Destiny's Star (29 page)

Hail Storm risked a glance back then, as if to linger by the pyre. But Thunder Clouds took his elbow firmly. “Come. We both need rest.”

Hail Storm submitted, but could not resist looking about as he walked, the pyre behind him forgotten in an instant. Many more warrior-priests had joined the encampment. Others would be coming, drawn by the summons and the news of the challenge. Each of those sparkles, headed for the Heart.

Hail Storm had no worries about the challenge. Wild Winds was old and weak. By all traditions he should have crushed the skulls on his staff and taken his own life by now. But if he failed to abide by the ways of the Plains, then Hail Storm would slay him. Maybe with the dagger at his belt.

He stumbled at the thought. One like Wild Winds . . . what kind of power would that death release? He caught his breath at the idea of the old man helpless before him, struggling as the blade pierced his-

“Hail Storm?” Mist stood holding open the flap of her tent, and looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Forgive me.” Hail Storm ducked within, and waited for her to be seated before he folded his legs and sat. Thunder Clouds sank down beside him.

“You seem distracted,” Mist said. One of her warrior-priests brought hot kavage, and served them.

“The events of the last few days,” Hail Storm murmured, and was rewarded with a brief flash of sympathy in the old mare’s eyes.

“Understandable,” Mist responded. “Others have asked to join us and speak with you. Morning Dew has reported that the Heart has been cleared, and that only warrior-priests remain within sight.”

“I must be there to challenge.” Hail Storm took a sip of his kavage. “But the Sacrifice must be found, and brought to the Heart.”

Thunder Clouds took up his mug. “It will happen, if we work together.”

Mist nodded. “I am not sure of this path. Wild Winds may be correct. I do not support the challenge. But I will aid you in securing the Sacrifice.” She sighed. “Our powers must be restored if our ways are to be preserved.”

A cough at the flap, and three others entered. Each was seated and served, and Hail Storm was pleased to see that they deferred to him during the talk. Here was the support he needed. Once Wild Winds was dead, he would claim the position of Eldest Elder. And if the Sacrifice died on his blade at the Heart, who knew what powers might be his?

He needed to be patient only a little while longer.

THE ride was brutal on all of them.

Bethral set a pace that demanded all they had, even the young ones. The horses were pushed to the edge of their endurance, but they loved to run, appearing in the morning to bear their riders willingly. Alternating trot and gallop, covering the ground as fast as the wind, the horses were in their element.

Ezren had feared for Bessie, who was larger than the Plains horses. But the big roan had more endurance than the others and more speed than he’d expected. Bethral would never let a beast founder under her charge, so Ezren decided to let that worry go.

There were other concerns. His endurance, for one.

It wasn’t that he was weakening, exactly. More and more, he couldn’t get enough to eat or drink, and when he rolled into the tent, he was asleep before Bethral had time to pull the blankets over them. He’d tried to apologize—he’d hoped to love his lady every night. Bethral had just pressed her fingers to his lips, and shaken her head with understanding.

He didn’t have to tell her. He knew she saw it in his body, in the definition of the muscles, in the thinning of his wrists. Those old scars from the slave chains were more pronounced, at least to his eyes. The power within was consuming him, as Wild Winds had predicted.

So he concentrated on keeping in the saddle, and riding hard. Lander had given him a small bag of dried meat, and he ate as they rode, working it with his jaws. Gurt, too, although he was getting tired of its bitter taste. It wasn’t that unpleasant, just not something he wanted to eat every day. Every hour of every day.

Interesting that adventure tales never seemed to mention trail rations.

“Third day.” Arbon was next to him as they saddled their horses and loaded the packs. Bethral had agreed to stop when they found a good-sized herd, and hide within it for a day or two to let them catch their breath. With any luck, maybe they could hunt. Fresh meat and greens would be more than welcome.

“Third day,” Ezren said with a smile. He swung into the saddle and turned his horse. “Let us get started.”

“Ezren.” Bethral grabbed his horse’s bridle. She was already mounted on Bessie, and her cloak covered her armor.

“What?” he asked crossly, suddenly irritated that she would get in his way.

“That’s the wrong direction,” she said, her blue eyes pained. “That’s northwest.”

“Oh.” Ezren turned his head and looked at the rising sun. “I thought—”

Bethral nodded. “I know. Let’s get moving.”

He nodded, and they headed out. Ezren noticed Bethral didn’t release her grip on his horse’s bridle until they were well on the way.

 

 

GILLA didn’t see the horses until Cosana extended out her arm and pointed. They were riding at a gallop at that point. It was a smaller herd than the one before, but large enough to hide in.

Gilla looked over her shoulder. Bethral had seen the horses. She didn’t say anything, but turned Bessie in that direction.

Gilla was grateful. It was early still, and the sun wasn’t that close to the horizon. Sleep would come easily this night, even if the sun wasn’t down. She was tired, and she wasn’t the only one.

The Storyteller was exhausted.

You couldn’t tell with just a casual glance, but the signs were there. A tremble in his hands and the strain around his eyes. Bethral was staying close, keeping an eye on him, trying to keep him in the center of the group. At the last rest break, while they had watered the horses and switched mounts, Ouse had said that the glow he saw seemed no different.

Gilla hoped it stayed that way.

Cosana had the lead. As they drew closer, she slowed her horse to a walk so as not to disturb the herd. She looked over her shoulder at Gilla with a smile.

So Cosana didn’t see the warrior-priestess at the edge of the herd, flinging a saddle on the back of a horse. Gilla caught her breath. Usually warrior-priests ignored warriors, as if they did not exist. But this one was giving them a hard look.

“Cosana,” Gilla said sharply, but Cosana had turned and spotted the problem. She angled her horse away, as if to avoid the warrior-priestess, just as any warrior would do. Gilla held her breath as they rode past. She could see other warrior-priests within the herd, selecting mounts. Ezren was in the middle of their party, and Bethral was cloaked. If they could just get past them and ride farther on—

“SACRIFICE! THE SACRIFICE!”

Damn them to the snows, they’d seen the Storyteller. Gilla yanked her horse’s head around and drew a lance.

She saw a flash of silver, and watched Bethral charge into the herd. Horses scattered, saddles falling off them and leaving warrior-priests standing there, drawing swords and bows. Bethral galloped past the first one, who was screaming and pulling a bow. She swung her mace at the woman’s exposed head, connecting with a solid hit.

The warrior-priestess collapsed.

The other warrior-priests scattered, but another one had brought his bow to bear on—

Gilla didn’t think. Her lance was in her hand, and she threw, aiming at his chest. She didn’t wait to see the result. She pulled her sword and shield. Her horse surged forward at her urging, and they were in the midst of the enemy. A warrior-priest came at her, sword held high.

Gilla took the blow on her shield, and countered as she had been trained. There was no thought other than to defend and strike, to dodge and parry, to protect . . . and kill.

 

 

EZREN pressed himself farther down in the grasses, and kept his eyes focused on the blades before him.

The first he’d known of an attack was the cry of ”sacrifice.” Chell had pulled him from his saddle and to the ground. They’d planned this—the two closest warriors were to keep him down and sheltered from arrows and warrior-priests. He was to control his emotions and keep the magic under control. El was kneeling beside him, shield up, watching the fight.

Ezren opened his mouth to ask, then closed it firmly. Bethral was—they all were—trained warriors. They were fine . . . would be fine. There was no reason to fear, no reason to get angry. The warmth in his chest was just warmth.
All’s well,
he told himself, desperate to keep his emotions in check.

There were sounds, shouts, the clash of swords, the scream of a horse. Oh yes, this would be an epic tale when he told it back in Edenrich, with a glass of cold ale and a crowd’s wide-eyed excitement. Him in the grass, that part he might just leave out, thank you kindly. No need to—

El shifted next to him, and Ezren looked over. The lad’s eyes were fixed ahead, looking over his shield rim, his sword gripped tight in his hand.

Ezren could take no more. He eased up.

Chell pressed him down. “No, Storyteller.”

Yes. He’d leave that bit out as well. Not that it wouldn’t make for a decent comic tale, but one did have to think of one’s reputation—-

“Gilla,” El breathed, and was gone, running.

Ezren was on his feet next to Chell, both of them standing there. El was running toward a riderless horse and a warrior-priest with his sword high, about to strike at something on the ground. Bethral was fighting two of her own, and the others were too far away to aid.

Fear surged up, and then raw anger. Damn them! Lord of Light, damn them to the coldest hells!

Chell cried out, but Ezren ignored her. He raised his glowing hands and pointed at the warrior-priest.

The man went up in a pillar of fire.

 

 

“ELDER !”

Hail Storm turned, and there on the tiny Plains was a small flame, burning bright for an instant, then snuffed out, disappearing from sight.

“Quickly, how many others close to that place?” he asked.

“Three,” Thunder Clouds said. “And that one has to be Frost, coming from the south. He was performing the rites for the farthest tribe.”

“Prepare to send word,” Hail Storm ordered. The quick movements around him told him he was being obeyed.

He put his hand on the young warrior-priest who had alerted him. “Excellent. But keep watch. We need to track him for as long as we can.”

Hail Storm exited the tent, holding his staff. Thunder Clouds was waiting for him. “The others are preparing the casting in my tent. But the magics are failing—perhaps we should move—”

“No matter.” Hail Storm took his elbow and urged him on. “I have sufficient power. We will get a message to Frost, and send him to that location as best we can. He can track from there.” Hail Storm stopped for a moment. “We are so close, Thunder Clouds. I can feel it. Magics restored to the Plains.”

“And our powers restored as well,” Thunder Clouds finished for him. “Come. There is much yet to be done.”

GILLA was on all fours, willing the heaving to stop and failing miserably. She’d already lost what had been within; now she just heaved and could not stop. All she could see was the warrior-priest’s face as her lance pierced his chest. She’d never—

She threw up again, as the image flashed before her eyes.

A cup appeared before her face. “Here.”

It was Arbon. If her face wasn’t already burning red, it would be now. She turned her face away, gasping for air, blinking away the tears.

“Don’t drink. Just rinse,” Arbon insisted.

She lifted a shaky hand, and took the cup. It did help, if only for a minute. She at least managed to stop heaving. Arbon took back the cup. Gilla crawled away from her mess and then sat, still trembling and shaking, trying to get her breathing under control.