Runestone (80 page)

So he moved forward with some degree of confidence, ready to relax for the night. Heron was only a few steps behind him, and the rest of the party strung out by ones and twos behind. Ferret was well out in the clearing when he caught a glimpse of something beyond that did not belong there. Partially hidden behind a tree, the figure of a man …

“Look out!” Ferret cried, diving for cover. Behind him, the straggling file came alert and men rushed to the shelter of the bushes along the bluff. Too late, they struck the tightly strung thong. The trap sprung, and the rumble of the falling log seemed to shake the earth. Other logs, brush, boulders, all came crashing down in a cloud of dust and debris, as the warriors scattered.

Only two were trapped and crushed, but others sustained injuries. Heron, who was just behind the tracker, escaped unscathed.
By the time the dust settled, Ferret had realized that the figure behind the tree was an effigy, made of an empty rawhide pack, sticks, and dry grass.

T
he days and nights now melded together in a meaningless blur. It seemed that something should have happened to end the suspense. At some point the Shaved-heads would turn back, would they not? But it had not happened. In fact, each time Odin backtracked to see where their pursuers were camped, they were a little closer.

“I am made to think,” Odin said seriously on his latest return, “that they will
never
turn back.”

“But are we still in their country?” Nils asked.

“I do not know, Wolf,” Odin said, exhaustion plain in his tone. “This is not about a place, though. Not now. We have shamed them. Besides, the Shaved-heads may not think of one place or another. They think it is
all
theirs if they can take it.”

Nils said nothing, but he felt vaguely uncomfortable over that theory. The last time he heard it voiced in those terms, it had been at Straumfjord, and … well, no matter now.

“How many are there now?” he asked, to change the subject.

“Ten, maybe. It is hard to tell, unless I get too close. I am made to think we killed two with the deadfall. I saw another who limped, and I do not see him now, so maybe he went home.”

“But they are closer now?” asked Dove.

“Yes. It is easier for them to hunt than for us. We have to
stop, and they can keep coming while one or two stop to hunt.”

“Sometime,” Dove said, “we have to fight them.”

Both men were startled. Both had hesitated to accept this possibility, even to themselves. Now, to have it spoken by this gentle woman …

“Maybe not,” said Nils hurriedly. “They may turn back.” But he knew that it was a false hope. It was as Odin said. They will
never
turn back.

He tried to think of some way to even the odds. They
had
cut down the size of the pursuing party somewhat. But not enough. The deadfall trap had only been a lucky accident. They would not find another such opportunity. Besides, the Shaved-heads were alert to such traps now. It would not work again.

One good way to discourage a war party would be to kill their leader, he pondered. Odin had identified that one, the big man White Heron, with whom they had exchanged stories. Heron had given the impression of being a stubborn man. If he led this party, it was probably his strength and determination that fed the others. To kill him would surely be a help, but … No, it was too dangerous. If Heron fell, the whole area would be swarming with warriors bent on vengeance.

The tracker … they did not know his name, but he was skillful. Tricks and deceptions that Odin had believed to be foolproof were reasoned out or untangled in an unbelievably short time. To kill the tracker … No, it was not practical. Even if they could identify him, the same dangers applied. They would have to kill both the leader and the tracker, and at the same time … No, too dangerous.

They moved on, weary, discouraged, and hungry. Dove was right. Sometime, they would have to turn and fight. The fugitives would have one advantage, no matter how small: They could pick the time and place.

That was small comfort.

   Heron looked around the circle of sleeping forms. Ten! Ten, counting himself. They had been a war party of fourteen when they left the village. Each time he went through this process of counting numbers he became furious all over again.
Seven, they had lost in the initial escape, before the war party even formed. Then the dying man on the hill … that one had earned respect, taking Otter with him …
eight
.

The trap set by the fugitives had been a complete surprise, and had claimed two more good men.
Ten
. High Hawk had been injured badly enough to turn back, and now there were only ten left in the war party. A couple of those still limped.

From time to time there was a dim warning in the deep recesses of his mind. Maybe the powers of this strange holy man …
No!
He would not admit such a thing. These were only people, who by trickery and luck had made
his
people look foolish. They must die. Moreover, they must die slowly,
pleading
to die. Only then would his vengeance be complete.

He tossed another stick on the fire, watched it smoke, catch fire, and begin to blaze. Two men approached and he glanced up, noting the look of concern on their faces.

“We would speak with you, Heron.”

He was startled. Was there something that he did not know?

“Yes, what is it?” His tone was a bit tense, and came out somewhat more irritably than he intended.
Well, so be it
, he thought.

“My chief, we have been talking of this.”

“Of what?”

“This war party. It is not as we thought.”

Heron felt his temper rise.

“What do you mean?”

“We … it is this way: This looked to be a short and easy war party, Heron. Three men, a woman, and a child. A quick thing, maybe a day or two. Some honor, some fun, home to sing and dance and tell of the victory. But it was not so. Three have died, counting Otter. High Hawk was—”

“Stop!” Heron said through clenched teeth. “You are a coward!”

The young warrior reddened.

“That is not true, Heron. You know that I have counted honors. Elk, here, too. Our bravery has never been questioned. But this is different.”

Heron had risen from his seat and now glared furiously at
the other. “The difference is that you have never become a coward before. Are you afraid of these strangers?”

“I … no, my chief. But the powers of this white-hair … can you not see?
Ten are dead
, Heron! Three since the war party started. Is it not unwise to challenge such power?”

“You call me foolish?” Heron demanded. It seemed for a moment that he would strike the young man.

“No, Heron, I only question. How important is it to catch these people?”

“They have shamed us!” raged Heron. “They must suffer for that!”

“But it is we who suffer! How many more will the power of this holy man kill?”

“It is as I said,” Heron blustered. “You are afraid!”

“Not of battle or of dying, Heron. Of the strange powers of the White Wolf, yes! He is not of this earth. I am made to think he could crush us all at any time he wishes.”

Heron grunted contemptuously.

“Huh! He could not save his own helper, the one who died on the hill.”

“The one who killed Otter,” nodded the young man. “The holy man’s power cannot always stop such things. If they are to happen, they do. But think of this, Heron: They have lost one.
How many have we lost?”

Again, it appeared for a moment that White Heron would strike the young warrior. The others stared, fascinated and unbelieving. One of their most time-honored customs forbade such a blow. Heron actually raised his hand to strike, which would be a dishonor not to the other warrior, but to himself. A man does not strike one of his own.

At the last moment, Heron seemed to realize that his leadership was in question. He lowered his hand and tried to regain his composure. Yet when he spoke, his voice was high-pitched and tight.

“If you question my leadership, you are free to go home.
Any
of you!”

There was a long silence, and finally one of the other men spoke.

“Let us all sleep on it, Heron. We do not question your leadership.”

The confrontation was over, but it was a quiet and uncomfortable evening. White Heron moved among the warriors, making small talk, trying to joke and pretend that there was no problem. Yet it lay there like a sleeping bear in winter, ready to waken with dreadful destruction. Some of the men, Heron knew, would stand by him to the death under any circumstances. He was confident in the support of six. Two, he felt, maybe three could not be trusted. He completely avoided contact with Blackbird, who had challenged him. There was no point in crossing trails with such a man. In fact it would be good if the cowards
did
leave. Two, three … even so, he would have a strong war party. Seven capable warriors. They would still outnumber the fugitive men by three to one. Even if the woman put up a fight, it was a clear victory.

Heron finally rolled into his robe, his temper cooling. Now that he was alone with his own thoughts, he found that he did have some doubts. There was no question that something about the white-hair was definitely different, and that he did have powers and gifts beyond understanding. Even allowing for the expected exaggeration by the one-eyed assistant, here was a powerful holy man. There had been some impressive tricks demonstrated by these outsiders. Could it be that the holy man could really turn himself into a wolf? Well, so be it. He, Heron, had killed wolves before. Actually, the pelt of a white wolf might be quite attractive on his bed.

There was a gnawing area of doubt, of course. Such a wolf might be supernatural, immortal. If so, it could not be killed.
Nonsense
, he told himself.
Anything can be killed. A wolf
…
But what if such a wolf is mad?
whispered the quiet voice of doubt. That would be another matter. The slightest scratch from the fangs of such a creature meant certain death.

He tried to thrust such worries aside, concentrating on the anger he felt toward the traitorous Blackbird and his cowardly friends. That was reassuring, but the anger kept him awake. It was nearly morning when he finally fell into a fitful slumber, to dream of a wolflike creature that stalked him in the dim light of the false dawn. The creature rushed at him, and he could almost feel its hot breath as he looked into its hairy face and blue eyes …
blue!

Heron sat up, relieved to be back in the real world, but
still shaken. It had been so real! It was really dawn now, and the others were rising, attending to nature’s call, yawning and stretching. A man trotted over, one who had been on watch.

“Two are gone, Heron.”

“Gone? What?”

“They have gone home, maybe. Blackbird and Smiling Elk.”

Heron leaped to his feet, his temper flaring. Then he managed to control himself, at least partly. He finally answered, trying to speak casually through clenched teeth.

“It is good.”

“
Good?”

“Yes. There is no place in this war party for cowards.”

Eight
, he was thinking.
Only eight are left
.

P
erhaps White Heron was fortunate that he had any followers left at all. There were whispers that he had gone mad, and that this whole war party now had no purpose except revenge.

Heron would probably have conceded that point. Now he was determined to catch and punish the fugitives. He knew that there were some in his party who whispered about it, but he did not care, not really. There were loyal men in the party who would back him in anything he wanted to do. They would keep the others in line. Any who were questionable in their loyalty were gone now. Blackbird and the other one. Sniveling cowards, the party was better off without them anyway. He was
glad
they were gone. The seven who remained, eight counting himself, were the reliable ones anyway. They could be counted upon.