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.
