Destiny's Star (11 page)

“Who are they?” Ezren breathed, stepping around her before she could stop him. “What are they? Clerics of some kind? From the looks they are getting, they are powerful figures in this culture—”

“Storyteller,” Bethral warned, trying to get his attention, “let’s—”

“Haya,” the Plains singer called out, dismounting from his horse. The beads in his hair rattled as he swung down. “What is this I hear of city dwellers falling from the sky?”

“Quartis, you’d smell a story a mile off,” Haya replied. “How did you hear—”

There was an audible gasp. Bethral jerked her head around and saw the lead warrior-priest staring at Ezren, his mouth open in shock.

Ezren stared back at him, his face alive with curiosity. But curiosity turned to concern, and he brought his hand up to his heart. “What—” Puzzled green eyes sought Bethral’s.

Bethral sucked in a breath through her teeth. Haya and the Plains singer were still talking, unaware of what was happening.

The other warrior-priests were staring now, in open surprise. The first one had recovered, and his glare was fixed on the Storyteller. “You four,” he snapped, gesturing with his hand, “take word. Go. Now!”

Four of the warrior-priests turned their horses and galloped off, each in a different direction.

That caught Haya’s attention. “Warrior-Priest, what is wrong?”

“That man”—the Warrior-Priest pointed at the Storyteller—“he is coming with me. Now.”

Bethral growled. She stepped in front of Ezren, who was looking at them all, trying to follow their words.

“He is under the shelter of my tent.” Haya moved back a step, closer to Ezren. She put her hand on the pommel of her sword. “Why do you—”

“You break the rules of hospitality, Grass Fires.” The Singer stood calmly, looking up at the mounted man. “Why do you not follow the traditions of the Plains?”

“We will take him.” Grass Fires drew a lance from his quiver. “Do not stand in our way.”

The Singer frowned, then shrugged and stepped back, taking his horse with him, out of the conflict.

“What is this?” Haya spat. “Do you doubt the strength of my sword, that you threaten one under my protection?”

The three remaining warrior-priests dismounted and pulled their weapons. Grass Fires remained on his horse and pointed at Ezren. “Bind him. Quickly.”

“Seo!” Haya screamed, and charged Grass Fires. They met with a clash of swords. Their horses scattered.

The other two warrior-priests headed for Ezren, who started to back away. Grass Fires was dismounting, aiming his lance at Ezren’s chest, pulling his arm back for a throw.

Bethral fumbled with her support, as if to shift her weight. One of the two warrior-priests glanced at her, then focused on Ezren. His mistake.

She dropped the two-handed sword, pulled her own blade from its scabbard, and lunged. The splints on her leg held, but the bone grated within. Pain flared up, but it was distant and unimportant. Her focus was all on the enemy.

One warrior-priest tried to parry her stroke, but her blade scored off his ribs and cut into his upper arm. She pulled back, and tried to find the second warrior-priest—

But he’d gotten to her first. He came up behind, and kicked at the splints on her leg.

The old wooden practice swords splintered, and Bethral screamed as bone tore through flesh. She collapsed to the ground. The warrior-priest kicked her sword away and stood over her. A dagger flashed in his hand.

Her death was here.

She pulled her own dagger, determined to make him pay a price for it.

 

 

SO
fast. It happened so fast. One moment he was staring at the oddly tattooed men and women that had ridden up, and then blades flashed, and in the next instant—

Bethral was down, her leg torn in two, with one of the bastards standing over her, brandishing a dagger.

Lord of Light, no! She had been hurt because of him; now she would die for him, and he could not—

Ezren cried out in rage and anger, and the wild magic rose within him, lashing out with hot fury.

THE Storyteller’s furious scream caught everyone by surprise. Bethral’s enemy made the mistake of glancing in Ezren’s direction.

She didn’t. She lunged at him, grabbing his trous at the waist. With one hand she pulled herself off the ground. With the other, she thrust her dagger deep into his groin.

He screamed and fell, blood spurting from the wound.

Bethral pushed him off. Pain lanced through her body, and she caught a glimpse of glistening white bone and her own red blood. She looked away, trying to focus past the pain. Her sword lay just out of reach, and she twisted to reach for it. Her fingers touched the pommel as the pain surged again, clouding her vision. It was a fight to stay conscious. She wanted a blade in her hand before—

Wild magic lashed past her.

She jerked her head around. The Storyteller stood covered in fire, his face screwed up in agony. The flames writhed around him, reaching out, seeking—

“Down!” Bethral shouted. “Get down, get down.” She didn’t wait to see if anyone listened. She flipped over, pressing her face to the grass, covered her head.
Spirit of the Horse, protect me.

Heat washed over her back. She heard a horse screaming, and hooves running off. Her heart stopped at the thought that Bessie had been caught in this nightmare. But she forced herself to stay down.

The heat flared again. The grass around Bethral crackled and fizzed. She tried to breathe through cool soil. For a moment she felt as if a gentle hand had dropped a blanket over her, wrapping her in warmth. The hand squeezed, and her vision blurred as pain surged through her leg. She breathed through it, doggedly determined to stay awake and aware. The feeling was gone in an instant.

It took a bit longer for her vision to clear. She took a breath, listening to the silence around her. There was the smell of smoke and ash and burning flesh.

Carefully, Bethral raised her head and looked around.

The two that she’d attacked lay in the grass, dead. She couldn’t see any horses, and no one seemed to present a threat at the moment.

Ezren Storyteller was down, collapsed in the grass behind her. Pale, and still as death. The top of the tent behind him was burnt away, the leather edges smoldering.

Bethral rolled to her side to see better, and lifted her head higher.

There was another body, the warrior-priest they’d called Grass Fires. He . . . it . . . was charred black, the skin and muscle crisped. The smell . . .

Bethral swallowed hard and started to breathe through her mouth.

A rustle of grass, and the Singer . . . Quartis . . . lifted his head to look around.

Footsteps, and Haya appeared, grim and covered in ash and soot. She moved quickly, her sword out and her gaze fixed on Ezren Storyteller.

Bethral sucked in a breath. Haya was going to kill Ezren.

Her sword was gone, but in the grass close by was her makeshift crutch. Bethral jumped up, grabbing the two-handed sword. With one swift move, she ripped the cloth bindings and unsheathed the weapon. She dropped the scabbard and blocked Haya, bringing the bright blade up in a guard position.

Haya jerked to a stop. She stared at Bethral.

Bethral paused, in sudden realization. She was standing, free of pain. Her leg . . . the trous torn, ripped away. Beneath the fabric, her leg was whole and healthy. Healed.

Haya recovered first. Her eyes narrowed to a glare. “What monster have you brought into my camp?”

“No monster,” Bethral snapped back. “Did he violate your hospitality? Did he attack any that did not attack us first?” Bethral eased back a step, conscious that Ezren lay behind her, helpless.

Haya followed, her blade still at the ready. She glanced over the bodies on the ground, at the unharmed Quartis still trying to get to his feet. Her gaze flicked to the burnt tent and back to Bethral’s leg. She stopped advancing, but the look in her eyes . . .

Bethral spun, bringing the blade around in an arc. Seo was behind her, close to Ezren. With a snarl, she used both hands to brace the blade, and lunged—

“Stop!” Quartis commanded.

Seo froze.

Bethral diverted the tip of the blade, missing Seo. Her lunge carried her forward, and from the look on Seo’s face he knew that the blade would have pierced his chest. They stood, breathing hard, waiting.

Haya growled, “Singer, you do not have the right—” “I do not,” he agreed. “But I have seen enough to want to know more. So let us declare a battle truce among us, that we may see to our dead.”

“So be it.” Seo stepped back, sheathing his sword. “With any luck, the Storyteller is dead.”

Bethral sucked in her breath, then snarled in rage.

Seo backed away, eyeing her carefully. They all moved off, Haya calling for more warriors to aid her. Bethral waited until they were out of range of swords, then fell to her knees beside her Storyteller. Her mouth dry with fear, she reached out and touched his face.

Pale, and cold to the touch. It didn’t appear that anything was broken. She bent over him, her hair falling down, curtaining off the rest of the world. The barest puff of breath touched her cheek.

Her heart leapt in her chest. Alive, he was still alive, praise the skies and the stars and the winds in between. She combed his auburn hair off his face, taking a liberty she wouldn’t have dared if he were conscious.

His dark lashes fluttered, and Bethral caught a flash of green. Joy and relief made her laugh out loud. Without another thought, she kissed him.

Lips touched lips, and a thrill shot through her, down to her toes. Like a fine wine, and she wanted more, so much more. His lips moved in response, and she moaned at the sensation. More, she wanted more and—

She jerked her head away, shocked at her daring. Dazed green eyes stared into hers, confused.

A sound brought her to her feet, sword in hand.

The young were all standing there, staring at them wide-eyed.

 

 

“REMOVE everything that is mine from that tent,” Haya growled at Urte. “Return it all to the main camp. Put it in Seo’s tent for now.”

Urte wasted no time, signaling other warriors to come with her.

“Guard them,” Seo said to a group of four warriors standing around him, their lances in their hands. “Do not approach, do not threaten, but guard them. If they ask for food and drink, provide it. Understood?”

Haya looked around. “I want the young to return to the main—”

“Too late for that,” Quartis said, pointing with his chin.

Haya looked over, and cursed when she saw the young warriors clustering around Bethral and Ezren. She opened her mouth to summon them, but the Singer put his hand on her arm. “Wait,” he said.

Haya watched as Bethral shook her head, and waved the young ones away. They moved off, and turned to help the other warriors with the dead.

“She takes no advantage,” Quartis pointed out.

“He threw fire,” Haya snapped. “Did you see what is left of that warrior-priest?”

“I did,” Quartis replied calmly, which set Haya’s teeth on edge even more. “I was on the ground, yet unharmed. Would your blade leave an enemy any less dead?”

Seo growled, his sword still in his hand. “We’d have been better off killing them when they fell from the sky.”

“As to that, I cannot say. What is, is,” Quartis said as he watched the blonde warrior care for her Singer. “I’d like to know more before decisions are made.”

“What did that warrior-priest say?” Seo demanded. “Those four riders tore off in a hurry, and at his command.”

“Two words,” Quartis said. “ ‘Take word.’ ”

They stood silent for a moment, each in their own thoughts.

“What did they see, that he would send word out in the four directions?” Haya asked.

“We’ll have more of them swarming down on us, then.” Seo sheathed his sword. “And soon.”

Quartis looked out over the Plains. “Let us get kavage and talk. There isn’t much time. I would hear how it happened that they fell from the sky.”

 

 

BETHRAL made sure the young ones had moved off before she gathered up her weapons and struggled to lift Ezren off the ground. She staggered under his weight. He was no longer the emaciated, beaten slave that she’d bought for a copper in the market. She managed to get him to his pallet, and covered him with blankets in an effort to warm him.

Ezren wasn’t truly conscious, thankfully. His eyes were open, and he responded to her commands, but he seemed only dimly aware of his surroundings. If the skies were kind, if his Gods were kind, he’d not remember that she’d kissed him.

Once under the blankets, Ezren sighed, then drifted off to sleep. There was a bit more color in his face, and his hands felt warmer.