Uppor gestured for him to lower his voice, and leaned his head closer. “Nor do I,” Uppor said with a grim hush. “Events and the winds swirl about us. It passes out of my understanding.” He shrugged. “All we can do is what we can do. Beyond that, it is in the hands of the elements.”
“Why did you call me?” Joden asked, keeping his voice low.
“Why did you come?” Uppor countered, then shook his head. “No, forgive me. This is not the time for ritual responses.”
“Is it ever?” Joden rubbed his face.
“How else?” Uppor laughed quietly, then grew still. “You know of one named Hail Storm?”
Joden jerked his head up.
“He has slain the Ancients.” Uppor glanced around then lifted his hand and touched Joden’s forehead. “See.”
Hail Storm staredat the lone tent on the horizon and considered.
There were no horses around, no smaller tents. No warriors around at all, in fact, and that was unusual.
Still, it might be a source of news, or supplies… or power.
Hail Storm licked his lips, and headed his dead mount in that direction.
No one hailed him as he approached. Hail Storm dismounted, threw open the tent flap and stepped inside. He was met with a wave of heat, reeking of old kavage and fermented mare’s milk. Braziers burned brightly in each corner. The heat dried his nose and stung his eyes.
“Shut the flap, shut the flap,” came a quavering voice. “You are letting out the heat.”
At the far end of the tent, on the traditional wooden platform, were three bundles of blankets. In each, sat a… person.
They were old, ancient, wrinkled with spots and very few wisps of hair on their heads. Their eyes were milky and rheumy with age. Hail Storm couldn’t tell their sex, and their skin seemed so faded it was hard to tell what color it had originally been.
They sat facing him, waiting.
Hail Storm gathered himself, and stepped closer. He too could play the waiting game of silence.
Three sets of eyes glittered at him, and the silence stretched on.
Hail Storm gave up. “And who might you be?” he demanded.
No answer.
Hail Storm frowned. “I am—”
“Hail Storm,” the one on the far left spoke with a soft whisper. “Eldest Elder Warrior-priest.”
“Hail Storm, stripped of power by the Sacrifice,” the one on the far right cackled, high-pitched and irritating.
“Hail Storm,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “Wielder of blood magic.”
Hail Storm narrowed his eyes, his rage just below the surface. But he kept it there, simmering. There was a pallet centered before them. He swept forward and knelt there, not waiting for an invitation.
He placed his hands on his knees and waited.
“We are the Ancients of the Singers,” they said in unison.
“Impressive,” Hail Storm said.
“Hail Storm is confused,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “What is this, perhaps?”
“Ancients,” came the cackle. “This is not the way of the Plains.”
