Kurthak thought he heard derision in her voice, but he wasn’t sure-there was no telling from her face He snorted. “For sport,” he said. “And for slaves.”
Yovanna’s face pinched and creased in what might have been a smile, but which looked like a nightmare grimace. “My mistress would like to join forces with you,” she hissed.
“If she is so powerful, why does she need our help?”
“She needs allies as her power grows.”
“What will she give me in return?” Kurthak asked. “She will give you Kendermore.”
Chapter 6
Swiftraven reined his dappled horse and faced west, into the storm. On the horizon, black clouds were piling into the storm-green sky. They towered high, dwarfing the distant, gray line of the Kharolis Mountains. His people had a word for such clouds. Hianawek, the Gods’ Anvils. The lorekeepers had once taught that the smith-god Reorx would pound on them in summer’s, dying days, forging the coming winter. Thunder was the clashing of his great hammer, and lightning was the sparks it threw.
It was nonsense, of course. Children’s stories. Reorx’s hammer had fallen still two summers ago, when he and the other gods left the world, but the Hianawek continued to return, pounding the Plains with rain, hail, and worse things still.
The wind howled in Swiftraven’s face, rippling the golden grass like waves on the sea. The cicadas, whose droning buzz was the music of the Plains, had fallen ominously silent, and the only sounds were the distant mutter of thunder and the nervous snorting of the young warrior’s horse. The scent of rain, tinged with the ozone tang of lightning, grew steadily stronger.
The horse tossed her head, fighting the young Plainsman’s grip on her reins. He stroked her neck, then swung down from his saddle and set about hobbling her, to make sure she didn’t bolt. It was promising to be a fierce storm. The horse whickered, rolling her eyes with fear.
“Easy,” he cooed, clucking his tongue to soothe her. “It’s all right. We’re safe here.”
There was a haze beneath the clouds, promising rains heavy enough to flatten the grass that scratched at his bare knees. A few drops spat down, forerunners of the impending downpour. The Hianawek glowed as lightning danced from cloud to cloud. Counting the seconds between one such flash and the answering roll of thunder, Swiftraven gauged the storm’s distance and nodded. It would not be long. A thrill ran through him, for this was the first time he had faced the Hianawek alone. When he returned to his tribe after the storm, there would be no question of his bravery.
Focused as he was on the massive, coruscating clouds, he didn’t notice the riders until they were nearly upon him.
They were five, three astride horses and two riding ponies. There was little more he could make out, with the storm’s darkness overwhelming the Plains. They did not appear to see him at all, though, so he moved quickly. With one hand he let slip the knotted rope that kept his horse from bolting, while his other pulled his bow from the saddle. With graceful ease he strung the weapon, then climbed back up on horseback. By the time he was settled in his saddle, he had a white-fletched arrow nocked on his bowstring. He used his knees to turn the horse, then stood in his stirrups, pulled back the string, and let fly.
The shaft fell just short of the riders, which was what he’d meant it to do. Swiftraven knew, as any good archer did, that a good warning shot could tell a man much about a foe. Cowards would balk or flee, cunning opponents would seek cover, and the brave or stupid would charge. As he notched a second shaft, he noticed that the riders did none of these; they reined in, stopping where he could make a clear shot. That meant something else entirely.
The tallest of the horsemen leaned forward in his saddle, peering toward where the arrow had fallen. Swiftraven saw one of the pony riders reach for something across his back, but the tall rider raised a hand, stopping him. The young Plainsman held his breath, sighting down his arrow as the wind whipped his long, brown hair behind him.
A sound rose then, above the clamor of the storm. A whistle, loud and piercing, rose and fell in a regular pattern. It was a language, though few, even among the Plainsfolk, knew how to speak it. Swiftraven, who had trained as a scout, was versed in whistlespeak, as were others who sometimes needed to signal long distances across the grasslands, such as hunters and shepherds.
Put down your bow, the whistler spoke. Would you feather your chieftain?
Starting, Swiftraven lowered his bow so swiftly he nearly dropped it. Without pause he wheeled his horse about and dug his heels into her flanks. He galloped east toward Que-Shu, riding before the storm to herald the return of Riverwind and his daughters.
The drizzle — was just turning into rain when Swiftraven drew up to the gates. The guards, who held their spears ready until they saw who the rider was, exchanged a few quick words with him, then parted to let him pass.
“What’s the name of this place again?” asked Kronn, looking up at the village walls as they drew near. They were whitewashed and painted with abstract patterns of red and blue, but they were also stout and sturdy, their tops lined with wicked iron spikes.
Riverwind glanced over his shoulder. “Que-Shu.”
“Bless you!” Kronn exclaimed, giggling.
“Kronn!” Catt said.
The Plainsman shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve heard that joke many times before. You’re not the first kender to visit the Plains.”
The guards at the gate lowered their spears, kneeling, as the-party drew near. Seeing this, Riverwind quickly crossed his arms in salute. “Get up,” he told them kindly. “Your wives have enough to do, I’m sure, without having to wash the mud from your trousers.”
Rising, the sentries returned his salute, then stood aside. They eyed the kender warily. Lightning raged in the inky sky as Riverwind came home for the last time.
Word of the chieftain’s return had spread swiftly after Swiftraven’s arrival. The thunder of drums called the villagers out of their homes, into the worsening rain. They lined the road, shouting and waving their hands as Riverwind’s party rode past the rows of painted skin tents and mud-brick huts, toward the arena at the center of town. In spite of Riverwind’s protestations, men knelt to him and women threw autumn flowers in his path. Children laughed and ran about, jumping in puddles with shrieks of delight.
“Quite the welcome,” Catt noted, impressed.
“It’s better when the weather’s nice,” Brightdawn remarked. “There are pipers and dancers, and everyone sings the Chant of the Ancestors.”
They reached the arena, where a row of grim-faced men, resplendent in beaded jackets and feathered headdresses, stood in their way. As one, the men held up their hands, and the riders reined in. Riverwind climbed down from his horse and handed the reins to a young boy; his daughters and the kender followed suit. As the boy led the animals away, Riverwind bowed to the row of men and crossed his arms again. The men returned the gesture as one.
“Who are those people?” Kronn asked, unabashedly staring.
“The Honored Ones,” Moonsong replied. “Chieftains of other tribes, and the elders of Que-Shu.”
“See the young one on the end?” Brightdawn said, pointing to a lean, swarthy man of thirty summers, whose bare chest was marked with a tattoo of a coiled serpent. Riverwind walked up to the man and clasped his arms in greeting. “That’s Graywinter. He just became chief of the Que-Kiri this spring, after his father died.”
“He means to court Brightdawn,” Moonsong added. Brightdawn shot her a scathing look.
“I thought you said you were going to marry Swiftraven,” Catt said innocently.
“I’m not going to marry anyone,” Brightdawn said, blossoms of red blooming on her cheeks. “Not until I’m ready.”
Kronn yawned, finding this talk of marriage boring. “Who’s that big one next to him?”