Shadow Valley (36 page)

Howling, the Mk*tk raced forward. After five hands of paces the walls narrowed. Flat-Nose could see that beyond the narrow space, the walls widened again.

Flat-Nose smiled. No, they weren’t stupid at all. This fight might be a good one. God Blood would enjoy it.

Just before the Mk*tk reached the narrow gap, the Ibandi stepped back and braced themselves and the Mk*tk crashed against a forest of spears. Blood and screams sprayed the air. Two Mk*tk made it through, but two of Flat-Nose’s cousins were speared through throat and groin, and those behind them tripped over their bodies.

There
was the monkey! The coward who had escaped torture. He stood beside a smaller man, and Flat-Nose went at him.

He lashed his spear at the small man to move him out of the way, and the weakling ran to the side. Good. Flat-Nose turned to the one-eyed Ibandi and jabbed—

And roared as one-eye flinched to the side, body moving faster than his mind, twisting away from a spear thrust. The smaller man had danced out and in, in the instant Flat-Nose’s attention had wavered.

Before he could move, Flat-Nose was forced to the side as the eager young ones behind him pushed through, and by the time he spun and forced his way back to the gap, he saw his two men beyond the gap speared by six Ibandi without landing a single blow in their own defense.

But every time they tried to work through, spears bristled in their faces. The gap was so narrow that only two of their fighters could attack at a time, but on the far side, four of the Ibandi filth poked spears at them.

They were not strong or fast. But Flat-Nose stabbed at one, and as he did, a spear from the other jabbed up into his armpit. He barely managed to get his arm down in time, and even his slight deflecting turn nearly exposed his armpit to a stab from the right. Blocking it gave the other monkeys a chance to slash his cheek. He backed away, blinking and wiping blood out of his eyes.

As well as any man could be in such a horrible place and time, Frog was happy. To his right was Fire Ant. To his left, Uncle Snake. For the first time in their lives, they fought side by side by side.

The Mk*tk were packed tightly here as they tried to force their way through the spot where the walls narrowed. Ibandi spears drove them back. And those spears were not only sharp and well positioned but some were also dipped in the juice of the poison grub and the red-jawed fire beetle mixed with the gray, sour-smelling bark of the stinger bush. This place belonged to the Ibandi. If the Mk*tk wanted it, they would have to take it.

Snake and Leopard Paw worked as a team, drawing a Mk*tk in, stabbing with poisoned spears. It was not honorable. It was not a thing ordinarily done to men. But the Ibandi were not a people of war, and they had no traditions for times such as this.

They had run as far and as fast as they could, and the Mk*tk had followed them. The attackers did not deserve to be treated as men. So, for the first time in Ibandi history, the poison used on animals was used on men.

A single scratch was death.

Snake fought with courage and with the speed of the hunt chief he had once dreamed of becoming, the hero he had dreamed of being since childhood.

Here, where the walls closed in, Frog fought with the men of his family, bleeding, panting, sweating.

Some part of his mind said:
This, this melding of mind and heart, this human dance of fang and flesh … It is good.

Something within him bared its teeth and howled.

Frog. Snake. Ant.

Together.

First, the trap. Then, the poison. Then …

Death from above.

Flat-Nose’s frustration took flame when the first rock fell.

He glanced up, and barely avoided a crushed skull as a stone crashed down from the top of the canyon, hammering against his shoulder.

God Blood! That
hurt.
A weaker man would have been crippled. Now he saw the truth: most of the Ibandi were above him. He would slaughter them, every one. First, he would see the blood of those on the ground. If he could get close enough to the weaklings, he would be safe from the monkeys above. They hadn’t the heart to endanger their own!

But when he again tried to work his way through the narrow gap, Flat-Nose had to step over his brothers’ bodies. Some were dead from terrible wounds. Burn them all! The Ibandi spears were in his face again.

The Ibandi had speared four of his men to death, and rocks had crippled or killed two more. Several men rolled on the ground, dazed and in pain, although to Flat-Nose their wounds seemed slight.

Furious, he managed to stab two of the Ibandi, but by now the falling rocks had become a landslide, an avalanche. The Mk*tk had to either push their way through the gap or retreat.

This was wrong! Next to him, his cousin Strong Spear’s head swayed to the side as a jagged chunk of stone ripped a flap of his scalp away. For a moment Strong Spear stood blinking tears of blood, then he crumpled to the ground.

“Back!” Flat-Nose screamed. Spears now, falling like bamboo rain.

The Mk*tk ran back, dodging rocks as they went. The cliffs seemed to be feathered with Ibandi, who hurled rocks and cast spears with maddening accuracy.

They would retreat, regroup, and then—

What in the name of God Blood?

There, guarding the entrance to the defile, were the strangest creatures Flat-Nose had ever seen. They walked like men, but their flesh was as pale
as bone. While short, they were broader than Ibandi, almost as muscular as Flat-Nose’s people.

But as odd as that was, there was worse.
Magic?
Wolves, or things that looked like wolves, snarled at their sides, foam dripping from their muzzles.

For a moment, awe froze Flat-Nose. He barely reacted when one of the pale men lunged like a flea jumping from a hot rock, his spear catching Stone Hand squarely in the chest.

The wolves leaped forward. When his men tried to spear them, they moved away as if they knew what the Mk*tk would do next. If they allowed themselves to be distracted by the wolves for even a moment, the arrows and rocks struck. And if they ignored the wolves, their thighs and ankles were savaged.

Rocks. Arrows. Spears. Wolves.
He could not think. Desperately needed a moment to think.

The line of pale, short men stood firm. When the Mk*tk tried to rush the Ibandi, they were driven back. When he tried to retreat, the wolves and the short men attacked from the rear.

And through it all, death rained from above.

Then a rumbling from above them, and a nightmare rain of stone fell in the middle of his men, crushing them. The air filled with dust that blinded and sent his men into coughing fits. Those trapped in the middle were pounded to the ground, arms and legs and skulls splintered.

Up at the top, barely glimpsed through the dust, howling Ibandi. Hunters. Old ones. Women. Even children. Throwing and pushing stones.

Head whirling, hacking up stone dust and half blinded, Flat-Nose screamed, “Fight for God—”

And was trying to work his way forward, attempting to break through the line of wolves and short men, when night fell like a stone.

When Frog, Fire Ant, T’Cori and Sister Quiet Water emerged from the back of Giraffe Kill, the sight greeting them was a thing of nightmare. Seven Ibandi sprawled dead, stabbed and broken. T’Cori’s father, Water Chant, was slain, speared through the throat. Uncle Snake’s left arm was badly gashed, but a thong tied above the wound seemed to have staunched the blood.

No one spoke as they climbed over the fallen rocks. Snake coughed. Around Frog, others hacked up rock dust.

Arms and legs protruded from beneath the stones. Frog counted ten Mk*tk, then another five, and another and another.

A few had escaped the rocks only to be speared or torn by the wolves. Three were still alive, thrashing weakly as the Vokka sawed their throats open.

T’Cori ran to them as they faced the last Mk*tk, a wounded giant with two fingers missing from his left hand. Despite his wounds the Mk*tk had put his back against the rock wall, keeping them at bay with wide swipes of his heavy spear.

A stone-faced Fire Ant used his sling, and the giant slumped to his knees, bleeding from his forehead. The Vokka held his arms and lifted him so that the wolves had access to his throat.

T’Cori leapt up. “No!” she screamed. “He is their leader, Flat-Nose, and he is mine!”

Sister Quiet Water had appeared behind her, seemingly from nowhere at all. She could not take her eyes off the helpless Mk*tk. She said nothing,
just staggered to him and stood over him, looking down as if staring into an abyss. No one spoke. No one moved.

A chunk of rock the size of Flat-Nose’s head lay half buried in the ground. She stooped and wrapped her arms around it, tugging without effect.

Now, finally, she turned to T’Cori and spoke. “Help me,” she said.

T’Cori looked at Frog, who shrugged. This made sense. No one had more right to end this Mk*tk than the two dancers.

A handful of gravel rolled down the embankment above them. Frog shaded his eyes against the sun to see two hunters carrying Stillshadow down to the valley floor. They waited silently until she arrived. The old dream dancer rolled onto her side and then managed to push herself up on one elbow.

She gargled something none of them could hear, then gathered herself, cleared her throat and began again. She raised her hands. “Are my daughters alive?”

“We are here, Mother,” T’Cori said.

“We live, Mother,” Quiet Water said.

“Would you kill him? Would you rid yourself of demons?” the old woman asked.

“Yes,” T’Cori said. She sounded as if she’d swallowed a coal.

“He is the one who ripped you from your place?”

T’Cori swallowed loudly enough for Frog to hear. “Yes,” she said.

“You would take your
num
back from him?”

“Yes,” T’Cori said again, unable to tear her eyes from the unconscious Mk*tk.

“You would have your children, and their children, be safe for ten tens of generations?”

T’Cori did not answer. No answer was necessary.

“Then,” Stillshadow said, “you cannot kill a helpless man. He is no hunter now. Now, he is nothing more than an animal. To take your power back, you must defeat a human being. You must take him as he took you.”

T’Cori’s shoulders sagged. She stared at Stillshadow in disbelief. “It is not possible.”

Then the hunters helped Stillshadow sit upright, and to them she seemed as weightless as an armload of dead leaves. Only her eyes burned with life.

T’Cori sucked in a chestful of air. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her lips, and she gazed at Flat-Nose hungrily.

Beside her, Quiet Water made a low, hungry sound.

“Mother,” T’Cori said, “give me dream tea. I will remember the lion dances. I can do this.”

“Please, Stillshadow,” Sister Quiet Water pled. “Help us. We need dance tea. Make our feet swift.”

Stillshadow shook her ancient head. “No. The teacher plants are strong. But if you think your strength comes from them, you lie to yourself. Strength must come from within
you.”
She slapped her hands against her lower stomach. “You are not mere flesh and bone. You are that from which flesh and bone is spun. At the very most, teacher plants can point the way to
the jowk.
If you are to do this thing, you must do it from your womb.” She touched her seventh eye. “For this generation, and the generations to come. Are you willing to try?”

T’Cori’s gaze would have melted rock. The corners of her mouth lifted, but Frog would never have called her expression a smile.

Frog helped drag the helpless Flat-Nose to a weeping wattle tree, binding him upright to its twisted, swaybacked trunk. When the Mk*tk finally awoke, his arms and legs were lashed far apart. He struggled. Frog had personally tied those bonds tight enough to cut the skin. Given time, his hands would die from lack of blood.

He hoped they had time.

Flat-Nose struggled against the leather thongs until his shoulder wound oozed and his torn scalp bled. Flat-Nose thrashed and screamed, and then, at last, only panted and glared at them.

His eyes locked with Frog’s.
I would kill you
, they promised.
And I will, given any chance at all.

“We’ll never know,” Frog said to him. He did not know what Stillshadow had in mind, but he was quite certain that it did not include giving this monster a chance to kill any more Ibandi. Ever.

The women formed a circle and began to drum.

As the sun peaked and fell, T’Cori and Quiet Water danced. Stillshadow sat upright, refusing to allow anyone to help or support her as she sang endlessly of rocks and earth, of birth and death, the changing of seasons and the creation of all things.

T’Cori and Quiet Water twirled and stamped. The men brought their drums and slapped palms against the membranes. The hollow, booming calls echoed against the valley walls.

Their Vokka friends joined as well, their voices and simple hollow-log drums calling rhythm with the others.

Frog danced in place, feeling the drumbeats burning through him, taking him into the song itself. He tried to feel his way to its heart. What was
this song? What was this ceremony? He didn’t know, but he felt his thoughts sucked away like bubbles into a whirlpool.