Destiny's Star (20 page)

It wasn’t that Arbon wasn’t a good fighter. He was. But Bethral was better, and by quite a bit. She also had options with the great sword that he didn’t have. She could use the reach of the weapon to keep him at bay, and slash with the sharp tip.

Even when Arbon tried to press in close, she used the crosspieces to attempt to disarm him, or just smacked him with the flat of the blade.

That young man was going to hurt worse tomorrow than Ezren did today.

Ezren had to give the lad credit. He didn’t give in easily; he kept at it even after Bethral scored the skin over his right eye, and blood poured down his face.

Bethral’s braid had come undone, and her blonde hair swung with her blows. She wasn’t fast; Ezren had seen her spar with other warriors and knew that others were faster. But she made every move count, waited for her best opportunities. He relaxed when he realized that she was enjoying herself.

He relaxed even more when her final blow cracked against Arbon’s shield and sent him sprawling in the grass.

He lay there, breathing hard, as Bethral put the tip of her sword to his neck. He grinned at her. “I yield, Warrior.”

“Really?” Bethral said. She didn’t move her sword. “On the Plains, the rules of challenge are clear. During the spring contests, but not once the army is in the field.”

Arbon’s eyes went wide, and he licked his lips.

“You should have challenged before we left Haya’s camp,” Bethral continued. “I’ve every right to kill you now.”

“Warrior, I—”

Bethral pressed the blade into Arbon’s skin. “Do you think me less than a warrior of the Plains?”

“Warlord,” Arbon gasped, “I yield.”

Bethral pulled the blade back, and turned and walked away. Her eyes flickered over the young warriors, and Ezren could tell that she had noted those on watch. “Mount up,” she said. “We’re joining the herd.”

 

 

THE herd was slowly moving south and east. The horses drifted for the most part, grazing and nursing the foals. It wasn’t going to gain them a lot of ground, but Bethral was satisfied. Their tracks were well and truly covered, and there’d been no sign of pursuit. Still, she’d had the warriors spread out on the edges of the herd, scanning the rises around them. She was keeping to the center of the herd. Bessie was tall enough to stand out like an ehat. Not that Bethral had seen one yet, but she was sure she’d know one when she saw it.

She was checking off to the east when Ezren sidled his horse up to Bessie. “Lady Bethral, I fear your idea of ‘interesting.’ ”

Bethral chuckled. “I knew it was coming. Arbon hadn’t lowered his eyes to me, which is a sign of respect between warriors, and he’d been giving me that cocky smile for some time.”

“Damn bold of him, to try something like that,” Ezren said.

“He’d have gained quite a bit of status if he’d taken over the leadership of our journey. Even more if he could claim to have seen us safe off the Plains.” Bethral shrugged. “I don’t blame him for trying, but he won’t do it again.”

“Why won’t he?” Ezren asked.

“That’s not done,” Bethral explained. “You don’t challenge a warlord while on campaign unless the circumstances are extraordinary. And you don’t repeatedly try a challenge after you’ve lost, unless you have gained new skills or experience. The warlord will not spare you a second time.”

“Oh, how I wish I had paper,” Ezren said. “I want to write this down, take notes, so that if we return—”

“When we return,” Bethral corrected him. “Little chance you’ll find paper and pen here, Storyteller.”

“I’m trying to remember everything I can. I could turn it into such a tale.” Ezren gave her a sly look, his green eyes bright. “With young Arbon there the butt of my jokes.”

Bethral laughed as Gilla appeared among the horses and headed for them.

“Warlord,” she said, as respectfully as anyone could ask.

“My name is enough, Gilla,” Bethral said.

“Chell sends word that a pride of cats are following the herd on the western side. They’re stalking right now, but she feels they will hunt soon.”

“Cats?” Ezren glanced at the cat perched on Bethral’s bedroll. Its eyes were half closed, as if sleeping, but its claws were sunk deep into the bedroll.

“No.” Gilla shook her head. “Cats of the Plains, Storyteller. Much bigger. Much, much bigger. Would you like to see?”

“Would I?” Ezren moved his horse forward. “Show me.”

“Don’t become prey yourselves,” Bethral called. She waited until they’d moved off before she started to wind her way through the horses to the eastern side of the herd. With any luck, the hunt would move the herd further east, which fitted her plans well enough.

But she couldn’t help scanning the rises, looking for signs of pursuit. She knew well enough that she wasn’t the only one making plans.

 

 

“WELL?” demanded Hail Storm as he entered the tent.

“Nothing.” The young warrior-priest lowered his eyes. “We have scryed, but have not found them in the area of the thea camp.” He hesitated, then continued. “It hampers our efforts that we do not know what the Sacrifice looks like.”

“What of the one that brought us word?” Hail Storm growled as he settled in his chair. “Did she not—”

“A fleeting glance, no more. Reddish hair, and outlined in magic.”

“Keep trying.”

“Elder, we have almost drained this place of its power.”

“Drain it dry, then we will move the camp.” Hail Storm paused. “Have the summons gone out?”

“Yes, Elder. All of the warrior-priests have been summoned. We have even sent out summons to those that wander, but it is doubtful that—”

“To the Heart?” Hail Storm demanded. “You summoned them to the Heart?”

“Yes, Elder.”

Hail Storm paused, aware that he’d been a bit abrupt. “You have done well, Gray Cloud.”

The warrior-priest bowed his head in quiet thanks, and left the tent.

If the magics had been drained, so be it. After years of conserving the power, there was now a need. And such a need. The source of magic, the source of the restoration of their power, was here. Hail Storm’s heart beat faster at the idea of being the one who would lead the warrior-priests back to their glory.

Glory for the people of the Plains, certainly. But what heights of power could he rise to, with the magics returned to the Plains?

But he had to remain focused. The Sacrifice was wandering the Plains, and he must be found and brought to the Heart. Word of this must not reach the warlords or any of the eldest elders. This was a matter for the warrior-priests of the Plains, and them alone.

Hail Storm calmed himself. He’d wandered in his time, wandered the wide outer rim of the world. He’d ventured into the “civilized” lands and learned what he needed to know of other paths to power that the weak feared to tread. When the time was right, he wouldn’t hesitate.

He’d make any sacrifice necessary to achieve the powers of his ancestors.

“THEY surely were not cats,” the Storyteller said. “Closer to lions, I would think. The color is the same, but not the teeth. Theirs were huge.”

They were all gathered by the fire as the stars started to appear. All except Lander and Ouse, who’d drawn the first watch. The cat had climbed into Gilla’s lap, and she carefully scratched the top of its head. It was rumbling fiercely, working its claws against her leather trous.

The warlord—Bethral—had warned her that the cat would bite, so she made sure to keep her fingers well away from its mouth. She wasn’t sure of its sex, and she wasn’t going to explore its nether regions to find out. Those claws were sharp.

“It’s said that a pride of cats can pull down an ehat,” El told the Storyteller.

“What is ‘pull down’?”

Gilla giggled a bit at that. The Storyteller insisted that they all speak with him and force him to learn their language. Bethral was not allowed to translate for him unless he asked her to. So they had to try to use their own language to explain words. El was trying to mime a group of cats killing an ehat, and it was fun to see such a wise one try to figure out the meaning.

“Ah! To kill, to pull down,” Ezren crowed, his green eyes flashing with success. “I want to see an ehat before we leave the Plains. That would be a grand tale.”

They’d found a good camp, one that already had a fire circle, by a pond. Farther east than anyone had planned, because the herd had run quite a way after the Plains cats had attacked. But the alders were heavy, and the water was sweet, so Bethral had ordered an early stop.

The herd had encircled them, to be near the water. Tenna and Chell had set snares for rabbits in the tall grasses, and gotten enough for their meal. Tenna had tried to tempt the cat with bits of raw meat, but it had sniffed it in disdain and then disappeared into the grasses. It had returned apparently sated.

So, they’d taken turns watching, setting up their sleep tents, bathing, and preparing their meal. Although Bethral had said that the women must all bathe together, as would the men.

Gilla had stared at her. “Why?”

“Is that the way of your people?” Chell asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes.” Bethral glared, her voice clipped. Although Gilla thought she saw a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Well,” Tenna said carefully, “I think we should honor your customs as you honor ours.”

“That would be best.” Bethral said.

City dwellers were so strange. So very different, but still people. Gilla thought that surprised her the most. They ate and drank and laughed . . . but some of their ideas were very odd.

“So explain to me again,” the Storyteller asked. “If we let the horses wander out into the herd, how do we get them back again in the morning?”

“We’ll call, and horses will answer,” Ouse said.

“The same horses?” The Storyteller looked puzzled.

“No, not unless they want to,” El said.

“They want to be ridden?” The Storyteller looked over at Bethral as if sharing a joke.

“Of course,” Gilla said. “Don’t yours?”

“It’s part of their training, both the horse and the human,” Bethral said. “A Plains warrior who cannot summon a horse to ride is a dead Plains warrior.”

“It is said that to anger the Spirit of the Horse is to slay your own,” Ouse said.

The Storyteller nodded. “Which is why ‘bragnect’ is such an insult. To slay a baby horse would anger the Spirit of the Horse.”

“Regardless of one’s tribe, all honor the Spirit of the Horse,” Bethral said softly.

“As your token honors Steel,” the Storyteller said. His voice was so soft, yet filled with admiration.

“Aye,” Bethral replied, just as softly.

“I—” Cosana broke the moment, her voice very hesitant. “I have a question, if I may, Storyteller? Please?”

“How can I aid you?” the Storyteller asked.

“I have this—” Cosana pulled a small bag from behind her, and struggled with the knots at the top. Gilla was fairly certain she’d brought it with her after bathing, working up the courage to ask about it.

The bag spilled open, and small pieces of wood went flying. Cosana gasped, and started to pick them up. The others helped her, even rescuing one from the flames. The Storyteller was looking at the bag, which was really a large square piece of leather, marked with lines in an equal pattern. He held out his hand, and Cosana handed him one of the wooden pieces.

Ezren held it up to the light. “I’m not sure, but it looks like a chess set.” There was an exclamation from both Tenna and Chell, but the Storyteller was looking at Cosana. “Where did you get this?”

“Cosana”—Tenna gaped at her, holding one of the pieces—“we’re not allowed . . .”

“Children are not allowed,” Cosana said defiantly, jerking the piece from her hand. “I am a warrior, and I can have—”

“Haya and Seo banned it from the camp,” El explained. “It’s from Xy.”

“The Warprize brought it with her,” Arbon said. He’d been quiet during the meal. Gilla wasn’t surprised, given his black eyes and the bruises on his face and body. The cut had sealed, but she was certain it would scar.

“Do you know the rules?” Cosana asked the Storyteller. “Will you teach me?”

“Sure,” the Storyteller said.

Cosana squealed with pleasure and dropped to her knees in front of him.

“Anyone wants to learn, gather round,” the Storyteller instructed. “First thing you need to know . . .”

Gilla didn’t move, she didn’t want to disturb the cat that now slept in her lap. The others all surrounded Ezren Storyteller, listening to him explain the pieces and the moves. Bethral didn’t stir, but something made Gilla look in her direction.

Her expression caught Gilla, who managed not to gasp out loud. Need, with desire . . . the pure want on her face. Gilla knew in that instant that Bethral of the Horse loved Ezren Storyteller.