Simus’s stomach sank into a deep pit as the flame of his heart ran toward certain death.

He’d found her and to lose her now, without knowing her mind, without sharing their bodies, without telling her everything he wanted to share with her for all of their lives—

“Ready lances,” he croaked as he watched Hanstau and Snowfall throw themselves down by the wounded warrior. They’d no chance against two of the beasts.

Snowfall put her hand on Hanstau’s shoulder, who was leaning down, reaching for the warrior.

“Run back,” Elois whispered. “Get back here now and maybe—”

They disappeared. Suddenly there was nothing but grass and...

Simus sucked in a breath, as the warriors around him gasped.

“Where—” Nona breathed.

“There.” Mirro pointed with his chin. “Watch the grass.”

Simus focused, and saw the grass was moving. Slowly, surely, toward them.

“A Xyian,” Mirro breathed. “A city-dweller. No weapon in hand, and he charges down there.”

“There is more to them than you know,” Elois spoke up.

Simus said nothing, casting glances between bent blades of grass and the wyverns. Until finally he heard Snowfall’s breath, and the shallow panting of a wounded warrior. And the heavier panting of his Xyian healer.

With an audible ‘pop’ they appeared at the edge, and willing hands pulled them over and down, out of sight of the Heart. Simus had Snowfall in his arms. Relief filled him as her arms enclosed him, and he felt her warm, solid body against his.

She pulled back, and there was a smile in her eyes she’d let only him see. “Just tired, Warlord. I had to carry, and concentrate, and move.” She shook her head. “Not as easy as I thought.”

“Faela,” exclaimed a warrior as the wounded woman was laid down on the grass, Hanstau at her side, digging into his satchel. Willing, careful hands were cutting back the armor, exposing the sting to his view.

“You had to know you were dead,” Mirro said, kneeling by the healer. “Why would you—”

“I am a healer,” Hanstau said absently, in broken Plains language. “I have my own oaths. Now be silent and let me work.”

Elois knelt at the wounded warrior’s head, offering a waterskin. The warrior took a swallow, then spat it out. “I am Faela, Token-bearer to Ultie. I bring word—” Her mouth snapped shut against a groan. Hanstau was working on her back.

Simus knelt beside Elois. “Tell us,” he commanded.

The warrior blinked against the sweat on her face, and strained to look up. “Many live, some badly hurt, but yet they breathe. If you could—”

“Wild Winds?” Snowfall asked.

Faela grunted against the pain as Hanstau pressed down on the wound. “I do not know,” she said through gritted teeth. “Osa, Ultie—although Ultie is wounded badly in the leg. Other voices, whispering in the darkness. No one dares move.” Her breath was gasps now, her words broken. “I...closest to the edge. My choice, to bring word...”

Hanstau swore under his breath and spoke in his own tongue. “Warlord, whatever this poison is, nothing I have counters it. It eats at her from within.” He sat back, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He glanced at his bag again, as if considering his options, then shook his head. “Grant her mercy, Warlord.”

Simus was surprised, but he knelt by Faela’s head. “Faela,” he said. “The healer can do no more.”

Faela let her head sink down on the grass. “The snows will cool this pain, Warlord,” she gasped out. “Let it be done.”

“You will be remembered,” Simus said.

Faela mumbled something Simus didn’t catch, and then made a final effort to lift her head. “I would see the sky,” she said.

Willing hands turned her, and Simus stepped back to let those that knew her best conduct the rite.

“The fire warmed you,” someone began the chant.

The warriors around her responded in unison. “We thank the elements.”

Hanstau moved back, making room, swallowing hard as he angrily shoved jars and bottles back into his satchel.

“Lara fought against the granting of mercy,” Simus said softly.

Hanstau paused and took a deep breath. “My Queen is a gentle lady, and a Master Healer, but she lacks my years.” The pudgy healer with the soft hands looked up at Simus with hard eyes. “I know when to offer my surrender to Lord Death.”

 

 

“We can kill them,” Simus said. “Just like we bring down ehats.”

“With all due respect, Warlord, ehat musk does not eat flesh and bone,” Nona said.

They’d given Faela mercy and seen to her body as best they could. Now Simus had gathered them once again, out of sight of the Heart. Hanstau sat beside Simus, staring at the satchel in his lap.

“So now we know some live beneath that wreckage,” Simus said.

“Without the Warlord, there are no raids. Without raids, there will be no Plains,” another offered.

“Without Elders, there is no Council,” another said glumly.

“Lances work to kill the creatures,” Simus continued, not letting them sink into despair. “Crossbows may, with a good hit. But we need not kill. Just create enough of a fuss to draw them off and let others move in, and pull those that live from the debris. I have an idea—”

A rustling from the grass around them. Simus stopped talking at the sound of a soft bird call. Tsor, and a handful of younger warriors, crawled into view, all grass-stained and sweating.

“Tsor, what word?” Simus said, as the group made room for the newcomers.

Tsor crawled up and sat cross-legged next to him. The young ones sprawled out in the grass before him, sharing a waterskin.

“There’s so many, Warlord,” Tsor said. “They fill the shoreline as far south as we ranged. But only on the shoreline. They seem drawn to the water’s edge.” He took a long drink. “They are mock-fighting, and seem to have an area that they defend against all comers. An area that they return to if they are roused. Also, they are piling up their kills.”

“Kills?” Simus asked.

“A few have a small heap of dead gurtles close by,” Tsor said. “Ouse there has an idea.”

Ouse sat up, facing Simus, waiting for permission to speak.

“Give me your truths, warrior,” Simus nodded.

Ouse swelled with youthful pride. “Warlord, they remind me of young stags at mating season. Testing themselves against each other.”

“Mating?” Simus narrowed his eyes in thought. “Can you sex them? Are there females?”

They all shook their heads. “Not that I’ve seen,” Tsor said. “Not that any of us have seen. No teats, so we think they might be egg layers.” He hesitated, and then continued. “I think they may be more like night-flyers than hawks. But that is as good as asking the wind. I’ve no proof.”

“I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it,” Elois said.

Simus considered for a moment, then shook his head. “If you are right there would be a benefit to delay, but I will not wait on a guess.” He looked at the younger warriors. “You five take the healer. Find what is left of his tent and scavenge his gear with him. Watch the skies.”

“Aye, Warlord.” They scrambled to their knees, ready to go.

“The wounded should be brought to me,” Hanstau said firmly. He shifted closer as the others crawled away. “We can set up an area, hidden in the grasses.” He gave a sick sort of chortle. “My poor oxen are probably dead.”

“What of your powers?” Elois asked Snowfall.

Snowfall shook her head, the twists in her black hair dancing. “It has limits, being unseen. Movement, trying to cover others, all add to the difficulty. Like sparring with five warriors at the same time.”

“Maybe if I could use that glow like you do, I could have saved that man.” Hanstau pursed his lips.

Snowfall’s eyes went wide. “You can see—?”

“Why risk more death in a fatal attempt?” Nona interrupted, spitting her words. “It’s useless to—”

“Enough,” Simus commanded.

Silence fell, and no one met his gaze.

“Go back to your warriors,” Simus said. “Tell them to gather what gear and supplies they can and head out away from the Heart, to regroup. Tell them to warn the theas, protect the herds, and watch the skies at all times.” Simus took a breath, awaiting protest.

None came.

“Those that are willing to aid us are welcome,” Simus continued. “Return here, with ten of your best warriors, ones willing to take a risk. The winds favor the bold,” he concluded.

The wind rustled the grass around them.

“Agreed,” Mirro said. “My Warlord may be within and alive. I will return.”

“I don’t know,” Nona said, as the others around her looked uncertain.

“We will proceed,” Simus said. “With or without you.”