There was a horse close, nosing him with stiff whiskers and warm breath against his cheek.
Cadr blinked, looked up. “Gils?” he croaked.
His tall, thin, colorless friend stood there, his curls dancing in a breeze that Cadr couldn’t feel. His usual bright grin was gone, only worry in his eyes. Gils reached out and put a hand on the horse’s shoulder.
The horse snuffled, and slowly went to its knees, easing down next to Cadr, a clear invitation to mount.
Except Gils was dead, wasn’t he? Of the sickness that had killed so many… Cadr shook his head, hurting and confused. Gils was dead. He blinked up at his friend, his dead friend, washed of color, cold and—
Gils raised his eyebrows. It was such a familiar gesture that it made Cadr’s heart hurt worse than his throat.
One truth was clear through his anguish. His friend had never let him down in life. The snows wouldn’t change that.
Cadr staggered to his feet, but Gils was pointing, jabbing his finger.
Pointing at Wild Winds’s body.
With the last of his strength Cadr dragged the body over, and draped it on the horse’s shoulders. The animal lurched to its feet as Cadr kept the body balanced.
Cadr stood there, breathing hard. Then he put his head against the horse’s neck. “I don’t think I can mount,” he admitted, the shame almost overshadowing the pain.
Gils walked backward a ways, gesturing.
The horse took a step.
Cadr went with it, leaning on the animal, gripping its mane, balancing Wild Winds’s body. Half-blind, hurting, every step brought new anguish. He didn’t look to see where they were going, just concentrated on taking one more step.
The horse stopped.
Cadr turned his head to see a place where a rise had been partially dug out. An animal, maybe, starting a den.
Gils was there, and the horse stepped forward, sidling close to the rise. Cadr released his grip, and half fell, half climbed the bit of rise, then mounted the horse. The horse shifted under him as Cadr shifted the body so it was balanced over his knees. He leaned forward and buried his hands in the horse’s mane.
“Where?” he croaked.
Gils started walking.
The horse followed.
Cadr nodded. So be it. He wasn’t even curious. All he had to do was stay on the horse. He was a warrior of the Plains. He would stay on.
Stay on. All he had to do was stay on.
Stay on.
Stay on…
The flap ofthe tent was pulled back and Hanstau was hustled inside.
He was blinded by the darkness, compared to the sun outside. But he caught the stench of sickness as rough hands on his shoulders forced him down. With his hands tied behind his back, he had no real balance. Hanstau let his legs fold, but then fell to the side to lessen the pain.
His captor, the big blond warrior, had no sympathy with Hanstau’s pain. That had been made clear when he had been taken. He scowled, and uttered a command. The two warriors behind Hanstau reached down and grabbed his arms.
Hanstau’s vision cleared as they pulled him up to his knees.
Before him, stretched out on a pallet, was a naked man covered in tattoos from the waist up. He must be a warrior-priest. Hanstau had not met one, but they had been described to him. The man’s eyes were bright and feverish, and there was sheen of sweat over his colorful torso. The cause was obvious.
The man’s left arm was gone. Hacked off with something sharp would be Hanstau’s guess.
