Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(55)

Reness didn’t change stride, didn’t make a sound. She moved forward, sword and dagger out and then somehow, she was past the warriors. The warriors fell back, cursing and shouting.

It wasn’t clear in the darkness but Hanstau smelled blood.

Reness didn’t stop.

Neither did he. He ran right past them, following her.

But there were more warriors now, he could hear them. His hood fell back as he ran, his breathing harsher and harsher in his ears. There were running footsteps behind him, a jerk on his cloak— Even as he fell, he saw Reness turn, her eyes gleaming with rage and battle lust. She turned back and plunged into the warriors around them.

Hanstau rolled away, and then watched wide-eyed as Reness fought what had to be four, five warriors. Admiration rose, for she was a fine wild sight. But then fear washed over him. He struggled to rise. She’d be killed. No, no, he couldn’t let this happen, but there were so many— His despair overwhelmed him, and he almost sobbed. His breath caught as he tried to beg them to stop, not to hurt her— Light exploded around his boot. Hanstau froze in astonishment. Golden light. Golden power. He sucked in air and with breath came hope. He could— An image came to him from the power, of warriors engulfed in flame, burning, writhing, agony… burn them?

NO. Hanstau rejected the horror he saw in his mind’s eye. No, no. He cast about for another target, anything but— The tents. Burn the tents!

With a WHOOSH and a crackle, the tents did just that.

All of them.

All around them.

Two of the warriors stayed on Reness, another grabbed Hanstau’s shoulder from behind. The others ran off, yelling warnings, pulling down tents to smother the flames.

Reness was fighting hard, but these warriors were wary and experienced, moving to circle her like wolves. Hanstau’s captor had an arm around his neck, pulling him up. Hanstau felt him take a breath, ready to shout— Hanstau jerked the dagger Reness had insisted he carry out of its scabbard. He stabbed blindly back at the warrior’s face. The blade hit bone, then slid into something softer.

His captor screamed.

Hanstau pushed harder, twisting his body away, twisting the dagger, turning to face his enemy.

His captor cried out again, the blade buried deep in his eye.

Hanstau yanked it out, intent on another strike, but the man collapsed at his feet.

Hanstau stood there, numb, breathing hard, staring down at the dying man.

“Hanstau,” Reness’s voice cut through the fog, and he blinked to see her at his side. The others were dead, and chaos reigned around them. “Come,” she said.

He sheathed the dagger, and they ran together toward the herds.




Amyu’s eyes popped open, staring at the night sky. Her heart racing, she lay still for a long breath.

Joden’s breathing was soft and regular against her shoulder. He didn’t stir.

Something had woken her, something… she turned her head slightly, taking in their quiet camp.

Rafe and the others lay in their own bedrolls, still asleep. Fylin and Soar kept watch, their weapons at the ready, but they showed no signs of alarm. Neither did the horses, or the cows.

Amyu drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. A dream, perhaps. Nothing more.

She closed her eyes, settling back, willing herself back to sleep. They’d leave in the morning, and seek out the Warprize and Master Eln. It would be a long day, and she should rest. She focused on Joden’s breath. In and out, in and out…

Her heart slowed to its normal rate. Her breathing eased, and she fell back into sleep.




Simus roused, half-asleep, as Snowfall sat up, letting their blankets fall back. He grumbled, fumbling for them and for her.

“Power,” she whispered. “Someone’s using the power.”

That brought him up, alert, sword in hand. “Where?” He demanded.

“Not close,” Snowfall rose, reaching for her armor. “And further south, deep in the Plains.”

Simus stood, considering. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Snowfall shook her head, the beads of her weaving jangling softly.

“A threat?”

“Maybe,” she pulled on her leather trous. “I will stand watch.”

Simus sighed, and reached for his own trous.




Cadr was grateful when they finally stopped to make camp. Lightning Strike kept them at a steady pace the last few days, but wouldn’t call a halt until the sun was past the horizon. Cadr agreed with pushing on, but his aching ribs were just as happy to dismount from his horse.

“We’ll risk a fire,” Lightning Strike said as they started to pull saddles from the horses.

“I can help with that,” Rhys offered.

“We’ve enough fresh meat,” Gilla frowned, looking around for her warcats. They’d disappeared into the tall grass. “We can hunt tomorrow morning—”

All of the warcats’ heads emerged from the tall grass, all facing the same way: south.

Lightning Strike’s face went pale and he turned, wide-eyed, toward the south.

As did everyone else around them.

Cadr frowned, looked around as well, but there was nothing to see. Gilla and Rhys looked just as puzzled.

“What?” Gilla demanded.

Rhys shrugged, but Sidian answered her, his voice distant and distracted. “Power,” he said. “A flare of power.”