“Hail Storm,” one of the theas approached. “The young have their duties.”
Meaning that he’d had them long enough, he supposed. He gritted his teeth, but graciously nodded his head in agreement. “This time again tomorrow,” he said.
“If the Elder wills,” the thea responded, and gestured for the young to rise. They ran off, each to their own theas.
The thea gave Hail Storm a slight bow, and followed after.
Hail Storm watched them depart and seethed. Yet he did not show his hate, his fury at their insolence. He sat, waiting until they were all gone before he rose to his feet.
Or attempted to rise. The stump put him off balance. What was once a fluid motion, filled with grace was now an effort. He grunted, staggered up—
His hand itched. His missing hand itched. Fiercely, painfully, if he closed his eyes he could see where the twinge was, reach to scratch—
But the hand was not there, and the pain was merciless.
He clutched at the stump, but that brought no relief, so he fumbled in his pouch, for a small handful of dried mushrooms that he crammed in his mouth.
He stood there for long, terrible moments, sucking on the fibers, until at last the pain receded, little by little.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing in the grasses, all alone. No one had witnessed.
The pain was gone. All that remained was the familiar floating sensation.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It was taking more and more of the mushrooms to deal with the pain, and he’d few left. He hadn’t thought when he’d fled the Heart to gather any supplies. But then he’d never thought to have his tattoos stripped from his body, never thought he’d lose his powers, never thought that a simple wound to his arm could bring such festering.
The Storyteller spoke, his green eyes glowing with light. “... but may all the Gods, and all the elements grant that you get exactly what you deserve.”
Hail Storm’s lip curled. Damn that city-dweller. He’d destroyed the warrior-priests, destroyed any hope of restoring the Plains, destroyed any hope that Hail Storm would be supreme in the power the elements granted.
But there were other powers.
Hail Storm straightened, and started the long walk back to Antas’s camp.
The grass caught at his trous legs as he walked. He’d naught else but a cloak and sword, for by tradition, a warrior-priest wore nothing but their tattoos. The sight of his own skin, mottled and pale, shorn of their colorful magical protection was disturbing. Yet, to wear a tunic would be an admission of… failure.
Hail Storm stopped for a moment, sucking on the mushrooms. This rage he held was not letting him focus, and he needed to plan. To think.
There was power in the Plains that he could reach, for death was a constant. Even the place where the gurtles were slaughtered for meat was a source, even if it was a weak one. There were other places where warriors had died that were stronger.
Stronger still was to drain the life of a warrior as they died at his hand.
He paused again, as the memory came of Arched Color’s death at his hands. Her naked body, her eyes glazing… he shuddered, and had to stop again as he hardened in his trous.
He stood, not moving, letting the passion fade.
He doubted that he could kill again like that, at least not in Antas’s camp. As an Elder warrior, Antas should have more respect for him, more deference. But no, Antas had cured him, hadn’t he? Hacked off the injured limb and left him to survive or not as the elements willed.
Hail Storm grit his teeth. What would it be like to drain a warrior of Antas’s strength?
He shook his head, and forced his feet to move. Such thoughts were unrealistic and dangerous. He needed the protection of Antas’s camp for now. Needed to strengthen and heal.
And then there were his... experiments.
Hail Storm watched as the warrior lifted his severed arm, and tossed it into the fire.
The arm lay there, reddened by the coals, charred at the end. His fingers… its fingers moved. Hail Storm reached with his power, and watched as the singed fingers formed a fist.
Hail Storm’s eyes narrowed at the memory. He’d started small, with dead birds. Used his power to make them move. Just a twitch at first. But soon his skill had grown. Soon, he would try—
He lifted his head at the sound of hoofbeats.
A mounted warrior came over a rise, clearly intent on intercepting him. Hail Storm watched as the rider grew closer.
He watched as the horse abruptly reared, and refused to move closer.
The warrior dismounted, leaving the horse standing in the grass, and approached the rest of the way on foot.
“The Warlord Antas requires your presence in his tent,” the warrior said abruptly with no greeting, no respect. “The Warlord Ietha has arrived, and he would have you there when he summons his Warprize.”
Hail Storm stared at the warrior, who insolently stared back.
Rage built in Hail Storm’s breast at the insult, but lashing out would serve no purpose. Killing this fool would be noticed. So he simply nodded. “I will come.”
The warrior turned on his heel, and strode back to his horse, mounted and rode away without another word.
Hail Storm stood, and focused his anger.
So be it. He would cooperate with Antas, and control his Xyian pet. He’d take the abuse they gave him. He’d be the Eldest Elder Warrior-priest that Antas needed him to be. Gather a new Council, even.
But he’d also gather his power in the meantime. And who was to say where that may lead?
After all, there was no reason a horse had to be alive to be ridden. And much death lay at the Heart of the Plains.
He glanced at the sun, headed down to the horizon. He resumed his slow steady pace. It would take time to return to camp.
Antas would just have to be patient.
As would he.
Sudden rushed footfalls from behind had Hail Storm turning on his heel, his sword in his hand.
One of the young warriors from the teaching session ran up, and threw himself to his knees before Hail Storm. “Eldest Elder,” he said breathlessly. “I am Jahal of the Boar. I would learn of the power from you.” He bowed his head, his blond hair falling around his face.
Hail Storm looked around, but saw no one following. “Excellent,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Your theas?”
“I snuck away, Master,” Jahal explained ever so earnestly. “They are fearful,” he raised his head and looked at Hail Storm through his bangs. There were the scraggly beginnings of a beard and mustache on his face. “I do not fear. I wish to know.”
Hail Storm allowed himself a small, pleased smile. He would have to keep the lad hidden and isolated but that could be done. He reached out, and placed his hand on top of Jahal’s head.
“Welcome, warrior-priest-in-training.”
Cadr was disappointed to discover that magic was rather like work.
Oh, it was interesting, that was to be sure. In the morning, Lightning Strike and the others had taken over a tent, setting up for the ritual. There were discussions about compass points, and how best to proceed. There been no problem with him watching, he’d even helped set out the bowls of the elements and the larger bowl of water in the very center of the tent.
But after that, Lightning Strike had sat on a gurtle pad in the center, with four other warrior-priests-in-training around him. They closed their eyes and sat in silence.
“Disappointed?” came a soft voice, and Cadr turned to find Sidian at his shoulder.
Cadr shrugged, then nodded. “I guess I was expecting… more.”
Sidian nodded. “Well, they are reaching out to Snowfall, and they are trying to do it without attracting unwanted attention. Think of it as whispering over the grasses. It may be some time, even days, before they succeed. So until then, we stand watch to protect them. And prepare.”
Cadr nodded.