His people roared their response.
“We have bared the earth,” Simus chanted, making sure his voice could reach the entire crowd. “We ask the earth to witness these Trials.”
“We thank the earth for witnessing our truths,” came the traditional response.
Two braziers sat off to each side, one filled with water, the other with a fire that leapt brightly from precious wood.
Simus moved to the one filled with water. “We have lit the fire,” he chanted. “We ask the fire to witness these Trials.”
The crowd responded. “We thank the fire for witnessing our truths.”
Simus moved to the opposite side. “We have poured the water,” he said, his words a steady beat. “We ask the water to witness these Trials.”
“We thank the water for witnessing our truths.”
Simus returned to the center, and laughed as he lifted both hands, palms up, and tilted his head back. “Skies, we invite you into our midst. We ask the skies to witness these Trials.”
“We thank the skies for witnessing our truths.”
And without prompting, all joined in the last shout of “HEYLA!” followed by laughter, clapping of hands, and pounding of feet.
“I declare myself a candidate for Warlord,” Simus proclaimed, and walked back to his tent entrance where the challenge pole stood. He raised his banner swiftly, a long streamer of red against the sky, cracking against the wind. “Red for the flame that is a Warlord,” Simus recited.
Destal stepped forward. “I request permission to contest for Token-bearer,” she said, and at Simus’s nod hung her banner below his. “Brown,” she said. “For the earth that is a Token-bearer.”
“I request permission to contest for Second,” Yers said, and when Simus gave him the nod, he attached his banner below Destal’s. “White for the air that is a Second.”
“And I for Third.” Tsor stepped forward, and at Simus’s nod, attached his blue banner to stream out with the rest. “Blue for the water that is a Third.”
His warriors, still clustered about, were laughing and smiling. Simus stood in their midst and shared their joy, admiring the banners for just a moment. But he was also very aware of the risks they were taking, tying their success to his. If he failed, they’d have to seek service with another Warlord, losing rank and status. Or worse, return to a thea camp to wait out the season.
But they gathered and stood, smiling and confident, and his heart swelled at the sight.
“Now the hard part,” Destal said after a moment. “The waiting.”
Sighs and groans, and the other warriors started to wander off to see to their duties.
Destal sighed as well. “I’ve a belt to re-stitch.” She settled on a gurtle pad beneath the challenge pole.
Yers shrugged. “I’m off to make the rounds of the Tenths, and see if I can talk to some that have not yet sworn their oaths. Summon me if a challenger appears.”
Tsor placed his pad by Simus’s weapons rack and pulled out a whet stone, clearly intent on sharpening his sword.
Other camps were starting to form around them, but for now few warriors wandered freely. It would be some time before challengers appeared. Simus resigned himself, retreated back into his tent, seated himself on the platform in all his finery, and decided to brood. Majestically. Powerfully. As a Warlord should.
He did not fear the Trials. But waiting was not something he did well.
The dancing the night before had been sparsely attended, but that had not been unexpected. Most of the others had barely picked their sites, much less erected their tents. Simus and his people had danced and chanted until they were tired enough to sleep. Tonight he hoped for more warriors to attend.
Destal had set watches, and Simus couldn’t fault her there. It was not the traditional way, but he’d rather break tradition than not keep his warriors safe.
And then again, tradition didn’t plan for change, did it? Warrior-priests all dead, yet their powers increased?
So much could go wrong. Othur and he had planned for a supply caravan to arrive in Xy during the Trials. He’d hoped they’d arrive soon, but only the winds knew when or if they would come safely. Then there was Antas and his plots, and that was concern enough for any warrior.
Voices rose from outside the tent, and Galid stepped within. Simus gave him a nod.
“I wish to challenge for Token-bearer, Warlord,” Galid said, his white teeth flashing against skin the color of dried grass long under the sun. “And would ask your permission.”
