Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(9)

The flap of the tent was pulled back and Hanstau was hustled inside.

He was blinded by the darkness, compared to the sun outside. But he caught the stench of sickness as rough hands on his shoulders forced him down. With his hands tied behind his back, he had no real balance. Hanstau let his legs fold, but then fell to the side to lessen the pain.

His captor, the big blond warrior, had no sympathy with Hanstau’s pain. That had been made clear when he had been taken. He scowled, and uttered a command. The two warriors behind Hanstau reached down and grabbed his arms.

Hanstau’s vision cleared as they pulled him up to his knees.

Before him, stretched out on a pallet, was a naked man covered in tattoos from the waist up. He must be a warrior-priest. Hanstau had not met one, but they had been described to him. The man’s eyes were bright and feverish, and there was sheen of sweat over his colorful torso. The cause was obvious.

The man’s left arm was gone. Hacked off with something sharp would be Hanstau’s guess.

The blond warrior was talking, but since Hanstau didn’t have the best grasp of the Plains language, he ignored him. Instead, he focused on the wound. It was swollen and red, with clear pus oozing from burn marks.

“Are you people savages?” Hanstau asked. “You cauterized that?”

Silence was his only answer, and Hanstau looked up, realizing he had interrupted his captor. The man’s face was red and furious. He pointed at the tattooed man, and used one of the only Xyian words he seemed to know.

“Warprize,” he said, and continued on with what seemed to be a demand that Hanstau treat the wound.

Hanstau might not be a warrior, but he could and did glare right back at the man. He’d been dragged away from his escort, watched this man butcher poor Cadr and the others, strip their bodies without a care, and then drag him off on horseback. “I am a Master Healer of Xy,” he spat the words, making sure his scowl was as harsh as his captors. “My hands can heal but they cannot be forced.”

The confusion in their faces forced him to use one of the few words he knew of their language. “No.”

The blond snarled and made as if to strike.

The warrior-priest spoke then, and his voice sent shivers up Hanstau’s spine. He didn’t understand his words, but he knew that tone, that expression. The warrior-priest thought he had

the upper hand.

The blond grunted, and barked a command. Hanstau was forced to his feet, out into the sun and marched to another tent close by. He only had a glimpse of the warriors guarding this tent before he was pushed within.

There was a woman inside.

Much like the warrior-priest, she was naked and ill. But she was staked down, her limbs taut, tied with leathers straps that seemed to bite into her flesh. From the look of her swollen and chaffed wrists, she’d been captive for some time.

She turned to look at him, her eyes dull and uncaring.

Once again Hanstau was forced to his knees, but this time the blond knelt by the woman, pulled a dagger, and put it to her throat. The blond spoke harsh words, his eyes focused on Hanstau’s face.

Her face blank, the woman spoke. “Antas of the Boar says heal Hail Storm, or he will kill me.”

To Hanstau’s shock, the woman spoke in Xyian. “You are of Xy?” he blurted out.

“Refuse him,” the woman closed her eyes as if weary. “For I would die.”

Hanstau sucked in a breath.

Antas, the blond, narrowed his eyes and pressed the knife deeper into her flesh.

Hanstau bit his lip, staring at Antas in open defiance. But then, as he knew he would, as Antas knew he would, damn him, Hanstau lowered his gaze and bowed his head in submission.




“Why?” the woman asked.

The question came after Hanstau had treated Hail Storm. His hands free, with his satchel nearby, he knelt by her side and ignored the question. “You speak Xyian,” he said.

“Some,” she said. “If the words are simple. I was taught by the Warprize as we journeyed. Who are you?”

“I am Hanstau of Xy, sent by Queen Xylara to serve as a healer to Simus of the Hawk.”

She sighed, and looked away. “I am Reness, Eldest Elder Thea of the Plains. Now prisoner and sick to death of it.”

“How did this happen?” Hanstau stared at her leg.

“Word came that I was needed at a thea camp not far from the border,” Reness said. “I left the Warlord and Warprize to continue on their journey. I thought to follow later. But the words that were brought to me were false, and Antas took me prisoner.” Reness looked bleak. “Do not ask me how long it has been since I have seen the sky.”

“I meant, how did this happen?” Hanstau gestured to her leg.

“Ah,” Reness grimaced. “Creatures came, huge winged creatures, and attacked the camp. The tent collapsed on top of me. As they pulled me out, one of the poles pierced my leg.”

Hanstau nodded, reaching out to turn her calf toward him. “Only a few days, then.”

At her questioning look, he continued. “Those creatures, those wyverns, they attacked our camp as well.”

“The Heart?” she asked slowly. “They attacked the Heart?”

“Yes,” Hanstau said absently. “I must see to this. How do you say, ‘I need hot water’?”