Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(8)

Blue sky above. Crows calling in the distance. Flies buzzing nearby. Grass tickling his nose.

Pain.

Splayed out on his back, Cadr blinked through crusty eyes. His throat hurt, hurt bad. He gritted his teeth and managed to drag a hand over to find his neck covered in dried blood and grass. He pulled his hand back and blinked at the pale-yellow leaves of bloodmoss in his hand.

He let them fall from his fingers, and tried to roll over, to shade his eyes from the sun. His head throbbed.

He took a deep breath, and coughed.

Then he couldn’t stop coughing, deep, hard hacks, bringing up blood and spit. His vision greyed, then went black as the agony washed over him.

When he came back, he was lying in his own filth, face down in the grass. His ribs ached. Someone was nearby, trying to rouse him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t really hear, but he felt like it was someone he could trust.

“Did I oversleep?” he asked, groggy and confused. But the words didn’t come, only rough, guttural noises.

There was no tent, no bedroll… just the grass and the sun and the stink of clotted blood.

He risked a shallow breath. And then a deeper one. His lungs hurt, his throat hurt, but he could breathe. He rolled over and then paused, breathing through the hurt. He let the pain wash over him.

Someone moved in the distance, near the horses.

He curled in, forced himself to sit, wrapped his arms around his chest and tried to focus.

He was wearing leathers… no weapons, his belt gone, knives gone, boots gone. He frowned as he stared at his feet, toes pale against the green grasses. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He’d been riding. He saw a sword come at his throat, and then—

His head jerked up, eyes open, muscles screaming in protest. He’d been escorting the Xyian healer Hanstau with Wild Winds, to join the other warrior-priests in hiding with Lightning Strike, one of Wild Winds’s apprentices. They’d been attacked—

He staggered to his feet, breathing through the aches and pains, looking around for—

Bodies.

He staggered over to Wild Winds, and dropped to his knees next to the man, struggling to roll him over. But the cold tattooed flesh under his fingers told him the truth before he saw the wounds.

Wild Winds was dead.

Cadr forced himself to his feet. He stumbled around, searching. There’d been others with them, two warriors…

Their bodies were close by, also stripped of weapons and what could be taken fast.

Of Hanstau, there was no sign. Antas and his warriors must have taken him with them, dead or alive.

Alive, Cadr hoped.

He returned to Wild Wind’s body and collapsed, uncertain what to do next. His energy was waning, and exhaustion was close. He’d no idea where or…

Someone was standing next to him, oddly colorless boots, blades of grass sticking through them.

He stared at them, then scraped at his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

There was a horse close, nosing him with stiff whiskers and warm breath against his cheek.

Cadr blinked, looked up. “Gils?” he croaked.

His tall, thin, colorless friend stood there, his curls dancing in a breeze that Cadr couldn’t feel. His usual bright grin was gone, only worry in his eyes. Gils reached out and put a hand on the horse’s shoulder.

The horse snuffled, and slowly went to its knees, easing down next to Cadr, a clear invitation to mount.

Except Gils was dead, wasn’t he? Of the sickness that had killed so many… Cadr shook his head, hurting and confused. Gils was dead. He blinked up at his friend, his dead friend, washed of color, cold and—

Gils raised his eyebrows. It was such a familiar gesture that it made Cadr’s heart hurt worse than his throat.

One truth was clear through his anguish. His friend had never let him down in life. The snows wouldn’t change that.

Cadr staggered to his feet, but Gils was pointing, jabbing his finger.

Pointing at Wild Winds’s body.

With the last of his strength Cadr dragged the body over, and draped it on the horse’s shoulders. The animal lurched to its feet as Cadr kept the body balanced.

Cadr stood there, breathing hard. Then he put his head against the horse’s neck. “I don’t think I can mount,” he admitted, the shame almost overshadowing the pain.

Gils walked backward a ways, gesturing.

The horse took a step.

Cadr went with it, leaning on the animal, gripping its mane, balancing Wild Winds’s body. Half-blind, hurting, every step brought new anguish. He didn’t look to see where they were going, just concentrated on taking one more step.

The horse stopped.

Cadr turned his head to see a place where a rise had been partially dug out. An animal, maybe, starting a den.

Gils was there, and the horse stepped forward, sidling close to the rise. Cadr released his grip, and half fell, half climbed the bit of rise, then mounted the horse. The horse shifted under him as Cadr shifted the body so it was balanced over his knees. He leaned forward and buried his hands in the horse’s mane.

“Where?” he croaked.

Gils started walking.

The horse followed.

Cadr nodded. So be it. He wasn’t even curious. All he had to do was stay on the horse. He was a warrior of the Plains. He would stay on.

Stay on. All he had to do was stay on.

Stay on.

Stay on…