Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(23)

There was silence as all watched and waited.

“Joden of the Hawk,” Quartis called as he moved down to his left foot.

There was no response.

Finally, Quartis took Joden’s right foot, putting his hand over where the tether was tied. “Joden of the Hawk,” he called out again.

Nothing. Joden’s face was lax, his body limp. If he breathed, Essa couldn’t see it.

“We will see you again, Warrior,” Quartis rose. “Beyond the snows.”

Essa stepped forward then, pulling the leather thong from the stake, and wrapping it around Joden’s ankle. As he gripped the man’s ankle, he felt the barest pulse of life. “Bear this as witness,” he said. “As you walk the old path.” He rose then, gesturing. “Bring him,” he said. “We will give him to the earth.”

Many hands lifted Joden’s body, and they carried him to the grave already waiting.

There were gasps as they drew close. There beside the grave was a folded bundle of light, white cloth, lengths and lengths, enough to wrap a body many times over.

The Ancients. It had to have been. Essa glanced around, but there was no sign of their be-damned-to-the-snows tent.

Essa gestured, and the others spread the cloth and used it to wrap the body over and over. They put the shrouded corpse within one of the small collapsed leather tents. Once done, they lowered the tent and the body it contained into the grave, and gathered at the edges.

Essa drew a breath. “Death of fire, birth of earth,” he started.

Four Singers started to fill in the grave.

“The fire warmed you,” the Singers chanted, their voices muted in the night air. “We thank the elements.”

“Death of earth, birth of water,” he chanted.

More earth, pushed in, covering the leather shroud.

“The earth supported you,” the Singers chanted. “We thank the elements.

“Death of water, birth of air,” Essa poured his grief into his voice, letting it soar out above them.

Still the Singers worked, on their knees. The level of earth rose almost level to the grass. Essa could almost feel the weight of the dirt on his own skin.

“The waters sustained you,” the Singers chanted, their voices muted in the night air. “We thank the elements.”

“Death of air, birth of fire,” he chanted the final verse.

“The air filled you,” came the final response. “We thank the elements.”

The grave was filled.

They stood silent for long moments.

“Dawn is not far off,” Quartis looked up at the stars.

“Far enough,” Essa said bitterly. “Bring drums,” he told the others. “He may hear, and know that we keep watch.”

“He has a chance,” Quartis reminded him as the others drifted off.

Essa shrugged, and settled down to keep watch over the mound as the stars danced above. Not-thinking on what would be. Not thinking on what the dawn would bring.

Around him others gathered, drumming a slow and steady beat.

And when the first faint hint of light broke on the horizon, his hands joined the others as they frantically dug into the earth. No chanting now. Just hard breathing as they all worked.

The dirt was cold and heavy. “His head,” Essa commanded, and they centered their focus there.

The earth moved slowly, mounding to the side as they finally reached the leather cover. Quartis tugged it back against the heavy, moist dirt.

No white shroud. No Joden.

“He curled up,” Essa gasped, and they dug again, clearing and tugging until the entire leather cover was pulled back.

Essa sat back on his heels, and rubbed his eyes.

The grave was empty.

Joden’s body was not there.





Chapter Eight


Impulsive was one thing; stupid was another. Amyu was not stupid.

She climbed the rest of that day, up mountain paths as high as she could before searching for a place to sleep. In the fading light she found a place, protected by pine trees and a slight overhang of rock.

There was a small circle of stones under the overhang. There were cold ashes in the center and it clearly had not been used for some time. She made a very small fire, more for comfort than anything else, and sat to sort her supplies out, and think things through.

The small lantern was clever, just a metal cylinder with a door and holes throughout. The curved metal bowl at the bottom could burn wood or maybe even animal fat. There was a small stub of a fat candle; she’d have to conserve that for as long as possible.

She’d need food as well, and dug through the pack to check what she had. Bread, gurt, dried meat. A jar of sweetfat, a whet stone, and dried bloodmoss. A small sack of kavage beans, thank the elements. She’d hunt when she could, and eat lightly.

She untied the leather that sealed the jar, lifted it and sniffed. The sweet scent of Plains grasses filled her lungs. It eased a tightness in her shoulders that she hadn’t been aware of. She tightly sealed it up again, and placed it back in the pack.

Maybe she should establish a base camp? Amyu chewed on her lip, thinking. It would be good to be able to cache food and gear, with a secure place to sleep. But keeping everything with her gave her more freedom to roam further out.

Both ways offered benefits. She’d see what the next day brought, and then decide.