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.”

“I’ll set wards,” Rhys said quietly, and he and Sidian walked off together.

“I’ll gut,” Cadr offered. A messy job, but with the pond close he’d be able to wash himself after. A few of the others moved to help, and it didn’t take long before the carcasses were cut up. Cadr hauled the offal out a distance from the camp. The cats followed him, making odd chirrips and mews, eager for their reward.

The pit was finished, and the fire started. It would have to be tended all night once the meat was racked for drying. Cadr went to the pond, stripped and plunged into the icy water, using the sand to scrub himself. It felt good to get clean.

The sun was lowering when he returned to the fire, his armor and gear in his hands. The warmth felt good as it dried his skin.

Rhys was seated there, and kept averting his eyes from Cadr’s nakedness, just like a city-dweller would. Cadr chuckled, but Gilla gave him a shove, so he donned his leather trous.

They all set to work cutting the leaner bits of meat into strips for the drying rack. Lightning Strike and others set up tents.

Cadr sighed with satisfaction. He’d take a night watch, eager to make up for his lack while he’d been recovering.

Night Clouds and Moon Waters approached the fire, their arms filled with ogden roots for roasting.

“Oh, these will taste good,” Gilla said, starting to clean the roots.

“There’s more,” Moon Waters settled next to her, pulling her dagger. “Plenty for all and enough left in the ground to grow.”

“Night Clouds,” Rhys piped up. “I have an idea I want to try. Would you show me how you scry?”

“Sure,” Night Clouds wiped his hands on his trous. “I’ve a scrying bowl in my pack.” He trotted off, returning in a moment with a bowl filled with water. He knelt beside Rhys, and placed the bowl on as level a space as he could find. “What shall I scry?” he asked.

“The Heart,” Lightning Strike came up behind them, soaking wet from bathing, his gear in his hands. He shrugged at their looks. “Easiest to focus on. That’s what we all learned at first.”

Cadr went over and stood shoulder to shoulder with Rhys, just as curious as anyone. They both leaned over the bowl, looking down.

“The Heart,” Night Clouds whispered. He was staring at the bowl, talking under his breath. The water was still and dark within. For long moments, nothing happened, and then Cadr squinted. There was an image, a vision.

Suddenly he was looking at the Heart, as if standing on the rim. The circular grey stone arched around either side, and there in the center lay the body of a dead wyvern, covering half the stone. Ravens pecked at its eyes and back.

“Skies,” Cadr breathed.

“I can see it too,” Rhys said softly.

Lightning Strike came over, Sidion close behind. “Is that a wyvern?”

Cadr nodded. “The one that was killed, when Simus and the gathered warriors rescued the Elders.”

Sidion whistled, peering down. “That is some creature,” he said. “Is that a stinger on the end of that tail?”

“It’s vivid and detailed.” Rhys crouched for a better look. “I might be able to portal—”

“No,” Cadr interrupted. “Night Clouds, can you change it? Show us the shore?”

Night Clouds said nothing, just turned his head slightly. The image fluttered and moved. The shore appeared, seething with wyverns. They were all tearing prey, and feeding young in rocky nests. The young ones had their wings spread, and Cadr could almost hear their cries for food.

“So many,” Lightning Strike breathed. “I didn’t realize.”

“And vicious,” Cadr said. “That sting is a deadly poison that eats flesh.”

“No portal,” Sidian said.

“No portal,” the others agreed.

“Night Clouds,” Sidian continued. “Does there need to be water in the bowl? To Scry?”

The image faltered and then disappeared. Night Clouds looked up, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Try it,” Sidian suggested.

This gained them more attention as other warrior-priests gathered. Cadr gave way his place, more interested in making sure the roots got roasted. Gilla also backed away. But those not on watch gathered around, all talking as Night Clouds dumped the water from the bowl, and dried it.

It must have worked, from the soft exclamations that came after a while. Next thing Cadr knew, everyone was trying it, pulling out their own bowls. Then those with metal shields were using those, clearly pleased with the results.

It was only at Cadr’s second call that they stopped and started eating.

“It takes more power,” Night Clouds said as he blew on his ogden root to cool. “And it’s harder to keep the image stable.”

“I wonder,” Sidian said. “Can you do it while moving?”

Night Clouds looked at him with wide eyes, and then jumped up.

Sidian laughed. “Finish your food, then try.”

“Why do you ask?” Lightning Strike asked.

“For the next spike of power,” Sidian said. “If they can get an image…”

“I could portal,” Rhys continued. “Might link us to your Hanstau.”

Cadr brightened.

“Might get us in more trouble,” Lightning Strike countered then he shrugged. “Still, a good skill to learn while we continue on.”

“To Xy?” Gilla asked.

“To Xy,” Lightning Strike confirmed.

 

 

Hanstau lay back on the bedding, staring at the tent over him, safe and warm and toes well and truly curled.

Reness was out by their fire braiding her hair. He turned his head enough to see the curve of her back and the glow of her skin in the firelight. As she moved, lifting muscular arms, he caught glimpses of her breast. It roused him, as it had in the past, and always would, he suspected.

At least, for as long as this lasted.

Reness had found a small herd, and they had stayed within their midst the past few days, hiding from the world. Hanstau knew he should return to Xy, and take word to his Queen of all that had happened. But his heart wanted to stay here, with this woman, in this bubble of time for as long as he could.

He tried to feel guilty. He really did.

But in all honor, they needed to travel more directly so that they could—

The golden glow of power appeared in the corner of his eye.

Hanstau turned his head toward it, away from Reness, to see the glow pooled beneath horses’ hooves. It couldn’t be true, but the light seemed to dance around them, deliberately, as if celebrating light and life and joy. Foolishness on his part, surely.

As if it noticed him watching, the light danced over and gathered around his fingers. He held them up, looking at the glow that surrounded his hands against the dark of the tent.

“You are playing with the light,” Reness said, crawling in beside him, and stretching out her long legs against his.

“How did you know?” he asked. “You can’t see it.”

“You get this look in your eyes,” she chuckled. “Like fleeing prey.”

“Er,” Hanstau huffed out a breath. “I’m not sure—”

“Like you are looking at something dangerous and fascinating at the same time,” she said. “Maybe like a child with its first real sword. Or—”

“Maybe you should stop there,” he said dryly.

She huffed a laugh.

“But you are right,” he said. “I am looking at something dangerous. I don’t think I should try to use it again.”

“Why?”

Hanstau frowned. His fingers still glowed. “Because.” he said slowly. “Because what I did back there, it felt loud. Obvious. Frightening.”

“You did the right thing,” Reness said. She eased up to pull their bedding over them.

“Yes,” Hanstau said. “I know that. But they were trying to kill you, and it was dire. My fear could have led me to do terrible things, Reness.”

“How is it terrible, when they are trying to kill you?” she asked with simple warrior logic.

“It is,” Hanstau said firmly. “And I am not going to try to use it again.”

“Unless someone tries to kill us.” Reness reached over to caress his cheek.

“Unless someone else tries to kill us,” Hanstau agreed.

Reness smiled against his lips and kissed him, driving away any need for talk.

 

 

Antas stood on a rise, and watched an army approach.

It had taken time and precious supplies to repair the damage, deal with the dead, and calm his warriors.

Ietha had also required careful handling, and he still wasn’t certain that she’d support him in the end. Antas flexed his fists. Talking with no action was starting to irritate him, and he knew if he lost his temper he’d lose support.

And now Reht approached, and all the messengers would say was that she wanted to talk. Reht was a short woman, short of stature, short of hair, short of temper. Antas wanted in the worst way to say exactly what he thought of that, but he kept his truths in his mouth and agreed to a meeting. He brought Veritt, his Second with him.

He could only hope it came to blows. Much more talk and he’d—

“Hail, Antas of the Boar, Warlord and Eldest Elder Warrior,” Reht rode forward, ahead of her warriors.

That boded well. Antas stepped forward and boomed his own greeting. “Hail, Reht of the Horse, Warlord of the Plains. What brings you here?”

“I’ve come to join with you,” Reht said. “I offer my support against Keir of the Cat.”

Antas grinned. “Welcome,” he said simply.