Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(26)

The rock was silent and still, as if listening.

“I’ve plenty of water,” she said aloud, and her voice echoed back. “I’ve flint and steel and tinder, enough to search a while longer. My gear is in good shape, and the weather seems to be holding.”

The rock expressed no opinion.

“It’s food,” she admitted, more to herself than the rock. “The hunting here is sparse. I’ve had no luck, and my supplies are gone.”

The rock stayed silent, waiting.

“And here is the truth,” she spoke slowly, softly. “I don’t think they are here.” She swallowed hard, and felt her tears start. “Airions are myths, creatures of dreams. They don’t exist.”

The rock absorbed her whispered words.

“I’ve failed,” she said, and saying it out loud made the pain of her admission that much worse. “In the morning, I’ll break camp and head back down the mountain to Xy. Tell them all my truths. Ask if they will let me return.”

She closed her eyes as the knot in her stomach grew. She wrestled back over onto her stomach, tugging the blankets this way and that, thoroughly frustrated, angry, tired, and scared.

She put her head down on her arms, and gave into the fear. Fear that the Warprize would reject her, that she’d be without a Tribe, without a people, without a purpose.

The flickering coals reflected on her dagger’s blade, placed by her side with her sword.

There was always the choice of going to the snows.

But even in the instant she had the thought, she rejected it. Her life had meaning, and she’d not spill it here on cold stone to no purpose except to end her pain. Her death could have other uses, and she’d make it a good one.

The coals shifted, and she fed more wood to them. Once the fire was bright, she closed her eyes. She’d head down tomorrow, and face whatever awaited her there.

Warriors did not weep. There was no one to see, no one to comment, but still she resolved not to cry.

Later, much later, while the wind set the trees to swaying and whispering, she eventually not-cried herself to sleep.

In the morning, she used the cold water to bathe and scrub the dried tears from her face.

It had been a foolish dream; a child’s dream. She’d no knowledge of the land or how to survive on her own here. She was lucky to have lived this long, and she was fairly certain she’d be reminded of that fact over and over.

At least she had tried. But that was cold comfort at best.

She filled the waterskin, rolled up the blankets, and packed her meager gear. It had taken her some time to come this high, but she’d been searching as she went. Going down would be fast, but she’d have to take care not to fall. She’d hunt as she went, that would help with the growling in her stomach.

She stepped out to find the sky above clear and blue in its beauty. The recent rains had caused the greens to seem greener somehow. She tried to appreciate what the elements had provided, but her failure sat in the hollow of her chest.

Best to be about it.

She stepped out on the path and the wind died down, leaving everything quiet and still. Even the birds seemed to—

A soft sound floated through the air. Someone singing.

Amyu frowned. The wind playing tricks again was her first thought, even as she turned in that direction. It wasn’t possible, but—

A flutter of white caught the corner of her eye, and she focused, looking further up on the mountain. There, above her. There was a darkness, clearly the mouth of a cave.

The wind picked up, and there was a brief flutter of white again.

Amyu bit her lip. A bird? Or perhaps… feathers?

She should go down. There were no airions; she was on a fool’s quest.

But what harm in one last cave? It wouldn’t take more than an hour to climb up, and the delay would only come at the cost of her empty stomach.

She paused, holding her breath, listening hard.

There it was again.

The merest whisper of a song.





Chapter Nine


“Cadr,” Gilla’s voice pulled him from sleep.

Battle tense, Cadr gripped the hilt of his sword even before his eyes opened.

“No threat,” Gilla said, although there was still tension in her voice. “Lightning Strike and the others are ready to offer Wild Winds’s body to the flames.”

The warmth that surrounded Cadr stirred and moved then, and two of the warcats rose to stand over him, stretching. Cadr tossed back the blankets to do the same, only to stifle a groan.

“I have kavage,” Gilla offered.

Cadr nodded. He was stiff and sore, but other than that—he touched his throat, feeling the scar, but no discomfort. He swallowed, hard. No pain.

Thanks to the elements. And bloodmoss.

He rose to his knees, then to his feet, and stood for a moment to get his balance. Gilla’s warcats head-butted him, rubbing against his bare legs, tails jauntily in the air.

“Not helping,” Cadr muttered, as Gilla stifled a nervous laugh.

She offered the mug of kavage. He took it, then arched an eyebrow at her.

She shrugged at his silent question. “The others are upset. Their anger has grown as they have prepared Wild Wind’s body for burial. Doesn’t help that a storm has brewed up.”

Cadr nodded, drinking deeply, then reached for his armor, only to hesitate. The pieces lay where he’d left them, caked with blood and dirt.