nona said.

They’d given Faela mercy and seen to her body as best they could. Now Simus had gathered them once again, out of sight of the Heart. Hanstau sat beside Simus, staring at the satchel in his lap.

“So now we know some live beneath that wreckage,” Simus said.

“Without the Warlord, there are no raids. Without raids, there will be no Plains,” another offered.

“Without Elders, there is no Council,” another said glumly.

“Lances work to kill the creatures,” Simus continued, not letting them sink into despair. “Crossbows may, with a good hit. But we need not kill. Just create enough of a fuss to draw them off and let others move in, and pull those that live from the debris. I have an idea—”

A rustling from the grass around them. Simus stopped talking at the sound of a soft bird call. Tsor, and a handful of younger warriors, crawled into view, all grass-stained and sweating.

“Tsor, what word?” Simus said, as the group made room for the newcomers.

Tsor crawled up and sat cross-legged next to him. The young ones sprawled out in the grass before him, sharing a waterskin.