Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(98)

He raised his fists, and the other warriors roused and stood, raising theirs as well. Joden felt their pain and grief, and their anger like a wave over his body.

“Death of earth, birth of water,” he chanted as if it were a curse, and the crowd joined in their voices and their pain, repeating the words. “Death of water, birth of air, death of air, birth of fire, death of fire, birth of earth.”

Over and over until the earth seemed to shake. Joden opened his fists, and the crowd went quiet, opening theirs.

“Dance with me,” he sang. “Death and pain are a part of life. But not all of it, People of the Plains! Joy is also there, to be enjoyed and shared! Rejoice! Dance with me!”

The crowd as one started to step to the drum beat. They formed patterns they’d known since the thea camps, lifting their hands to the skies and pounding the rhythms on the earth with their feet. Keir and Lara were also standing, their hands high, dancing with each other. Xyian warriors were pulled into the dance, welcomed by those of the Plains.

This then, was the true power of a Singer. To bring the people together, to aid them in their sorrow and their joy. Joden’s tears streamed down his face, but he did nothing to stop them.

“Heyla,” Joden roared.

The crowd roared back their response. “HEYLA!”

The drums continued, and Joden repeated the call and response for long glorious moments under the night sky.

Joden dropped his hands, and the drums ceased.

The warriors froze, all eyes on him.

Joden dropped his words into the silence. “May the skies hear my voice,” he chanted. “May the people remember.”

“We will remember,” came the response. With that, the warriors started to disburse to their tents, with a quiet reverence.

Joden stood sweating, exhausted, filled with his own joy as he watched them leave.

He was no longer the man he had been.

Maybe, just maybe he was something more.

He started toward his tent, passing various warriors that whispered thanks, or gave him nods of respect. He returned them, but didn’t linger.

There were whispered invitations to share as well, but he declined those with a shake of the head and a regretful smile. The euphoria he’d felt was fading, and he ached. He might be something more, but at a cost. The sacrifice of his voice. The sacrifice of Amyu at his side.

That hurt the worst. Her face flashed before his eyes, brown eyes welling as she pushed him away. The price of his dream.

Joden shook his head, clearing his thoughts, tired and drained and too weary for words.

He stripped, made quick work of a wash, and crawled into his one-man tent with a sigh of thanks. Dawn would come, and with it more questions, more challenges. He took a deep breath and let his body ease into the gurtle pads below him. Perhaps Prest was right. Perhaps it was an obstacle to be faced every day. He yawned, and pulled up the blankets.

Joden turned, and closed his eyes, deliberately seeking sleep. He listened to the beat of his heart, the crackle of the fire, the sound of his breath. In and out and in… sleep finally came.

Until he heard his name called.

“Joden of the Hawk,” whispered an ancient voice. “Come to us.”





Chapter Thirty-Four


Joden opened his eyes, to find himself in the bright winter lodge with the dead. But the braziers were filled with sullen coals, everyone around them bedded down for sleep.

Joden sat up, letting his blanket fall around him. There was enough light for him to see Uppor next to him, his thin face and slanted eyes filled with worry.

“Uppor,” Joden said. “I do not understand.”

Uppor gestured for him to lower his voice, and leaned his head closer. “Nor do I,” Uppor said with a grim hush. “Events and the winds swirl about us. It passes out of my understanding.” He shrugged. “All we can do is what we can do. Beyond that, it is in the hands of the elements.”

“Why did you call me?” Joden asked, keeping his voice low.

“Why did you come?” Uppor countered, then shook his head. “No, forgive me. This is not the time for ritual responses.”

“Is it ever?” Joden rubbed his face.

“How else?” Uppor laughed quietly, then grew still. “You know of one named Hail Storm?”

Joden jerked his head up.

“He has slain the Ancients.” Uppor glanced around then lifted his hand and touched Joden’s forehead. “See.”




Hail Storm stared at the lone tent on the horizon and considered.

There were no horses around, no smaller tents. No warriors around at all, in fact, and that was unusual.

Still, it might be a source of news, or supplies… or power.

Hail Storm licked his lips, and headed his dead mount in that direction.

No one hailed him as he approached. Hail Storm dismounted, threw open the tent flap and stepped inside. He was met with a wave of heat, reeking of old kavage and fermented mare’s milk. Braziers burned brightly in each corner. The heat dried his nose and stung his eyes.

“Shut the flap, shut the flap,” came a quavering voice. “You are letting out the heat.”

At the far end of the tent, on the traditional wooden platform, were three bundles of blankets. In each, sat a… person.

They were old, ancient, wrinkled with spots and very few wisps of hair on their heads. Their eyes were milky and rheumy with age. Hail Storm couldn’t tell their sex, and their skin seemed so faded it was hard to tell what color it had originally been.