WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(94)

Snowfall snorted. “That would be the arrogance.”

Simus rolled to his side, and placed his hand on her knee. “It’s not arrogance,” he said slowly as he rubbed her warm skin, and then let his fingers trace closer to her depths. “It’s not arrogance, if it’s backed by performance...” His hand drifted even closer.

Snowfall moved then, pushing him onto his back and straddling his hips. She leaned down, letting her mouth brush his. “Less talk, my Warlord,” she whispered.

Simus couldn’t agree more.




They loved again, bringing each other pleasure in all ways before deciding to sleep.

Simus lay on his side, pulled her close, and held her with one arm as he drifted off, breathing softly in her ear.

Snowfall didn’t close her eyes. Not just yet.

How was it that Simus could see what she had been blind to? That what lay between them was more than just a sharing of bodies, minds, and goals.

Not that she was going to tell him that. At least, not just yet.

Wild Winds had said to look deeper, and she had. And found surprises, and contradictions, and fascinating possibilities.

When had their goals, their lives, intertwined? Snowfall wasn’t sure. It had all happened so fast, and yet it felt as if it had always been between them. In her heart, in the depths of her soul, she knew that between them, love could only continue to grow. Her heart tingled at the thought. Still...she feared his people’s response, or even Keir of the Cat’s reactions to their relationship. It hurt her that Simus might be hurt by this.

But not enough that she could let him go.




Blaring horns woke Simus in the morning.

There was a moment of confusion as they both reached for weapons at the same time. But the sleep cleared, and Simus waited, letting Snowfall gather her things first and plunge through the tent flap to dress outside.

“The wyverns hunt,” Elois’s voice came from outside. Snowfall’s response was muffled.

Simus buckled the last of his straps, reached for his weapons, and stopped. He had to bite his lip to stifle a shout of joy.

Snowfall had taken his dagger.





Chapter Thirty-Eight


Simus was pleased to see that Elois had set up an area with gurtle pads around a small fire pit. Cimor and his scouts were already seated there, eating and waiting to give their report.

Simus settled next to Cimor, putting his sword on the ground next to him. In the distance, he could see the wyverns circling the Heart.

“The monsters roused early.” Cimor was stuffing his face.

Simus’s stomach growled at the scent of roasted gurtle.

“They’re solitary hunters,” Cimor spoke around his mouthful. “At least, from what we have seen. They are not launching in swarms.” He took a mug of kavage from Elois with a nod of thanks. “And what kills they make, they are carrying back to the lake.”

“They eat them and roll in the remains,” one of the scouts offered, making a rolling motion with his hand. “The older and more rotted the better.”

Simus made a face at that thought, and Cimor nodded. “It explains their smell.”

Snowfall hesitated at the edge of the group, but Elois thrust the kavage pitcher into her hands, and gestured for her to serve. Simus relaxed; he didn’t want her to leave him just yet.

“You won’t want first meats from those kills, Warlord,” one of the other scouts chimed in. “Foul tasting, and the smell,” she grimaced. “But their tough skin should make for good leather and bone is bone.” She held up a claw, cut from a carcass. “We took claws and those curled horns as well. And their teeth are sharp as any blade.”

“When they sleep, there by the lake?” Cimor said. “They curl up in tight balls, covering their heads and bodies with their wings.” He demonstrated, curling into a ball, his arms over his head. “You’d think them large rocks if you stumbled over them in the night.”

Elois offered Simus a pocket of bread, stuffed with meat. “Best get something in you quickly,” she said. “Before you’re needed.”

Simus started eating. “Do they fly at night?” Simus asked, as he spoke around his food.

“No,” Cimor said. “And they are sight hunters, not scent.” He took a swig of kavage. “I’ve set watches on them.” Cimor wiped his mouth. “They’ll keep eyes on the beasts until you give orders otherwise.”

Voices were being raised behind him, an argument from the sound of it. Someone was shouting in Xyian. Hanstau, most likely. Simus ignored it for the moment. “So we are safe to walk about, then?”

“As long as none are in the air about you.” Cimor shrugged. “And the horns will warn of their approach. But my truth, Warlord, is I’d almost rather be in Xy and have a nice stone wall between me and them. And the ehats? No one has seen one since the flight, and there are usually one or two—”

The argument grew loud enough to drown him out.

Cimor grinned. “Seems your day has begun, Warlord.”

Simus grimaced in agreement.




It was a sight Simus had never expected to see: the wounded of the Plains being tended by a Xyian healer.

Hanstau had gathered the wounded together outside his small tent. The pallets were laid in rows, with wounded warriors sprawled on and under blankets, with bandages covering their wounds. Other warriors were moving about, serving kavage and bread to those that could feed themselves.