The People of the Black Sun (35 page)

Heads nodded, but warriors shared uncertain glances with one another.

Saponi looked confused. “What kind of a raid is this?”

“As soon as we're finished here, I will order every pack in the village emptied and delivered to you. All I expect you to do is find a way to fill them.”

Saponi's brows drew together. The warriors looked around at each other.

Sindak laughed suddenly, and a slow admiring smile came to his lips. “Blessed Spirits, if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, the effect will be utterly demoralizing. I can't believe I didn't think of it myself.”

 

Thirty-two

Gonda lay on the third row of benches in the council house, surrounded by around fifty men and women wounded far worse than he, many dying. Most of the victims were children and elders, not trained warriors. Their moans and tears tore his heart.

He squinted up at the ceiling poles and gritted his teeth, trying not to yell as the Healer, Old Bahna, set and splinted his broken leg with oak staves.

“The bone is aligned, now I'm going to tighten the cords to secure the staves,” Bahna warned.

“I'm ready. I think.”

Bahna had survived fifty-three summers. His deeply furrowed face cradled kind eyes. Gray hair draped like spiderwebs over his ears. He'd been working all night, Healing, and his brown cape bore the evidence of his efforts. Blood and gut juices spattered the buckskin. It had probably absorbed a river of tears as well.

Gonda concentrated on the roof poles. Like spokes, they radiated outward from the smokehole. Coal-black soot coated them. The mist outside must be thickening. He could see it glistening through the smokehole, reflecting the fires outside.

Bahna grunted as he jerked the five cords tight, and Gonda gasped, “Blessed Ancestors!”

“All right, Gonda.” Bahna placed a hand upon his forearm. “That's the best I can do for now. I want you to remain here for at least one hand of time, so I may see how you're doing, then you may return to the Hawk Clan longhouse. Tomorrow I will send poultices to your wife, Pawen. Ask her to place them on either side of the arrow wound. And be glad,” he added pointedly, “that you were not shot with one of the feces-coated arrows, as so many others were. We found many such arrows lying in the plaza, arrows that missed their marks.”

Gonda propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing as pain shot through him. The five cords around the oak staves had been woven together, creating a kind of net. His left leg was one gigantic aching throb. A minor concern compared to the wounds of everyone else.

“I can leave now, Bahna. I'm all right.”

“No,” Bahna said firmly. “Your leg is going to swell. I need to check on you later, to loosen the cords, if necessary. If Evil Spirits slip into the arrow wound and fester it, I'll be forced to cut off your leg to kill them. You don't want that, do you?”

Gonda scowled at him. “I'll stay. But only for one hand of time.”

Bahna nodded and moved on to the next victim, a little boy of perhaps ten summers. He'd taken an arrow through the head. Gonda did not understand why he was still breathing—but he'd seen similar enigmas on the battlefield, things he'd rather not remember.

Firelight streamed around the entry curtain, and Gonda turned to see Jigonsaseh enter the council house. She stood for a few moments, allowing her eyes to adjust. A very tall woman, she towered over nearly everyone else in the village. Still slender and muscular, her beautiful face had just begun to crease—lines around her full lips, crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes. She spotted him as he sat up. She walked forward.

As it had for many summers, the sight of her was like the feel of a war club in his hands; it eased his fears. He could not count the number of times she had saved his life—and he hers. If truth be told, there was no one he trusted more.

Jigonsaseh's cape, covered with wet ash, moved pendulously as she came to a stop at his side, looking down at him with concerned eyes.

“Sindak told me you'd been wounded.”

Gonda braced his hands on the bench to look up at her. “I swear he's the worst warrior I know. I ordered him to leave me in the marsh. Instead, he dragged me home. The fool could have been killed in the process, and we need him more than we need me. He's a powerful symbol of our alliance with Zateri's—”

“Yes. Yes. I've already attended to Sindak's errors in judgment.” Jigonsaseh sat beside him. “Someday I hope to tell him how much I appreciate his gross disobedience. Assuming any of us live that long. How's your leg?”

Gonda stared down at it. “Bahna ordered me to stay here for one hand of time, or I'd already have hobbled back to the Hawk Clan longhouse. Tell me how the battle went. How many did we kill?”

Jigonsaseh's gaze scanned the other benches, taking time to examine and identify faces, before she lowered her eyes and expelled a disheartened breath. “Hard to say. My guess is over six hundred.”

A potent blend of relief and triumph surged through him. “Blessed Spirits, that's more than I'd hoped for.”

She whispered, for his ears alone, “Yes, but it means they've no choice now but to hit us hard tomorrow. It's a matter of honor.”

He jerked a nod. “Very true, but we'll be ready for them. Has Sindak lined out what he thinks may happen tomorrow?”

“He says Atotarho will throw one thousand warriors at us. At dawn, or just before.”

Gonda squeezed his eyes closed for a few heartbeats, absorbing the news. The sobs that filled the council house seemed louder. Before he opened his eyes again, he said, “We have to get as many of these people back on their feet as we can. We're going to need every one of them on the catwalks with a bow.”

“I'll speak with Bahna. Now, I should get back to…”

When she started to rise, he gripped her hand. “I have to tell you about the Flint massacre.”

“What massacre?” She eased back down to the bench. “Which village?”

Gonda kept his voice low. “Not a village. As I was moving around the palisade wall, setting fires, I overheard two warriors talking. Apparently, Atotarho's warriors ambushed a Flint war party and killed four hundred warriors.”

Her face slackened and her gaze darted over the council house while she thought about it. “Cord's war party?”

“Probably.”

Jigonsaseh bowed her head and massaged her brow. “Blessed gods, they left here with around five hundred warriors, if Atotarho killed four hundred…”

Gonda gave her a few moments.

When she lifted her head, he said, “The survivors should be getting back to Flint country tomorrow. After they've told their story, the Flint Ruling Council will act.”

“Yes, but what action will it take?”

“How many warriors do you suppose they have left?”

She waved a palm through the air. “If I know their chief”—Gonda winced when she did not say Cord's name; it meant she thought he was dead—“he talked the matrons into leaving a significant number at home to guard their three villages. I don't know … I suspect they have perhaps one thousand five hundred warriors remaining in the nation. Five hundred guarding each village. A pittance, compared to Atotarho's forces.”

“Yes, even if they know we're in trouble, they will not wish to risk any of their remaining forces to help us.”

Her lips tightened into a white bloodless line. “No.”

They both exhaled at the same time, and their breaths frosted in the cold firelit air. When she looked back at him it was as though the summers had rolled back and he was still her deputy war chief. She depended upon him to give her good advice, advice that would save lives.

Gonda squeezed her hand and released it. “Tomorrow morning, we must get every person on the catwalks that we can. Even the members of the Ruling Council must take up bows.”

Her head moved in a barely visible nod, but her eyes were focused elsewhere. He knew from long experience that her thoughts had turned to strategy and tactics, already envisioning what her enemy might do at dawn, and planning how to counter it. She had an unnatural ability to place her souls inside her enemy's body and see through his eyes.

He softly interrupted her thoughts, “Sky Messenger should have reached the villages of the People of the Landing yesterday or today.”

“Only if he's been able to run the whole way. We can't count on that. We don't know how many war parties or other obstacles he might have faced. And even if he did, even if they joined the alliance, our son has no idea we're in a fight for our lives. There's no help coming, Gonda. Get used to it.”

Gonda's head waffled in uncertainty. “Don't underestimate the Traders who've passed by here and seen what's happening. I suspect the news of our struggle is racing down the trails like wildfire. If we can just hold out—”

“We have to destroy our enemies by ourselves, Gonda.”

Her beautiful exhausted face had set into determined lines. He nodded. “You're right. What do you need me to do?”

She glanced at his splinted leg. “When you are able—”

“I'll be able tomorrow. I may have to get around on a crutch, but at dawn, I'll be right there on the catwalk beside you.”

 

Thirty-three

Opalescent gray light fell through the dark trees, weaving a gigantic spider's web of shadows across their camp on the densely forested hillside.

Baji sunk her water bag through the hole in the icy pond, filling it while she watched Gitchi. He lapped water from the other side of the pool, but his yellow eyes clung to the lone wolf out in the trees. The pack had moved on a little while ago, pouring in a silvery flood down the hillside and across the valley. From far away, their faint sharp yelps rose as they trotted up the trail that crested the tree-covered hill to the west. This wolf had remained behind. He stood motionless, as if carved of starlight. Long and lean, he seemed strangely curious about Gitchi. As well, he kept casting odd glances at Baji, tilting his head, as though not certain what she was.

Baji lifted her dripping bag from the hole, pulled the laces tight, and tied it to her belt. Then she lowered Dekanawida's water bag to fill it. He still slept rolled in their blankets five paces away, unaware that she and Gitchi had started the day without him. She'd been standing guard most of the night, adding branches to the fire to keep him warm. One hand of time ago, she'd started breakfast. The tripod with the suspended cook pot hung at the edge of the fire. Flames licked gently at the soot-coated bottom, keeping it at a slow boil. The mixture of
tic'ne
—powdered red corn—along with beechnuts, dried raspberries, and leftover chunks of last night's muskrat would make a hearty breakfast.

She pulled Dekanawida's filled water bag from the hole and snugged the laces. She would keep it on her weapons' belt until he rose. As she tied it beside her bag, the row of stilettos and knives rattled. It didn't seem to disturb the lone wolf. He kept his shining eyes on Gitchi.

Baji adjusted the bow and quiver slung over her left shoulder. Her headache was gone, and she felt so much better, she wondered if this sensation was akin to being Requickened in a strong healthy body after a long illness. The shapes of the waking forest appeared clearer, crisper. The Faces of the Forest might have carefully chosen the background shade to highlight the massive chestnut trunks and dark branches that laced over her head.

Gitchi finished drinking and turned to face the wolf. The stranger took a step forward, stopping with one paw lifted while he scented the air. Gitchi curled his lip in a snarl, just a warning, and his big paws crackled in the ice that skimmed the low spots. Every fallen leaf and twig sparkled with a white coating of ice.

The lone wolf whined softly, then backed away, yielding the dominance contest to Gitchi.

It occurred to Baji that it might be a female, perhaps out examining the packs for a future mate.