Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(33)

“Why?”

“He is not following our ways,” she explained. “If you are indeed his Warprize, he should be affording you the respect and courtesy that you are entitled to.”

“Such as?” Hanstau asked.

“Have you been presented to his warriors? Offered a guardian? Have you been courted by other Warlords?” Reness shook her head against his shoulder. “At the very least, you must be offered a chance to leave the Plains and return to your people. He has not.”

“He will not.” Hanstau realized with a sickening feeling. “Not until he controls me.”

“Which he will not do,” Reness said with more confidence than Hanstau felt. “He can’t publicly claim you as Warprize without giving you certain rights. We can use that against him.”

“Reness,” Hanstau looked at her doubtfully. “I am not sure Antas is someone you can finesse.”

Reness rose up on her elbow, looking down at him. “What is ‘finesse’?”

Hanstau sighed.





Chapter Eleven


Joden shielded his face against the fierce gale blowing snow and ice into his eyes.

He walked against the wind, unable to see, leaning in against the storm in order to stay on his feet. The winds howled, and battered him back. Where had the storm come from?

He’d been singing, or at least, he thought he’d been singing. He’d been struggling against the wind for so long he’d lost all track of time. There’d been people, and flames and bare earth. Now there was only the thick snow against his bare legs, the harsh blasts, and the cold.

It bit into him, and he felt every inch of his nakedness. He tried glancing around, looking for tents, for other warriors, for shelter.

So very cold.

Horses. If he could find a herd he could shelter in their midst, share the warmth of the herd. Where there were horses, there were camps. He drew a deep breath; the cold hurt his lungs. He threw back his head and warbled for a horse, and listened.

But all he heard was the howl of the winds, and his own harsh breathing. No hoofbeats, no neigh of acknowledgment. Nothing.

A cry echoed back to him. A human, the warble of a scout.

Joden peered through the blinding snow, blinking against the ice crystals forming on his lashes. “Here,” he bellowed. “Here, here!”

A man stumbled out of the snow, a warrior, his leathers tattered and shredded, hanging from his body. His head down, hair covered in ice, he ran right into Joden. Joden reached out, grabbing him by the shoulders to keep them both from tumbling down into the drifts.

The man lifted his head, blinking to see.

“Iften,” Joden gasped in horror.

The blond looked terrible, wasted and pale, ice encrusted on his eyebrows and beard. For a moment recognition flared in those eyes, then hope, then—

Hate.

Iften pushed him away, jerking back to stand there, his face twisted in a scowl. “You! Oath-breaker. Liar. Faithless one, you betrayed—

Joden stepped toward the man. “Iften, we need shelter,” Joden shouted to be heard over the storm. “Join with me and—”

“Never,” Iften screamed, and threw himself away from Joden, lost in the blinding snow. “Never, never, never,” his screams became one with the wind. Even his footprints disappeared.

Joden stood, dazed, trying to think. Iften was dead. Cursed by the Warprize, killed by the Warlord Keir.

Joden hunched down, wrapped his arms around himself and tried to shelter in place. The drifts grew around him as he stared at the melting snowflakes on his arms.

Was he dead?

But he was cold, so cold, and the winds weren’t stopping. He rose to his feet, struggled through the drifts that had mounded around him, and struggled on against the blasts. Dead or not, he needed to find…

A light flickered ahead.

Joden blinked, staring hard. It had to be an illusion.

No, it was there, one of the lights left outside a winter lodge in the worst of the storms. Joden started for it, struggling through drifts, the wind bringing tears to his eyes.

The winds faded, the snow eased. The doorway down into the lodge beckoned. Joden went down the stone steps, and pushed past the oiled leather that served as the first door. He stopped to shake the ice and snow from his hair and wipe as much damp from his skin as he could. Old courtesy, taught to every child. He shivered as the winds outside strengthened, and then pushed through the inner hanging door.

A wave of merriment, heat, and music swept over him, as good-natured laughter urged him in.

The lodge was crowded, filled with warriors of all ages. Wreathed in smiles, they pulled him in, laughing and welcoming. Sitting, standing, all were sharing in a meal, with smoke rising from cooking pots. Somewhere drummers beat a joyous pattern.

Joden was so tired, he couldn’t make out the words, didn’t understand what they were saying. He just basked in the joy they radiated and let them guide him deeper into the lodge. Food and sleep, and then he’d worry about the rest.

The crowd parted, forming a path, and gentle hands pulled him along, toward the place of honor. A wooden platform was there, as it was in every lodge, but the painting on the wall behind it was bright with color, and the hangings that surrounded the platform made it feel like a tent.

A brazier burned brightly in the center, and five people gathered around it, one sleeping by its side. Of the four seated there, three were clearly warrior-priests, and they were all Elders. Joden expected to make his bows and retreat back into the crowd.