Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(111)

Pain crashed down on Marcus, the regret, the guilt, everything that he had denied for so very long. He took a step, and then another, and then stopped. “I could not bear that,” he gulped out, closing his one eye against the tears. “I defied the elements to stay alive. I cannot defy you.”

There was movement then. He didn’t dare look. But he could feel the warmth of Liam’s body as he stood next to him. Marcus took a breath of his scent as warm fingers took the dagger from his hand.

“Flame of my heart,” Liam whispered. “Look at me.”

Marcus looked up, blinked against his tears. Liam was looking down, ever so much taller than he, with eyes filled with love.

Marcus reached up then, desperate for the reassurance that he did not deserve.

Liam leaned down, and kissed him, wrapping his arms around him, each losing himself in the other.

Marcus wept, with ugly sobs, wept out the pain of the years, and the desperate feeling of loss. He didn’t deserve this, wasn’t worthy of this warrior’s love. But Liam would not let him go, kept tight hold as he drew them both back down to the pallet, and held Marcus as they both released the anguish within.

It seemed hours later, as the sun was setting, that they both lay naked in each other’s arms. Marcus spoke as the sun reached the horizon and started to slip away. “The Warprize, Lara, she once told me that love never dies.”

“Wise woman, that city-dweller,” Liam said. “For a female.” His hand drifted under the blanket, and Marcus caught his breath. “I prefer other prey,” Liam nuzzled the spot where Marcus’s ear should have been.

Marcus shivered.

“Shall we?” Liam asked.

“Yes,” Marcus whispered. He reached for his beloved. “Yes.”




Amyu’s challenges made the days fly as fast as airions on the wing.

And that was fast.

“I wonder,” Lightning Storm mused over their nooning. “If there is a way to shield our eyes with power.”

Today’s meal was a thick soup of pig and plants with dark bread. Xyian food tended to be bland, so they’d all added some of the red spice to the meal. Sidian was devouring his bowl. Rhys had decided to try it, and was cautiously dipping bits of bread in the broth. He seemed to like it, but his eyes were watering.

“But the bugs would hit it, right?” Rhys gasped a bit as he talked, and took large droughts of water. “So that’s a problem.”

Amyu smiled. Rhys had absolutely refused to mount an airion, but he was willing to aid them as best he could.

“Amyu, what do you think?” Lightning Strike asked.

Here was one of her challenges. Everyone kept asking her questions she didn’t have answers to, expecting her to guide them. Amyu tried, but she lived in fear that someday they would discover she knew no more than they did. But they turned to her for leadership, and so she did her best. “Thinking about the shield would be distracting,” she thought out loud. “And the wind isn’t that bad. But worth a try.”

The others nodded and started right then and there to fashion shields before their eyes.

One of the warriors that Heath had assigned to aid them slunk closer, offering more bread and kavage. Amyu took more, making sure to thank him with a smile.

There was another challenge. Weaving a pattern between Xyian and the warrior-priests. Or whatever they were now; even Lightning Storm wasn’t sure. Two cultures trying to deal with strange creatures had brought some headaches. Some of the Xyians were none too pleased that they could not ride an airion easily.

Amyu sighed inside. That was really her final challenge. Flying itself. It was dangerous, and wonderful to ride an airion into the clouds. But it wasn’t easy. She glanced over to where her Golden was sleeping. No not easy. But she’d never give up.

The days flashed by. But her nights… Amyu looked toward the south. At night, her thoughts were all for Joden.

Lightning Strike had put down his bowl of soup, and was trying to fashion a cover for his eyes that didn’t glow with power. Amyu joined in the laughter, but then noticed that his bowl was vibrating.

“Lightning Strike?” she pointed. “How much spice did you add to your bowl?”

“Eh?” Lightning Strike looked down and gasped. “Snowfall?”

The soup spilled over, and an image of Snowfall rose from the bowl, wavering, with bits of meat suspended in the fluid.

“Aid me,” Lightning Strike yelped, and two others of the warrior-priests moved to his side. Amyu could see the power flowing and watched as the image grew steadier.

“Lightning Strike,” Snowfall said. She seemed to peer around. “Is Joden of the Hawk with you?”

Amyu jumped to her feet. “Joden?”

The image of the woman turned to face her. “Amyu?” she asked.

“Yes,” Amyu took a step closer. “What is wrong?” she asked, dread filling her chest.

Snowfall frowned. “Joden of the Hawk left us after Keir killed Antas. He told Keir he would be with Essa. Essa has sent a messenger asking where Joden is, for he has not arrived in the Singer’s camp. We’d hoped he was with you.”

Fear flooded through Amyu. He’d been gone long enough—

“Scry the Heart,” she commanded. “Now.”

Warrior-priests scattered to obey,