The warriors around her responded in unison. “We thank the elements.”
Hanstau moved back, making room, swallowing hard as he angrily shoved jars and bottles back into his satchel.
“Lara fought against the granting of mercy,” Simus said softly.
Hanstau paused and took a deep breath. “My Queen is a gentle lady, and a Master Healer, but she lacks my years.” The pudgy healer with the soft hands looked up at Simus with hard eyes. “I know when to offer my surrender to Lord Death.”
“We can killthem,” Simus said. “Just like we bring down ehats.”
“With all due respect, Warlord, ehat musk does not eat flesh and bone,” Nona said.
They’d given Faela mercy and seen to her body as best they could. Now Simus had gathered them once again, out of sight of the Heart. Hanstau sat beside Simus, staring at the satchel in his lap.
“So now we know some live beneath that wreckage,” Simus said.
“Without the Warlord, there are no raids. Without raids, there will be no Plains,” another offered.
“Without Elders, there is no Council,” another said glumly.
“Lances work to kill the creatures,” Simus continued, not letting them sink into despair. “Crossbows may, with a good hit. But we need not kill. Just create enough of a fuss to draw them off and let others move in, and pull those that live from the debris. I have an idea—”
A rustling from the grass around them. Simus stopped talking at the sound of a soft bird call. Tsor, and a handful of younger warriors, crawled into view, all grass-stained and sweating.
“Tsor, what word?” Simus said, as the group made room for the newcomers.
Tsor crawled up and sat cross-legged next to him. The young ones sprawled out in the grass before him, sharing a waterskin.
“There’s so many, Warlord,” Tsor said. “They fill the shoreline as far south as we ranged. But only on the shoreline. They seem drawn to the water’s edge.” He took a long drink. “They are mock-fighting, and seem to have an area that they defend against all comers. An area that they return to if they are roused. Also, they are piling up their kills.”
“Kills?” Simus asked.
“A few have a small heap of dead gurtles close by,” Tsor said. “Ouse there has an idea.”
Ouse sat up, facing Simus, waiting for permission to speak.
“Give me your truths, warrior,” Simus nodded.
Ouse swelled with youthful pride. “Warlord, they remind me of young stags at mating season. Testing themselves against each other.”
“Mating?” Simus narrowed his eyes in thought. “Can you sex them? Are there females?”
They all shook their heads. “Not that I’ve seen,” Tsor said. “Not that any of us have seen. No teats, so we think they might be egg layers.” He hesitated, and then continued. “I think they may be more like night-flyers than hawks. But that is as good as asking the wind. I’ve no proof.”
“I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it,” Elois said.
Simus considered for a moment, then shook his head. “If you are right there would be a benefit to delay, but I will not wait on a guess.” He looked at the younger warriors. “You five take the healer. Find what is left of his tent and scavenge his gear with him. Watch the skies.”
“Aye, Warlord.” They scrambled to their knees, ready to go.
“The wounded should be brought to me,” Hanstau said firmly. He shifted closer as the others crawled away. “We can set up an area, hidden in the grasses.” He gave a sick sort of chortle. “My poor oxen are probably dead.”
“What of your powers?” Elois asked Snowfall.
Snowfall shook her head, the twists in her black hair dancing. “It has limits, being unseen. Movement, trying to cover others, all add to the difficulty. Like sparring with five warriors at the same time.”
“Maybe if I could use that glow like you do, I could have saved that man.” Hanstau pursed his lips.
Snowfall’s eyes went wide. “You can see—?”
