Warsong

  WARSONG

  Elizabeth Vaughn

  Description:

  The magic has come back to the Plains. The Warrior Priests are no more. The traditions are changing—too quickly for some.

  Joden has only ever wanted to be a Singer, to know all of the songs. When the time comes for his Trials, he is challenged to take the old paths—and it ends in disaster. But his broken heart and broken body are found by Amyu . . . and she knows what it is to live with pain.

  Amyu should have gone to the snows long ago, but instead chose to live in shame. Cast out of her tribe, she now serves Queen Xylara and the Kingdom of Xy. Her new mission is to find the key to defeating the wyverns who attack from the sky—but can a girl from the Plains control beasts who soar in the air?

  She knows that Joden has been brought to her by the winds, and they do what they will. Their love is forbidden by the Plains, and their dreams pull them in different directions—but together they heal each other. If only they could heal their people, who are struggling with the ultimate goal:

  Who will be WarKing?

  Praise for The Chronicles of The Warlands

  “Warprize is possibly the best romantic fantasy I have ever read.”—Anne McCaffrey

  “The most entertaining book I’ve read all year.”—All About Romance

  “Unusual and thoroughly enjoyable.”—Booklist

  WARSONG

  ELIZABETH VAUGHN

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Acknowledgments

  Works by 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 c
lutching 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.

  Two days ago, he’d been aiding Simus in his quest to become Warlord, delaying his own Trials to help his friend. That is until Essa, Eldest Elder of the Singers of the Plains had come to Simus’s tent and confronted Joden.

  Joden paused in his chanting, swallowing hard against the memory of his shame. He’d avoided Essa, avoided making the request to enter the Trials. Essa had rightfully called him to account for his actions. Once Joden confirmed that he did indeed wish to become a Singer, Essa had commanded him to go with Quartis, without so much as a farewell to Simus or any other.

  His heart caught in his throat. What was happening, back at the Heart? How was Simus faring, against—

  From behind, Quartis cleared his throat.

  Joden resumed chanting.

  He’d obeyed Essa, gathering his gear, and following Quartis out into the rain. There he’d found saddled horses waiting, with two other Singers, Para and Thron. He’d been told to mount and ride, and so he had. For two full days they’d ridden with only short stops before making this temporary camp, a small fire and one-man tents, hidden in the grass.

  And now here he was, midmorning of the third day, isolated from friends and tent-mates, collecting dried dung and chanting teaching songs so basic he could do it in his sleep.

  He looked at the dried patties in his hands, not quite so brown as his own callused skin, and sighed as he put them in the basket.

  Two days ago, he’d been in the thick of things, roaming the camp, talking in support of Simus’s goal of being Warlord, and Keir’s goals of uniting the Tribes.

  He glanced north. What was happening at the Heart? Had the trials begun? Had Simus become Warlord? And what of his warrior-priestess Token-bearer? Had she won her position? And how was Keir going to react when he learned of Simus and Snowfall?

  Joden bent back to his task, gritting his teeth at the frustration of it all.

  For that matter, what was happening in Xy? Lara had given birth, and he felt a smile creep over his face as he thought of that. Twins at that, and blessed by the elements for certain. Joden had no fears for her health or safety, not with Keir to watch over her. But there would be Xyians unhappy with the news that might prove a threat and—

  He’d the barest of warnings, the merest whisper of a step behind him. Joden spun, throwing the basket at Quartis’s face, drawing his own sword, lunging—

  Quartis danced back, laughing and sheathing his blade.

  Joden stood amid the pile of spilled dung chips, breathing hard, his sword ready. “Why?” he demanded.

  “Who is more likely to offend than a Singer telling truths?” Quartis said, brushing bits of dung from his leather armor. “A Singer must be prepared for defense, even in the midst of a song.” Quartis’s grin was bright against his tanned face. “You stopped singing, looking north as if it holds all the answers.”

  “It does,” Joden growled, sheathing his blade.

  Quartis reached for the basket at his feet. “We will have answers when Essa joins us, not before.”

  “And when will that be?” Joden asked.

  “When it is,” Quartis shrugged. “Focus on the task at hand. Sing the berry song. Gather dung.” He offered the basket to Joden. “Not the fresh ones, mind you.”

  Joden puffed out a breath, and took the basket. “Yes, yes, something so obvious that there is not even a song about it.”

  “Maybe you’ll write one,” Quartis chuckled, looking up at the sky. “I’m off to fill the waterskins. You might as well start a fire with your dung, the others should be returning soon. Hopefully with fresh meat, or it’s gurt and dried meat for the nooning.”

  Joden grunted, spun and returned to where he and the other Singers had set their tents, hidden in the grass. Their saddles sat in a circle, quivers of lances resting against them. Their horses grazed close by.

  Joden cut away the turf, clearing a spot for their fire, and started to work.

  Quartis returned, dropping full waterskins at his side. “I think I hear—”

  Joden stood. The sound of hoofbeats came over the grasses. “Riding hard,” he said.

  “Too hard,” Quartis drew his sword. “What—”

  Two horses burst over a nearby rise, Para and Thron in the saddles. Both riders were bent forward, the horses covered in sweat, foaming at the mouth. “Down, down,” the words screamed from Thron’s throat.

  “What—” Quartis started.

  From behind the riders rose a nightmare on the wind.

  Winged, black, and huge, it blotted the sky, gaining height and soaring after the riders.

  “Arrows are useless,” Para cried as they pounded past.

  The monster glided past Joden and Quartis, focused on its prey. Joden heard it hissing as it slid overhead, a beat of its wings bringing a foul stench to his nostrils.

  Joden leaped for his saddle, and the quiver of lances. He grabbed one, and threw another to Quartis. They both started after the monster.

  The creature was beating its wings now, rising like a hawk gaining height on a mouse. Joden’s heart raced. There was no way they could give chase.

  Para threw a glance o
ver her shoulder. Joden saw her lips move, and then she and Thron parted, each horse veering off at an angle.

  The monster followed Para.

  Thron was circling back toward them, riding hard. Quartis stopped running, holding up his lance.

  Thron grabbed it from his hand as he passed and raced after Para.

  Joden kept running, angling to meet Para, who was circling back as well. The monster was over her, the long sharp claws of its feet close to her back, reaching out—

  The creature lunged, missed her but scraped the horse’s hind end with its claws.

  Her horse squealed, and kicked high. The creature swooped to the left, rose again with a beat of its wings, making a seemingly impossible tight turn, wings spread wide.

  Para leaned in the saddle, urging her horse away to the right, in the opposite direction, racing past Joden. He caught a whiff of sweat and blood as they ran past, but his focus was on the monster, turning to pursue its prey.

  Thron raced past him and threw his lance.

  The sharp weapon flew, catching the creature on the downstroke of its wing, tearing the leathery skin. The creature let out a loud screech and floundered, falling into the grass and sliding, its good wing beating against the ground.

  Joden hunched down, running in close, waiting for a chance.

  The beast raised its head to the skies, trying to lurch to its feet. But Joden was close, close enough to take a risk. He ran in, and with a bellow, rammed his lance into the creature’s chest.

  The monster went mad, thrashing in its pain, its tail now over its head.

  Joden hit the ground, curled in a tight ball, and covered his head. He could hear air whistling from the wound. With any luck—

  He heard the cries of the others as they taunted the monster in its death throws, causing it to lurch and move, dragging itself over him. The creature’s belly pressed down, cutting off air and light. The skin was leathery, smooth as it grated over Joden. The smell was enough to kill him.