WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(90)

Simus nodded, sitting to hear the reports of his warriors. “Scouts?” he asked.

Nona spoke up. “All around us,” she said. “With horns to warn of the wyverns’ approach. I’ve four watchers near the Heart as well. They will sound a warning if the creatures take flight.”

“Hanstau still tends the wounded,” Elois reported. “Those healthy enough have rejoined their warriors.” She shrugged. “As to who will live and die, Hanstau said we would know more in the morning.”

Simus nodded, knowing full well that some of those included the Elders. But all he could do was wait. “Supplies?” he asked.

Mirro gave him a tired smile. “Our losses were not so bad,” he said. “Of more concern will be fresh food, since the gurtle herds have moved even farther off. But for now, we are fine.”

“The same is true of the horses,” Nona said. “Scattered but alive, and willing to come to our hands.”

“The tent debris is being sorted,” Elois said. “The skies alone know if it can ever be raised again. But we are saving what we can.”

“What of our losses, Warlord?” Tsor asked.

“None of ours,” Simus said. “But the dead from the others’ camps are far too many.”

There was a studied silence then, as they considered his news. Weariness crept into his body, but Simus fought it off. Later. He would sleep later. One piece of good news. Simus had asked, and his people had searched. Joden was not among the dead. Wherever he was, Simus hoped he was safe.

“The other armies have scattered wide, fearing the monsters will return. There are others scavenging the destroyed camps, and keeping watchful eyes on the beasts. It could have been so much worse,” Tsor said, bringing Simus’s thoughts back.

Elois nodded. “Still, it is not good. So many good warriors, the pride of their Tribes, dead. Especially the death of Kiza of the Cat. Her Second and some of her warriors have approached me, asking if you would accept their swords.”

“That is for tomorrow,” Simus said, feeling his grief settle in his bones. “If there is nothing further, I think we should seek our tents.”

Eyes cast up, looking at the darkening skies before rising to their feet.

“This night might prove your idea,” Nona said to Tsor. “That they are not night-flyers.”

“I would offer to the skies that they aren’t,” Tsor muttered.

Elois stood at Simus’s side as the others drifted off. “I’ll set you a small tent here, for the night.”

“Good,” Simus said.

“There’s a bathing stream along that path.” Elois nodded toward it. “Rinse off, and I will have hot kavage for you when you return.”

Simus was almost too tired to care, but the dried sweat in his hair was starting to itch. “I will. My thanks, Elois.”

He forced his legs to move. Once past the first few steps it got easier. The path had been cut through the bushes that lined the stream, leading to a small bank of stones.

His skin prickled, anticipating the cold water, a welcome relief. He stripped, listening to the noises of his army around him, and then waded into the water. He washed off the sweat and grime, using handfuls of sand. He sat and lay back, letting the cold water wash over him.

Where had these creatures come from? He’d never seen anything like them, nor did he know of any animal with poison such as this, that would eat away at a warrior’s flesh. He shuddered, and not from the water.

At least they knew that the wyverns could be killed. Not easily, but what is easy on the Plains, eh? He could almost hear the words in Marcus’s dry tones, proclaiming the obvious.

Which led his thoughts to Xy. What if these things had come from there? What did that mean for Lara and Keir and the other warriors left behind. For certain, they had stone walls and stone buildings, but Simus knew full well that one couldn’t cower within forever. Would Keir be able to travel to the Plains? Had everything they had strived for been destroyed?

The cold water was taking his breath, and making his teeth chatter. He waded back to the bank and dried off with his tunic.

Gathering up his armor and weapons, he trudged to where his tent should be. Simus sighed. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to be the one watching the wyverns, or aiding in the healing. But Hanstau had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome back at Hanstau’s tent until after sunrise. Well after sunrise. And his team had things well under control.

He shouldn’t have yelled at her.

Simus stopped, and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the knots. Wishing he could take back words he’d yelled in his fury. He hadn’t seen Snowfall since they’d thundered up to Hanstau’s camp, willing hands reaching for a half-conscious Wild Winds. She had gone with him. Simus had stormed off to see to his warriors, dead and alive. His anger had worn off as he’d worked.

He closed his eyes, and admitted to himself that it hadn’t been anger. It had been fear. His fear that she’d be hurt, injured, killed, or worse. What if she’d needed mercy at his hand from the deadly sting? Even now the image rose in his mind and made his stomach churn.

He opened his eyes, and continued walking, filled with regret, running over what he might have said. Should have said.

His small, one-man tent was where Elois said it would be.

Snowfall was standing next to it.