Warcry

city-dweller was on the rise, just up the road. She spotted him as she, Yveni, and Ander emerged from the woods with the spoils of their hunt. Her eyes were drawn to him before she realized it; she looked away as soon as she knew it was him.
    But the image burned her eyes. Half-naked, standing on the rise, his tanned skin glowing in the sun.
    Her horse snorted as it felt her legs tighten, confused by the signal. Atira forced her body to relax, even as her fingers clenched the reins.
    The snows take that city-dweller, she thought. Take his hard, sweet body, and tender whispers in the night. Take his touch, and his laugh, and those brown curls that felt so soft when she ran her fingers—
    Atira cut that thought as if with a sharp blade and urged her horse toward the Warlord’s party. Until she saw Lara walking along the road, her warlord following a distance behind. Atira took one look at Keir’s face, and she veered off toward the back of the group.
    “Skies above, the Warlord looks about to lash out,” Yveni said as she urged her horse to follow Atira’s. Her black face framed worried brown-and-gold eyes, and Atira couldn’t blame her.
    “Rafe was scouting,” Ander offered, his bushy white eyebrows a stark contrast to his bald head. “He’ll have found a good camp, and with luck, the Warprize will agree to stop for the night. That will calm the Warlord. We will feast and play some of that Xyian chess. Maybe I can win a game or two.”
    “Don’t count on it,” Atira said. “Lara’s as stubborn as he is.”
    They both eyed her with respect, and Atira sighed inwardly. It wasn’t that she knew the Warprize better than they did. But she’d been the first that Lara had treated, healing an injury that would have meant death had Lara not brought her skills to the Plains.
    Atira had broken her leg practicing her riding skills. But for Lara’s arrival, she’d been about to travel to the snows by her own hand. That was the way of the Plains, after all. The warrior-priests held all the secrets of magic and healing. Even if such a one had traveled with Keir’s army, a warrior-priest would never have aided one of Atira’s status.
    But Lara had stood over her on the practice grounds and had offered healing, despite the insults Atira had given her at their first meeting. Lara had demanded that Atira have the courage to try Xyian ways, asking if she’d let Lara see to her leg. Atira had taken the risk, and the leg had healed. She’d become the living symbol of the gifts that Lara brought to the Plains as a warprize.
    Of course, everyone seemed to think it had been a miraculous thing. But Atira remembered full well the truth of healing. It had meant forty days of restriction and restraint. Forty days of patience, which was not one of Atira’s skills. She shook her head at the memory. All that had kept her sane had been the wonder of the healing and Heath’s—
    “There’s Marcus,” Yveni said, pointing with her chin.
    Atira caught sight of the cloaked figure toward the back, riding with the pack animals. Marcus was the Warlord’s token-bearer and claimed responsibility for the Warlord’s tent. Amyu of the Boar was riding next to him, her long brown hair pulled back in a braid.
    “Let’s take the meat to him,” Ander said. “And avoid the Warlord’s wrath.”
    “Aye to that,” Yveni said, and they headed for them at a trot.
    Atira followed, even though she still felt uncomfortable around the man. Marcus had suffered horrific burns to his body during a battle. His hair and his left eye and ear had been burned away, leaving his skin ugly and mottled. The corner of his mouth was left stiff and unmoving.
    He always rode completely concealed in a cloak, lest he offend the elements. Most warriors would have sought the snows after such an injury, but Keir of the Cat had demanded that Marcus live, and Marcus had obeyed.
    One bright eye gleamed from the depths of his hood as they rode close. “Well, that might fill their bellies for an hour or so. Was that all the prey you could bring down?”
    Yveni, Ander, and Atira all exchanged glances. Marcus’s tongue was as sharp as the daggers he carried.
    “It seems to me to be more than enough,” the rider next to Marcus said softly. That was Amyu, another whose presence bothered Atira. Amyu was still a child, as her lack of tattoos showed. She was barren and could never meet her obligation to the tribes and be recognized as an adult. She should still be in