Dawn traced the horizon as they approached their goal. They encountered nothing and no one until they reached the area where the warrior-priests had established their camps.

His warriors were silent as they surveyed the chaos. Tents were clearly trampled, with gear strewn and tossed about. Cooking fires were scattered, the embers still burning, the pots and tripods askew, or knocked down altogether. The larger fire pits burned, true enough, but the fires were little more than coals.

And there were bodies everywhere.

All warrior-priests and priestesses.

All dead.

Simus gestured, and some of his people dismounted, checking for survivors. It didn’t take long for them to look up and report.

“Dead,” Yers said in hushed tones. “All dead, and by their own hands.”

“All of them?” Simus asked. It wasn’t possible. There had to have been a full camp here, and if it surrounded the Heart...could all the warrior-priests be dead?

“All,” Joden said from off to the side. “There are no survivors.”

“What in the name of the sacred flames happened here?” Simus wondered out loud.

“Our horses avoid tents unless provoked or stampeded,” Joden said. “They do not bite or kick unless trust is lost. Why would they trample through the camp?”

“The Heart lies just a bit farther,” Tsor said. The big man was subdued. They all were.

Simus urged his horse in that direction, and the others followed.

All around the great stone circle the fire pits were lit and smoldering, as if after a great ceremony. And there in the center the Heart lay, perfectly normal. Cool, grey stone, untouched and eternal. Perfectly circular, large enough to host the huge Council tent and all the Elders of the Plains.

Simus stared down at it, as if it could somehow give answers.

There were none.

Simus swung down from his saddle. “Keep watch,” he ordered as he walked up and onto the stone, striding to the center, looking for a mark, for a chip, for blood, for any sign of the source of that pillar of light.

There were none.

Simus frowned. The stone was perfectly clean. Usually whenever the tribes gathered around the Heart, it had to be swept almost hourly to keep it clear of debris. But the surface was untouched.

Joden knelt at his side, splaying his hand over the surface of the Heart. “I’d thought it would be hot, or...something,” he murmured.

“Spread out,” Simus called. “Look to see if all the camps that surround this place are like the ones we came through. Signal if you find anything, or anyone.”

Joden rose to his feet, surveying the stone. Simus stood there, uneasy, as his warriors turned their horses and rode out. “That light, those sounds,” he said to Joden. “There should be some mark, some sign.”

Joden nodded his silent agreement, walking toward the edge of the stone, circling Simus as they both looked for some answers. The coming dawn made it easier to see that there was no trace of anything to be seen. Which made Simus even more nervous.

A short time later, the warriors returned, all of them reporting the same thing. Tents collapsed, the ground trampled, and the dead everywhere.

“I’d put it in the hundreds,” Eloix said quietly. “I’ve never seen such a thing. Warlord, they were all stripped of their tattoos, and all showed signs of having died at their own hands. None of their staffs had skulls, either.”

“I know where we might find some answers,” Joden said slowly, pointing off into the distance.

“Where?” Simus asked and then turned his gaze to where Joden pointed. On a far rise a handful of tents stood against the horizon, lit with torches, with people and horses milling about.

 

 

Simus thanked all the elements that Joden obeyed when Simus ordered him to ride at his side. His friend would have plunged ahead at a gallop, regardless of the risks.

Not that Simus really blamed him. He wanted answers, too.

The scouts took up their positions. All of his warriors regrouped with him, and they rode at a slow pace, and constantly scanned the Plains. But here there were no trampled grasses; the herd had not come this way.

Simus felt his shoulders ease as they circled around to mount the ridge. This camp appeared normal from the looks of it, and as they drew closer he could see that here were mostly young ones.

“They’ve only partial tattoos,” Joden noted.

“Which only adds to the questions,” Simus said. Young warrior-priests were kept isolated and away from the warrior camps until they had earned their full tattoos. It was rare to see even one, and here was a camp filled with them. Simus did a quick count and frowned. Maybe twenty in all, their bare torsos decorated with tattoos in various places, but not covered in them as they would be when they reached full status.

He signaled the scouts back, and slowed their progress to a walk. He did not hail the camp, but made no secret of their approach. Yet they went unnoticed, the group’s focus seemingly on a tall, fully tattooed warrior-priest in the center of the group.

“Wild Winds,” Simus said softly. Joden nodded his agreement.

Wild Winds stood, staff in one hand, talking to four or five young warriors of the Plains. Still, there was no threat in any of their gestures or faces, no fear or anger. Instead, Simus could have sworn there was relief and even joy.

Yers caught Simus’s eye, then pointed with his chin to where one of the young warrior-priestesses was seeing to a horse, removing its tack. The horse was nuzzling the young one’s hair as she worked.

Something painful eased in Simus’s chest. Still, it was no reason to relax. Even less to trust. Wild Winds was the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains. His cold disdain and opposition to Keir of the Cat was known. His refusal to consider any new ideas and his opposition to the confirmation of the Warprize had resulted in the sundering of the Council of Elders. Simus had no reason to expect a welcome. Even so, he had to try to learn the truth of all of this.

“Wild Winds,” he called, louder than he intended, fully expecting a hostile greeting.

Which made the open expression on the tattooed face that turned his way even more of a shock.

“Simus of the Hawk.” Wild Winds strode up and stood before him, planting his skull-less staff next to him. “How may I aid you?”

Simus studied the man. Wild Winds seemed stronger somehow, yet the three human skulls no longer dangled from the leather thongs on his staff. Wild Winds still bore his full tattoos, the only one in the crowd to do so. And his eyes...

Simus glanced at the others that surrounded him and saw the same things in the eyes of the others. Over-bright and wild, as if they’d drunk enough fermented gurtle milk to be seeing the dead. Or survived their first battle. Rattled, nervous, relieved, scared, anxious; it was all there in their eyes.

Except one. A woman standing just behind Wild Winds, at his shoulder. Lovely, with firm breasts and skin the color of kavage laced with milk. Her black hair was twisted into curls that crowned her head. Her bare shoulders were capped with green and black tattoos in a twisting vine pattern that trailed down her arms just far enough to cover the tattoos of her tribes and her birth offerings to the Plains.

But what really caught his attention were her cool, grey eyes, which regarded the crowd calmly. She, whoever she was, was keeping a calm face and a steady hand.

Their eyes met, and Simus was lost.

There was beauty there, but there were mysteries as well. Simus couldn’t read her expression or her emotions. But there were secrets in the depths of those eyes that he wanted to explore.

Her gaze slid away from his. Simus realized that the chatter around them had died off.

It took Simus a breath to turn his attention back to Wild Winds and his greeting. A breath too long, since the old man seemed to sense his...distraction.

Simus narrowed his eyes, staring at Wild Winds. “An explanation would be a good start,” Simus said carefully. If Wild Winds could act as if nothing had happened, so could he. “My evening pleasures were interrupted by a needle of light that pierced the sky, and a Singer with an itch of curiosity.” Simus nodded his head toward Joden. “I had no choice but to leave my bed and seek you out.”

Wild Winds greeted Joden, and continued talking, inviting them all into his tent, and offering to tell the tale. Simus listened, caught off guard by this change of tone from the Eldest Elder Warrior-Priest. Still...Simus opened his mouth to refuse.

Joden dismounted beside him, taking the decision out of his hands. Damn all Singers to the snows, he’d little choice now. Yet there would be no harm in listening, and any knowledge gained would aid them.

Besides, he was just as curious as Joden to hear what the man would say.

Simus signaled Eloix and Yers to join them. He’d listen.

Whether he’d trust was another tale entirely.

 

 

So this was Simus of the Hawk.

Snowfall wasn’t impressed.

She’d been at Wind Winds’s side all through the eventful night, ready to both serve and protect her mentor. She’d stay close, although he would claim she was hovering.

So she was slightly behind Wild Winds when the riders approached and hailed the camp.

Simus was tall and imposing, she’d grant him that. One of the largest, blackest warriors she’d ever seen, with skin that shone like obsidian rock. He sat his horse with confidence, dressed in fine chain, his sword on his back. His dark eyes flashed as they swept over them and the gold earrings in his ears caught the morning light.

Handsome, of that there was no doubt, but he knew that all too well, Snowfall thought. She’d heard tales of his wit and charm. But he was certainly rude, greeting Wild Winds without his honors. She wasn’t fooled by his—

Their eyes met, and something sang through her, like the power of the Plains itself.

His eyes were dark in color but bright with suspicion, yet under that there was strength, and joy of life itself, as if every breath was a gift to be savored, enjoyed, relished.

The tattoos on her shoulders began to tingle. Snowfall didn’t react, didn’t gasp. She slowly slid her gaze from his and stood, trying to quiet her inner tremble as he and Wild Winds talked.

Her training kept her face a void, where no warrior could read her thoughts. ‘A warrior-priest keeps their own counsel at all times,’ was the command, and she’d learned her lessons well. But her tattoos—

They knew no restrictions, and she felt the twisting vines wanting to move, to writhe over her skin. They could not, of course. Her tattoos had been placed on her skin magically by her master, Wild Winds. As long as she was in training, they were under his control.

But they wanted to dance.

Snowfall watched as Wild Winds extended Simus and his people the hospitalities of his tent and offered to tell the tale of the night and the Sacrifice. Simus of the Hawk radiated distrust, but the one named Joden, the potential Singer, dismounted immediately to share in kavage and news.

Snowfall drew a deep, slow breath. So much had changed in a single night, a single moment, a single act by two city-dwellers strange to the Plains and hunted and abused by the warrior-priests. No one had known what would happen when Hail Storm had lured them to their deaths on the Heart.

But the pillar of light had sprung into the sky. Wild Winds had been healed, and those of the warrior-priests who had followed Hail Storm were dead or dying. And the magic, the power that the Sacrifice had returned to the Plains—that still made her skin tingle. She glanced at the coming dawn and wondered what else the elements had in store for them.

“You think that warrior-priests cannot change?” Wild Winds was asking Simus, drawing her attention back to their discussion. “Come and hear the tale, or not. As you choose.”

“Keir is going to gut me,” Simus grumbled, but he dismounted.

Well. Clearly, a warrior in servitude to a Warlord with dreams of ruling the Plains. Snowfall didn’t let her disdain show. She moved off, back toward the main tent as Wild Winds gathered those that would talk and explain, including the young warriors who had served as Guardians to the Sacrifice.

What did her master see in this Simus? Why had her tattoos reacted?

Snowfall didn’t heave a sigh, or even take a deep breath. She kept her outer face calm, even as her mind raced with questions.

She’d see to the brewing of kavage, see to the warmth of the tent, offer welcome to these warriors, as her mentor desired. But she’d also wait and watch.

And keep her blades sharp.