The Dawn Country (31 page)

“What makes you think she’ll stop when we can’t see?”

Sindak’s snow-covered hood shielded most of his face, but Cord could see one of his eyes and his beaked nose. Uneasy, Cord asked, “Have you ever seen her canoe through a blizzard at night?”

“No, but this isn’t any ordinary night, is it? She knows we’re close. There’s no telling what she’ll—”

“If you’re trying to be secretive,” Koracoo said from the bow, “your voices are not nearly low enough.”

She turned to stare at them over her shoulder. Some time ago, she’d shoved her hood back so she could see better, and her short hair stuck wetly to her face. “Stop complaining.”

Sindak called, “I just thought I should tell you that I can no longer see my paddle.”

She just dipped her oar again.

Odion glanced back and forth between them. He sat in the middle of the canoe with his puppy asleep in his lap. He’d barely let the wolf out of his hands since Toksus’ death. Atop the packs in front of Odion, Tutelo slept soundly. Long black hair haloed her pretty face. She reminded Cord a little of his daughter, and that brought him both pain and joy.

“I’m trying to tell you … ,” Sindak began, but halted when Koracoo suddenly pulled her oar out of the water and tugged CorpseEye from her belt. Her gaze darted over the shore.

“That’s worrisome,” Sindak noted.

Cord watched her for a time; then he whispered, “What’s happening? I’ve seen her do this before. It’s as though …”

“CorpseEye is speaking to her? Oh, my friend, I have seen things you would not believe.”

“For example?”

“CorpseEye is old,” Sindak replied, and calmly stroked the water. “He often hears or sees things that humans do not, and when he does, he tries to get Koracoo’s attention.”

“How?”

“She told me once that Power flows from CorpseEye into her hands. It’s a warmth that can be painful.”

As he said the words, Koracoo shifted CorpseEye to her other hand and scanned the trees on the eastern bank as though deeply worried.

Sindak said, “There must be something out there.”

“Something good? Something bad? Is CorpseEye warning her?”

Sindak shook his head, and snow caked off his hood and piled on his shoulders. “The last time I saw this, we had completely lost the children’s trail. We were desperate, biting each other’s heads off. CorpseEye led us to the trail again. Good? Bad? We’ll find out.”

“Curious,” Cord murmured.

Every warrior breathed Spirit into his weapons, and knew they were alive. For that reason, they were cared for and treated with respect. In the worst of times, the weapon’s soul might save the warrior. But CorpseEye was different. He’d been around for so many generations that warriors for two moons’ run in any direction knew the club’s reputation. It was rumored that CorpseEye could kill even when it was not being wielded by its owner. Just looking at the ancient weapon with lust or greed in your heart was said to bring death.

Cord had known many shamans who possessed great Spirit objects. Usually it was a carved mask, or a stone fetish, maybe a tortoiseshell rattle. Once he’d seen an old woman who carried a turkey tail fan that she claimed cured illness. But very few weapons were endowed with such Spirit power. That’s what made CorpseEye the subject of legends.

Koracoo shifted to face the eastern shore, and her forehead lined.

Cord called, “What’s wrong, War Chief?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted a hand and waved them toward the shore. “We’re stopping for the night. Sindak, call back to Gonda, and make sure he hears you.”

As Cord dragged his paddle, turning them toward the bank, Sindak cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Gonda? We’re putting ashore!”

From the torrent of snow, Gonda answered, “We see you.”

When they neared the bank, the swift current jostled the canoe, sending it bucking and splashing through the waves until they got close enough that Koracoo could jump into the shallows and guide the bow onto the sand.

“Keep your eyes on the trees,” Cord said. “My stomach muscles just went tight.”

Sindak’s eyes narrowed. He stowed his paddle in the stern and nodded. “Yes, War Chief.”

Koracoo reached into the canoe to collect her weapons, and while she slipped on her quiver and slung her bow, her eyes continuously scanned the towering trees.

The underbrush was especially thick here. Willows and maple saplings crowded against each other. No clear trail could be seen through the thicket. And if the animals couldn’t penetrate it, could a human? Still, Cord felt uneasy. There might be warriors hiding in that dense undergrowth, and they’d never see them until too late to get to the canoes. To make matters worse, there was nowhere to run except down the thin skirt of sand that lined the water.

“Mother?” Odion called. “Can I get out?”

She studied the forest for a long time before she answered, “Yes, but try not to wake Tutelo—and I want you to stay close to the canoe.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Odion picked up the heavy puppy and carefully climbed around his sister to leap ashore. Sindak grabbed his war club and followed the boy.

Cord remained in the canoe, gathering his weapons. He slung his quiver and bow over his left shoulder, checked to make sure his stilettos and knife were tied on his belt, then clutched his war club. As he started forward, Gonda’s canoe came slapping across the waves, and the man called, “Sindak? Give us a hand.”

Sindak trotted over and waited for the canoe to come in close enough that he could grab the bow and drag it onto the bank while Wakdanek and Towa paddled hard to keep the boat from being dragged back out into the current.

Gonda wasted no time. He seemed to sense something was amiss. He picked up every weapon he owned and strapped it on, then leaped ashore and stalked toward Koracoo. He said something to her that Cord didn’t hear. She nodded and replied, “CorpseEye … this grove of maples.”

Baji and Hehaka scrambled ashore behind Gonda and whispered to each other.

An eerie sensation of impending doom prickled Cord’s spine. He stepped silently around the sleeping Tutelo, braced a hand on the gunwale, and vaulted to the sand. He walked to join Sindak and Towa.

As the three of them stood in the falling snow, Towa said, “Did CorpseEye lead us here?”

“Yes,” Sindak replied. “How did you know?”

Towa pulled his hood forward to shield his face from the storm. “This is a bad place to camp. Koracoo wouldn’t have chosen it.”

“You think her club is brainless? Or just a bad judge of campsites?”

“I think CorpseEye could care less about our safety or comfort. He has other priorities.”

“What other priorities?” Cord asked.

The two warriors had been with Koracoo and Gonda for about a moon. They knew far more about the war chief’s weapon than Cord did.

Sindak’s eyes lifted to the trees, searching the limbs. “I wouldn’t be too eager to find out, if I were you.”

Towa shivered and rubbed his arms. “It’s going to be a freezing night. We should collect wood before it gets too dark to see.”

Cord used his club to point to a copse of elms. At some time in the past, they’d been attacked by worms. Half the branches were dead. “Those will be the driest branches.”

Sindak’s breath frosted when he answered, “Towa and I will do it.”

Willow stems clattered as Sindak and Towa shoved through them to get to the dead branches. For a time, Cord let them work while he scrutinized the area. The snowfall was still steady, but it had slowed down. About half as many flakes whirled from the sky.

He glimpsed movement to his left, and turned to see Odion and Gitchi walking along the sand toward him. The boy had a moonish face, with soft brown eyes and a short nose. Inside his hood, Odion’s shoulder-length hair clung wetly to his jaw. The young wolf trotted happily at his side with his tongue hanging out.

As he approached, Odion said, “Mother told me I could walk down the shore so long as I keep you in sight.”

Cord nodded. “Very well, but as soon as we’ve gathered wood we’ll be walking back.”

“I won’t go far.”

“Make sure you don’t.”

Odion nodded and continued down the shore with Gitchi bouncing along at his heels.

Cord took one final look at the forest and river; then he waded through the brush to help Sindak and Towa collect wood.

Thirty-five

Odion

A faint pewter gleam lingers as I walk down the shore through the falling snow. Twilight is rapidly giving way to night. Gitchi lopes at my side. The strip of sand is very narrow here, bordered on my right by the wide river and on my left by thick brush. Beyond the brush, trees rattle as Wind Mother blows the storm across the forest.

I step wide around a big rock, taller than I am, that is lodged in the middle of the sand. It narrows the path until it’s just barely wide enough to edge by without stepping in the water. As I slide past, Gitchi splashes through the river, swerves around the rock, and trots ahead into the darkness.

“Gitchi, wait! Don’t get too far ahead. Come here, boy.”

I find him on the other side. He’s standing with one wet paw lifted, staring to the south, sniffing the air. The dim gleam of evening makes him look like a ghost dog. He is a dove-colored phantom wavering in and out of the falling snow.

A low growl rumbles in his throat.

“What’s wrong, boy?”

Gitchi scents the wind again and turns to me expectantly.

Wind Mother is blowing up from the south, swirling snow around and thrashing through the brush. I turn to face into the wind and my eyes widen. “That’s smoke.”

A campfire? A village?

Fear twists my stomach as I back away. “Come on, Gitchi. We’re going back right now.”

His ears prick, and he trots to me with his bushy tail wagging. I reach down and stroke his silken head. “Good boy. Thanks for warning me.”

My moccasins crunch in the snow as I head for the rock. Just before I edge around it, Wind Mother’s howling dies down, and the river’s hushed roar seems louder. I tip my head back to look up into the falling flakes. They are half the size of my palm and silently spiral down to melt on my face. When I lick them from my lips, they have a clean earthy flavor. I turn back to the trail.

It’s grown so dark that without the snow on the path, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell where the water began and the shore—

Voices.

Behind me.

Gitchi growls, and my heart thunders.

Ahead, I hear War Chief Cord speaking with Sindak and Towa, but this is something else. I’m
sure
it came from behind me, to the south.

I concentrate on listening. I don’t hear anything now, but fear is burning up from my belly into my chest and filtering out to my fingertips. It is as though my soul hears the voice even if my ears don’t.

Gitchi must smell or sense my panic. He goes as quiet and still as the dead, but his yellow eyes peer intently at the night, searching for the threat.

I swear there’s something there, just below my ability to hear. And it’s
familiar.

I close my eyes and try to separate the human tones from the burbling of the river, the clattering of branches, and Sindak’s voice. My head rotates, searching, moving toward the southeast. When I open my eyes, I am stunned. Fifty paces away, a fluttering orange gleam dances through the forest. It was probably there all along; I just couldn’t see it through the snowfall.

That voice again.

The notes are sweet and high. A girl’s voice.

I clench my fists and whisper, “Zateri?”

As I walk toward the voice, Gitchi whimpers, trying to tell me there is danger ahead, but I can’t stop myself. The need to know is overwhelming.

The brush fades into tree trunks the size of three men standing together. Against the slate gray of night, the thick limbs trace crooked black lines. As the snow falls, the flakes pick up the orange gleam and glisten like embers floating down.

Gitchi lays his ears back, and his tail sticks straight out behind him. His gaze rivets on the flickering firelight. His steps are utterly silent. He can tell from my stealthy movements that we’re hunting, and he’s spotted the prey. He knows silence is of the utmost importance now.

When I stand ten paces away, flame-shadows gyrate, turning the frosted branches into liquid amber.

The girl cries, “Let me go!”

Desperation makes me sick to my stomach. I edge forward another two steps. I’m breathing hard. I suck in a breath, and her name comes out like a sob,
“Zateri?”

I stand trembling, waiting for—

Gitchi barks suddenly and leaps at something. I spin around in time to see the puppy clamp his teeth around a man’s arm and start snarling and ripping, his paws scratching the ground for purchase in the slippery snow. The man wears his black hair in a bun at the back of his head and carries a war club.

“Filthy cur,” the man says as he clubs Gitchi, and the puppy falls into the snow with his legs twitching. A desperate whine escapes Gitchi’s bloody jaws.

“No!” I run forward. When I fall into the snow beside him, Gitchi looks up at me pleadingly. Blood pours from his head wound. I reach to pick him up, but the man grabs my arm, drags me to my feet, and clamps a hand over my mouth. In my ear, he whispers, “How many people are with you? Nod your head for each one.”