Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(17)

The saddles had been real, proving the truth of the airions. They existed, or had existed. She ached to ride one, drawn by an urge deep in her heart.

Her hands were cold, and she blew into her fingers to warm them. Then she spread her arms out in supplication, and threw her heart out into the wind. “Skies, aid me,” she whispered.

She waited, as the sun seemed to stop in the sky, and the trees went silent around her.

A slight breeze moved over her, playing with her hair. Peace filled her soul, and blanketed her heart with warmth.

Amyu took a deep breath, lowered her arms and hugged them to her chest.

She had her truth. She was no longer Amyu of the Boar, having been cast out of her Tribe for barrenness and disobedience.

She was no longer Amyu of Xy, by her own choice.

She would be Amyu of the Skies. Madness it may well be, but her choice was made, even if it cost her life.

She turned back to the mountain and headed further up the path.





Chapter Six


“Let go, Warrior,” the words, the tone, were no threat; the woman’s voice seemed kind.

Cadr became aware slowly. The sky, the grass. The horse beneath him, and the heavy body hanging over his legs. He had to stay on, stay on, stay—

“You’re safe, you’re here,” A gentle touch on his wrist brought his focus to the warrior standing by his knee. Her fingers stayed there, warm against his skin.

So she, whoever she was, wasn’t dead.

That was good. That was important, but Cadr wasn’t sure why.

There were other warriors clustered around his horse, which was standing still, its head hanging.

“Let go,” she repeated, and now her fingers laced with his, trying to untangle them from the horse’s mane. He’d a death grip on the coarse hairs.

Cadr tried to clear his eyes, tried to see.

She was pretty. Brown hair, brown eyes, younger than he but only by a few seasons. Her face though, was worried, frowning, and her eyes… she was crying.

“Who?” he croaked.

“I am Gilla of the Snake,” she said.

But that wasn’t right. Cadr jerked his head up. His horse reacted, bunching its legs to bolt, but there were too many bodies surrounding them, too many hands reaching out to soothe horse and rider.

“Peace, warrior,” came a broken male voice from Cadr’s other side. “I am Lightning Strike. I do not know how you found me, but we are grateful.”

“The dead,” Cadr croaked, but he wasn’t sure he was understood.

“Let us take him,” Lightning Strike said. He was a tanned man, dreadlocks hanging down his back. He had the partial tattoos of a warrior-priest-in-training.

Cadr swayed in the saddle as willing hands pulled the limp body of Wild Winds off his legs. The death chant rose around them as they carried the body away.

“Come,” Gilla tugged his arm. “Night Clouds will see to the horse.”

He managed to dismount, but wobbled, and then fell to his knees. Gilla heaved him up, putting his arm over her shoulders. Strong. She was strong and solid and not dead. “It’s not far,” she said.

“You are not—” Cadr felt the need to explain but his mouth and tongue were rough and dry.

“My tent,” Gilla said as she pulled him within. “Questions and talk can wait. How long have you been traveling?” She settled him on her sleeping pallet. It was a big tent, but she seemed alone.

Cadr swiped at his eyes again, feeling the last of his strength leach away. “Don’t know,” he admitted in a whisper.

“And here I said no questions,” she said ruefully. A cool cup pressed to his lips. Cadr took it in his clumsy hands and drank greedily.

She pressed a bit of flat bread into his hands, and he managed to take a few bites before he lost the strength to even chew.

“Sleep.” Gilla pressed him down.

Cadr blinked at her as she took a wet cloth to his eyes, face, and hands. He was content to watch, to feel her work. He blinked muzzily, fading, but the tent flap was pushed open and he looked to see who had entered.

A huge creature silently slipped within.

Cadr croaked a warning, trying to point, but Gilla already had a hand on his shoulder keeping him down. “That’s a friend,” she smiled ruefully.

The animal sat by her side, its head level with Gilla’s, its fur a muddled mess of black, brown, yellow and a kind of green. Its bright yellow eyes stared at him unwaveringly. Then it yawned, showing sharp teeth and fangs.

It started to wash its face with its paw.

“They are the reason I am here, in this camp.” Gilla said. “They were born the night of the Sacrifice and exposed to the power that was released by that pillar of light.” She knelt back on her heels, and scratched the creature’s head. “I am not a warrior-priest, but Wild Winds insisted that I travel with him when he saw how fast they were growing.”

“They?” Cadr croaked.

“Six altogether,” Gilla said, and gave a sharp whistle. “I call them warcats.”

Five more large forms slunk into the tent, eyeing him and sniffing the air. And then a last, much smaller version, no bigger than a new-born babe. It had the same color fur, but its eyes were a watery yellow, with a mean look.

“Baby?” he asked.

“Life-bearer,” Gilla said. “It came from the land of the Sacrifice and his Token-Bearer. He called it a ‘cat’.”