Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(28)

Tears ran down Lightning Strike’s face. “We grieve for what we lost. But our loss is as a result of betrayal, by those who themselves are of the Plains.

Cadr hesitated, as the chant became harsher, angrier. He exchanged another glance with Gilla, but she was taken aback as well. This was not the normal.

The warrior-priest with the bowl of flame, took it up again, and set flame to the pile of dried grasses under the platform. He returned to his place as the flames mounted. Cadr frowned. There wasn’t enough fuel to—

“We return Wild Winds to the elements.” Lightning Strike was screaming now, his voice hard and broken. He lifted his face and voice to the sky, raising his hands. The others did as well. “We grieve, but we will also seek to avenge.”

“Death of earth, birth of water,” the chant was hard, fierce, and the hairs on the back of Cadr’s neck rose. The storm clouds above roiled, as if in response.

Lightning Strike’s eyes were closed, all of their eyes were closed, as if they were concentrating, summoning the new powers. But the chant continued, speeding up now, faster and faster.

“—death of water, birth of air, death of air—”

Cadr fought the urge to step back, to flee a danger that was unnamed and unknown. The flicker of fire drew his attention to the mound below the platform. The flames were growing, changing—

“— birth of fire,” screamed the voices as one.

White hot fire roared up, blinding with a flash that burned the eyes.

Cadr raised his hand to ward his eyes, blinking as vision returned. The platform was gone, the body, gone. The ground below was bare and scorched, and tiny wisps of smoke rose from the soil.

But the rage still lingered.

“Aid us,” Lightning Strike cried out, and his voice echoed oddly against the clouds.

Cadr stepped back now, a wary eye on the clouds, on the warrior-priests. Gilla retreated with him, both of them instinctively moving slowly so as not to attract attention. Cadr had been there when Wild Winds had warned Hanstau of the dangers of this power. If that rage fell on he and Gilla, they had no defenses.

“Aid us,” Lightning Strike cried out again. The clouds above him lit up with streaks of light. “By the powers that were released by the Sacrifice, aid us to avenge—”

A yowling sound cut through his words.

“What—?” Lightning Strike looked down.

The mother cat was seated at his feet, her tail wrapped around her feet, her shoulders hunched, her head down. She was yowling, a long low mournful cry.

The cry was echoed as the six warcats rose from the tall grass, all around the circle, as if copying the humans.

The air crackled as the clouds rolled above, and the wind picked up.

Gilla stopped, her eyes wide, reaching out to catch Cadr’s arm. “That sound,” she gasped. “Like when the Sacrifice fell from—”

The air over the earth swirled and tore, and a circle of white appeared and expanded. The inside glowed, and rippled like the side of a tent in a storm.

With a cry, the small mother cat ran forward, a blur against the grasses. Cadr saw her leap into the white, disappearing into the glow.

Gilla cried out in dismay.

“Take cover,” Lightning Strike called out and everyone scattered into the taller grass. Even the warcats, who showed no sign of following their life-bearer.

Gilla took a step toward the portal, but Cadr pulled her flat beside him. “What are you doing?” He hissed.

“I think—”

A man stepped through the portal, carrying a saddle on his back, and packs over both arms.

Cadr’s eyes widened. He was big, black-skinned like Simus, but broader. Bald, with bushy white eyebrows like caterpillars. He wore only trous, and his chest was covered with ritual scarring.

“Home!” he boomed in the language of the Plains. He dropped his burdens at his feet and spread his arms wide. “That which was lost is now found. The wanderer has returned.”

Behind him stepped another man, younger, tanned with long brown hair. He wore tunic and trous, but carried the same saddle and packs that spoke of someone used to travel. But that quick impression was all that Cadr had time for.

Lightning Strike rose from the grass, lifted a bow, and loosed an arrow at the pair.

The older man jerked his head, but the younger was faster. His burden dropped, he raised a hand—

—and the arrow dropped to the ground.

Others rose, launching their own missiles, all of which bounced off something surrounding the strangers. With a snapping sound the portal closed behind them, but still the young man held out his hand and the shield held.

Lightning Strike raised his hands, and looked up at the clouds. “I call—”

“No,” Gilla stood, exposing herself, her hands held out. “The portal, it was like the one the Sacrifice came through.” She stared intently at the strangers as she took another step forward.

Lightning Strike lowered his hands slightly. “Who are you, stranger?”

Cadr watched as those thick white eyebrows rose. “Such is the hospitality of the Plains, now? Strange greetings.”

“Strange times,” Gilla took another step. “I am Gilla of the Snake.”

The man smiled broadly at her, while keeping a careful eye on Lightning Strike. “Well met, Gilla of the Snake. Ezren Silvertongue spoke of you. I am Obsidian Blade and, this,” gesturing at his young companion. “This is Rhys of the Black Hills, also known as Mage.”