Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(59)

Jahal’s lips thinned, as he knelt and pressed the rabbit to the ground. He thrust his blade into its throat. The rabbit convulsed in his hands, its blood staining Jahal’s fingers.

“You can see it,” Hail Storm asked. “The life as it flows out? Capture that dark essence and make it your own.”

“I can,” Jahal’s voice cracked in excitement. “I can see it, Elder.”

Hail Storm was careful not to sniff at the boy’s enthusiasm. There was little in the way of power from the death of the tiny animal, but it was a start. Once he’d learned the darker path, they could— “I see both, the golden and the dark, all the power!” Jahal crowed.

Both? He sees both?

Rage flooded through Hail Storm, pure fury that made his vision go dark, blurring his sight. He has what I’ve lost.

Of its own accord, his hand pulled out his bone knife. A mere step and yank on the boy’s hair and his knife plunged itself into Jahal’s throat.

Even as the blade hit bone, Hail Storm regretted his action. Alive, unharmed, the boy was worth more to him… but what was done was done. He followed the body down into the grass, and as he had with Arched Colors, he drained the boy’s power and life as he died.

Yet with Arched Colors he’d been pressed for time, and here, now, he could take the time to go further, to drain every bit of energy until the body was a dried husk of nothing.

Hail Storm knelt there, panting, feeling the exultation of the power he’d drawn within.

One of the horses snorted, scenting the blood.

Hail Storm froze. The packs. The supplies. They were still on the horses.

Mentally he cursed himself for a fool. The horses tolerated the boy, but they wouldn’t tolerate his approach. He glanced over. They were a fair distance off, there would be no way he could reach them before they bolted.

But he’d power now, didn’t he? And as he had done with that captive, he could use it well.

Hail Storm rose slowly to his feet, clutching the knife in his right. He turned, focused on both the horses, and reached out, clutching his fist tight.

Both horses jerked their heads up, their eyes rolling in their heads, but unable to move. Their chests heaved as they fought for freedom.

Hail Storm strode forward, focused on their struggle, letting his power flow out.

Sweat gleamed on their hides, foam flecking in the corners of their mouths.

Hail Storm stopped steps away, his own breathing ragged and hard. They were big animals, bigger than a human, and they were struggling. His control was slipping.

A moment’s thought, and he released the one with the saddle. It reared, screaming its fear, and galloped off.

The other fought, but Hail Storm’s control held.

He drew closer, the blade in his hand. He couldn’t subdue a living horse to his will for long.

But a dead one?




It took Quartis a few days to locate Essa and the others. While he had a general idea of the location, it wasn’t like the Eldest Elder wanted to be found.

He passed the guards on watch, and then headed toward the main tent where they had gathered for the evening meal.

He pushed through the flap, and the laughter and music stopped.

“Quartis,” Essa called from his elevated seat on the wooden platform. “What news?”

Quartis stood before him, bowed, and then started talking. There was much to tell, and halfway through someone pushed a mug of kavage into his hand.

At the end, Essa shook his head, and gestured for Quartis to sit next to him on the platform. “Eat,” he said.

Quartis balanced his mug with a platter of fried gurtle meat and flat bread. The red flakes were thick, just the way he liked it. The spicy scent made his mouth water.

“Eldest Elder,” Para stood. “What will we do?”

Essa shrugged. “Summer comes. It is the Season of War. Many of the Warlords have gone off to loot, to plunder, and raid, for the benefit of the Plains and the Tribes, as they do every summer. It is the way of our people. It is in our blood.”

Quartis hurried to swallow. “Singers too,” he said.

“Singers too,” Essa said. “But this season, the warriors with Keir and Antas will sit idle in the heat, waiting for a confrontation that will not come for perhaps months. Maybe at the Fall Council, maybe at the borders of Xy itself.” Essa regarded the room. “Regardless they will gather at the Heart whoever prevails, and we will be waiting.”

“So, we will do as we have always done. What do we normally do in this season? We gather. We sing, exchange news, and talk. But unlike other seasons of war, in this season we will not join the armies. We will scatter into the grasses, to stay safe and low until—” he broke off as one of the guards entered the tent, clearly agitated. “What is it?”

“Eldest Elder, the tent of the Ancients has appeared.”

Quartis could feel the loathing rolling off of the Eldest Elder Singer as Essa rose to his feet. He pitied the man, even as he took another bite. To have to face those— “Quartis,” Essa commanded. “Come with me.”

Quartis scrambled to his feet, swallowing and wiping his hands on his trous. He followed Essa out of the tent, and they both stood looking at a far rise where a tent stood alone against the horizon.

Essa swore under his breath, and started walking through the tall grass. Quartis followed.