Joden rose to his feet, surveying the stone. Simus stood there, uneasy, as his warriors turned their horses and rode out. “That light, those sounds,” he said to Joden. “There should be some mark, some sign.”
Joden nodded his silent agreement, walking toward the edge of the stone, circling Simus as they both looked for some answers. The coming dawn made it easier to see that there was no trace ofanythingto be seen. Which made Simus even more nervous.
A short time later, the warriors returned, all of them reporting the same thing. Tents collapsed, the ground trampled, and the dead everywhere.
“I’d put it in the hundreds,” Eloix said quietly. “I’ve never seen such a thing. Warlord, they were all stripped of their tattoos, and all showed signs of having died at their own hands. None of their staffs had skulls, either.”
“I know where we might find some answers,” Joden said slowly, pointing off into the distance.
“Where?” Simus asked and then turned his gaze to where Joden pointed. On a far rise a handful of tents stood against the horizon, lit with torches, with people and horses milling about.
Simus thanked allthe elements that Joden obeyed when Simus ordered him to ride at his side. His friend would have plunged ahead at a gallop, regardless of the risks.
Not that Simus really blamed him. He wanted answers, too.
The scouts took up their positions. All of his warriors regrouped with him, and they rode at a slow pace, and constantly scanned the Plains. But here there were no trampled grasses; the herd had not come this way.
Simus felt his shoulders ease as they circled around to mount the ridge. This camp appeared normal from the looks of it, and as they drew closer he could see that here were mostly young ones.
“They’ve only partial tattoos,” Joden noted.
“Which only adds to the questions,” Simus said. Young warrior-priests were kept isolated and away from the warrior camps until they had earned their full tattoos. It was rare to see even one, and here was a camp filled with them. Simus did a quick count and frowned. Maybe twenty in all, their bare torsos decorated with tattoos in various places, but not covered in them as they would be when they reached full status.
He signaled the scouts back, and slowed their progress to a walk. He did not hail the camp, but made no secret of their approach. Yet they went unnoticed, the group’s focus seemingly on a tall, fully tattooed warrior-priest in the center of the group.
“Wild Winds,” Simus said softly. Joden nodded his agreement.
Wild Winds stood, staff in one hand, talking to four or five young warriors of the Plains. Still, there was no threat in any of their gestures or faces, no fear or anger. Instead, Simus could have sworn there was relief and even joy.
Yers caught Simus’s eye, then pointed with his chin to where one of the young warrior-priestesses was seeing to a horse, removing its tack. The horse was nuzzling the young one’s hair as she worked.
Something painful eased in Simus’s chest. Still, it was no reason to relax. Even less to trust. Wild Winds was the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains. His cold disdain and opposition to Keir of the Cat was known. His refusal to consider any new ideas and his opposition to the confirmation of the Warprize had resulted in the sundering of the Council of Elders. Simus had no reason to expect a welcome. Even so, he had to try to learn the truth of all of this.
“Wild Winds,” he called, louder than he intended, fully expecting a hostile greeting.
Which made the open expression on the tattooed face that turned his way even more of a shock.
“Simus of the Hawk.” Wild Winds strode up and stood before him, planting his skull-less staff next to him. “How may I aid you?”
Simus studied the man. Wild Winds seemed stronger somehow, yet the three human skulls no longer dangled from the leather thongs on his staff. Wild Winds still bore his full tattoos, the only one in the crowd to do so. And his eyes...
Simus glanced at the others that surrounded him and saw the same things in the eyes of the others. Over-bright and wild, as if they’d drunk enough fermented gurtle milk to be seeing the dead. Or survived their first battle. Rattled, nervous, relieved, scared, anxious; it was all there in their eyes.
Except one. A woman standing just behind Wild Winds, at his shoulder. Lovely, with firm breasts and skin the color of kavage laced with milk. Her black hair was twisted into curls that crowned her head. Her bare shoulders were capped with green and black tattoos in a twisting vine pattern that trailed down her arms just far enough to cover the tattoos of her tribes and her birth offerings to the Plains.
But what really caught his attention were her cool, grey eyes, which regarded the crowd calmly. She, whoever she was, was keeping a calm face and a steady hand.
Their eyes met, and Simus was lost.
There was beauty there, but there were mysteries as well. Simus couldn’t read her expression or her emotions. But there were secrets in the depths of those eyes that he wanted to explore.
Her gaze slid away from his. Simus realized that the chatter around them had died off.
It took Simus a breath to turn his attention back to Wild Winds and his greeting. A breath too long, since the old man seemed to sense his...distraction.
Simus narrowed his eyes, staring at Wild Winds. “An explanation would be a good start,” Simus said carefully. If Wild Winds could act as if nothing had happened, so could he. “My evening pleasures were interrupted by a needle of light that pierced the sky, and a Singer with an itch of curiosity.” Simus nodded his head toward Joden. “I had no choice but to leave my bed and seek you out.”
Wild Winds greeted Joden, and continued talking, inviting them all into his tent, and offering to tell the tale. Simus listened, caught off guard by this change of tone from the Eldest Elder Warrior-Priest. Still...Simus opened his mouth to refuse.
