Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)
Elizabeth Vaughan
This book is dedicated to Stephanie Loree
Friend and confidant, sharing the trials and tribulations of our writing lives
Prologue
“Is this your first birthing since joining my camp?”
Haya looked up at Elder Thea Olana with a nod as she dried her hands. “Yes, Elder.” The warmth of the birthing tent surrounded them as the others tended the mother, gathering close to acknowledge the life-bearer’s pain.
“Then take this,” Olana gestured with the newborn in her arms. “You know the naming ritual. See to it, and take him to the nursing tent.”
Haya stepped closer, taking the baby in her arms. The child wriggled, squirming in its blanket, blinking in the light. “My thanks,” Haya murmured as she stepped from the tent.
The night air was cooler, and the babe’s eyes opened wider as he felt its touch. He waved his small fists seemingly against the air itself.
“You’ll be a strong warrior,” Haya smiled down at the babe. “We’ll seek your name, then find you a teat to suck, yes?”
Behind her, the all too familiar chant rose from the tent. “We are the life-givers. Life-bearers of the Plains. This is our burden. This is our pain.”
Haya walked off, bearing the child toward the naming circle. The sounds of the chant and of the camp faded behind her. She smiled down into the newborn’s eyes, who was staring at her now.
The naming circle was just on the next rise, the sod cut away to expose the earth. She glanced at the four bowls at the four points, making sure they were full and properly positioned. She took her stance in the middle of the circle, and gently pulled away the blanket, exposing the naked baby to the air.
The child cried out, like a baby gurtle seeking its mother.
“Hush, little one,” Haya chided the babe. “How else can I hear your name when the elements speak it?”
The tiny face scrunched tight.
Haya laughed, rocked him, and sang the traditional tune.
“Heyla, tiny warrior,
Heyla, cease your cries
Heyla, the moon is rising
Heyla, close your eyes.”
The babe’s face cleared, his eyes wide and fascinated.
Haya faced the east and raised the child high to the morning sky. “Elements,” she called out. “Behold. The Tribe has grown. The Tribe has flourished. A new warrior comes to us, and we would ask his name.”
She lowered the child, pulling the blanket back around him to keep him warm. She knelt to face the small bowl on the ground, filled with black, burning coals. “Fire, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you warm him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
The child yawned, pushed his fist into his mouth, and started sucking it.
“Patience, little one,” Haya whispered, and turned on her knee to face the next bowl on the ground, filled with dirt and stone. “Earth, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you support him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
Another turn, and they faced the bowl filled with water.
“Water, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you sustain him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
The babe sneezed.
One final turn, to face the empty bowl. “Air, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you fill him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
Haya stood, then, and lifted her face to the star-filled sky. “Elements, name this child of the Plains.”
And then she listened.
The camp was silent and still, waiting for the dawn. There was bustle about the birthing tent, but even that seemed quiet and hushed.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose; it felt as if all of the Plains was waiting… watching…
The winds blew, rushing through the tents, setting the pennants flapping. They swirled around Haya and the babe. Haya heard…
The winds died down, as quickly as they had come, leaving silence and peace.
Haya looked down, smiling at the tiny sleeping babe. “The Elements have spoken,” she said. “You are named Joden. Joden of the Hawk.”
With swift steps, she left the circle and strode quickly to the nursing tent. Best to see that the babe was warmed and had a teat in its mouth before it started to fuss.
Seo greeted her as she entered the tent which smelled of melted gurt and dried milk. “Another this night? The Tribe indeed flourishes,” he gestured to a young life-bearer, her breasts heavy with milk. “Come, settle by the fire and give this one his first suck. Make sure your teat is clean, and watch that he can hold your nipple.”
“His name is Joden of the Hawk.” Haya gave up the bundle willingly, looking about the tent. “Two others?”
“Aye,” Seo grinned. “Two feisty males for that one to keep with.” He pointed his chin at a life-bearer nursing a dark-skinned baby who was clutching at her breast. “That one is named Simus, also of the Hawk” He knelt back by the brazier, and pulled a pitcher from the coals. “Kavage?”
An angry cry rang out from the other, a pale-skinned baby with a shock of fine black hair.
Haya glanced to make sure the life-bearer had settled down with Joden before she sat next to Seo. “That one will be trouble.”
“Probably,” Seo grinned as he offered her kavage. “That one is of the Cat.”
“His name?”
“The elements named him Keir.”
Chapter One
Joden of the Hawk, Warrior of the Plains, knew that to become a Singer he would have to undergo Trials. He’d assumed that he’d be challenged physically and mentally to prove his worth. He’d have to prove his knowledge of the songs and chants of the Plains, prove his ability to create songs. Prove as well his understanding of the way of the Plains, and his ability to act as a neutral judge in conflicts. That was his goal, to be a Singer, to join with those who held the knowledge of the Plains in their hearts.
He just hadn’t thought there would be so much dried dung involved.
He must have spoken out loud, for a voice came from behind him. “What? You thought the fires of a Singer’s camp burned on their own accord?”
Joden straightened from his task, and looked over his shoulder. Quartis sat on a gurtle pad, repairing some armor. The young man looked at Joden through the curtain of his long brown hair, decorated with beads and feathers. His bright eyes were piercing, and around his right eye was tattooed the black wing of a bird. The tattoo of a Singer.
All around them spread the Plains, wide, green with the early grasses, and empty of all but horses and themselves.
Joden looked down at the basket of dried dung in his hands. “No, I didn’t think they burned of their own accord, but—”
“Dung must be gathered if we’re to have a fire this noon,” Quartis said, as if talking to a child. “Para and Thron hunt our dinner. I am repairing my leathers. You, the youngest and newest candidate for Singer, are gathering dung. All is as it should be, yes?”
No, Joden thought but didn’t say the word aloud.
“Unless you think you are somehow special.” Quartis’s voice was silky now, raising the hairs on the back of Joden’s neck. “That you are above doing this task?”
“No,” Joden replied firmly.
“Well, then.” Quartis gestured toward the basket. “And while you are working, continue to recite the teaching chants,” the Singer ordered.
Joden sucked in a deep breath, let it out slow. Patience, he reminded himself as he bent to his task. “Fear. Fear holds you still when…”
The words came easily as he recited from memory, striving to appear calm and focused without.
Within was a different tale. In truth, his stomach was knotted, and his shoulders tight.