Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(81)

He had found his voice. He could still achieve his dream, at a price.

He’d lost his heart’s flame.





Chapter Twenty-Eight


The power of death was everywhere.

How had he never seen this before? Hail Storm mused on the nature of this new gift of the Plains as he trotted his dead steed over the wide grasses.

Perhaps it was because he’d been trained only to use the golden light that had been so rare and growing scarcer before the Sacrifice. He’d learned blood magic only by mistake, and had never shared his discovery of its use with the other warrior-priests. He had resorted to it when the elemental power of the Plains had gradually diminished. A shiver of delight went through him at the memory of killing Arched Colors. Her body had writhed under his in pleasure, pain, and her death throes.

He’d give much to be able to do that again.

And Mist, that old bitch. She’d supported him until the Sacrifice, and then tried to kill him. Instead, he’d killed her, absorbing her life essence in the process.

The stone-handled dagger at his side throbbed with his memory of that moment.

The darkness, the power of death, was there under the grass, deep in the earth. Like a hidden treasure he’d passed over many times. What was around him wasn’t as strong as a true death at his hands, but it was plentiful. He wasn’t going to have to kill small animals or birds for power. The source was wide and vast and untouched.

The elements could rage at him all they wanted. He had what he needed.

Access to power gave him choices.

Hail Storm frowned down at his empty hand. There was no need for reins. The dead horse went exactly where he sent it. But it only moved when he willed it.

He could turn back. Cache the supplies and the saddle and let the horse drop where it stood. Return to Antas’s tent, worm his way back into favor. Build a network of support from within and betray him at the first chance. Hail Storm smiled at the idea of killing Antas and draining him dry. Fitting revenge for the loss of his arm.

But in truth, that would take time and the outcome was uncertain. Too many people to try to control, too many doubts as to everyone’s loyalties.

Besides, Wild Winds was dead, which meant that somewhere there was a group of young warrior-priests-in-training. Young. Malleable. He just had to find them, and court them with fine words, gestures of support, and promises of power. Some, not all maybe, but some would be lured to him and the knowledge he could teach.

A thump brought him out of his musings. The horse had stumbled ever so slightly. He looked down to see that the sinews of the leg were wearing at the hoof. He cursed, and eased the creature to a walk.

A dead horse was obedient, but not truly sustainable. The flesh had worn away under the saddle, and the smell left much to be desired. Hail Storm didn’t let the reek trouble him, but it had drawn scavengers when he’d camped for the evenings. And the dead horse never moved without a command, never grazed, only stared at him over the fire, light glittering in its clouded, rotting eyes.

Still, it was better than walking and carrying his packs. He’d have trouble replacing this mount when it fell apart. Living horses sensed his presence from afar and would not come close. He’d not be able to lure one to its death at his hands.

But maybe he didn’t need to. His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities.

There was so much death in the land, so much corruption. Where prey had been taken, where the very grasses of the Plains shriveled and died, all that was power for his taking. It was as if a cloth had been torn away from his unseeing eyes. With no access to the elemental power, other sources made themselves known.

What if he could imbue the horse’s carcass with enough energy that it didn’t need the physical body? What if he didn’t need to constantly focus to make it move on its own? Hail Storm considered that thought with the greatest of joy. There was enough power that he could build up as he went, and then he could find a place where deaths had been frequent and— The Heart.

Hail Storm lost his focus and the horse stopped moving.

The Heart. The dead warrior-priests. He remembered their bodies scattered everywhere. There was a source of power, most likely fresh and undiminished, just waiting to be tapped. To be used. To be used against Antas of the Boar, against Keir of the Cat, against any that would block his demand for power.

The young warrior-priests would return there, sure as the sun would set. The armies would gather for the Fall Council. The Council would be reborn, and beneath its tent he would claim mastery of the Plains and its people. He could raise up a new generation of warrior-priests, and their powers would not be mocked, would not be dismissed. They would be feared and obeyed and he would be their Eldest Elder.

In the meantime, he must learn and grow. Practice his new arts. Be certain of his strength and skills.

He turned his mount toward the Heart.

Everything would be decided there.




Cadr felt relief when Lightning Strike called an early halt. Gilla’s warcats had flushed out and killed three deer. More than enough for their needs.

Cadr slid from the saddle with a grateful sigh. He was healing and there was less pain, but every once in a while, a twinge caught him off guard.

They’d stopped by a gully with a pond and flowing stream, protected by thick alders.

“Our regular watches,” Lightning Strike said. “We can dig a pit for the meat, and dry some for the journey.”