People of the Raven (North America's Forgotten Past) (53 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Raven (North America's Forgotten Past)
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A
t the call from the guards at the main gate, War Chief Tsak left his son in charge of the final inspection of the lodges. In all of his years in Wasp Village, this was the most upsetting of times. He kept glancing up at the sun as he walked across the plaza toward the main gate. They couldn’t already be arriving, could they?
No, he needn’t look at the sun; all he had to do was see his lengthening shadow to know that by the time the sun set, he would no longer be the war chief of Wasp Village. He might indeed serve his matron, but his authority would be subject to White Stone’s approval.
Dwelling on the notion wasn’t something that made Tsak overly fond of the coming commotion. He would be courteous and respectful, of course, and greet the Council and Cimmis with the homage due them, but inside, part of him would be dying.
As he walked, he took in the new lodges with a sidelong glance. Where Wasp Village had once been airy and spacious, it now resembled an overstuffed hive. In every open spot, the slaves had built new lodges, most of them larger and more imposing than those of the original inhabitants.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” he muttered under his breath. He was lying to himself, of course. He had known White Stone for years. They had a mutual respect for each other’s abilities, and a formal relationship that had never been strained by long and intimate association.
“No,” he corrected, “this is going to be a disaster.”
Down in the depths of his soul, he wondered if Rain Bear needed any volunteers. The thought tickled the rude and obnoxious part of him that he had spent most of his life trying to keep under firm control. He just couldn’t help it—that little voice inside was always making fun, or mouthing off in the most disrespectful way. People often saw a wry smile on his lips and wondered why.
He approached the eastern gate, where the two guards stood looking up-country, their spears resting butt down on the ground.
“What is it?” Tsak asked as he stepped between them and stared up the main trail past the slave village. The ridge was open for two spear casts before a stand of fir and spruce masked the trail. There, in full view, he could see a litter being borne by four blue-shirted warriors. Behind them came a small knot of people: a woman, an old man and child, and a ratty looking—but heavily armed—party of perhaps five tens of warriors walking five abreast.
As word of their arrival spread through the slave village, Raven People trooped out in the muted afternoon sunlight to watch.
With a sinking sensation, Tsak looked down to see his shadow gone. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that a dark cloud had obscured the sun. Gods, the weather had been too good to be true. By nightfall, it would be raining again.
Turning his attention back to the approaching party, he steeled himself and walked out the gate, motioning his guards to accompany him. His heart beat like a sodden drum. Who were these people? The four leading warriors were certainly Cimmis’s: They wore blue, the fabric dyed from a combination of octopus blood and larkspur petals.
He threw his head back, calling, “Who comes?”
“The great matron, Astcat, and her party,” came the reply from one of the blue-clad warriors.
Tsak waited with the finality of a man doomed. As they came close, he could recognize Astcat’s bearers: Gispaxloat, Kitselas, and the Raven warriors. And behind them, yes, that was Matron Evening Star, whom he had thought a fugitive; and there was the Soul Keeper, Rides-the-Wind, also supposedly with the Raven People at Sandy Point Village. The first tingling of unease grew within him. Especially as he got a good look at the hard-jawed ranks of warriors coming behind.
“Please lower the litter,” he called, reaching for his war club. “I want to see Matron Astcat for myself.”
Gispaxloat nodded to his companions, and they carefully eased the litter to the ground. Kitselas pulled a corner of the ornate blanket back to expose the matron’s lax face.
“Her soul has fled,” Rides-the-Wind said as he stepped forward.
“We would like to take Astcat to her new lodge as quickly as possible.”
Tsak hesitated. “Matron Evening Star? I thought you were Outcast?”
“Enslaved,” she said bitterly. “It’s not quite the same thing.” She tilted her head toward the litter. “The great matron has seen fit to reinstate me.”
Tsak glanced at Gispaxloat, but the stern warrior betrayed nothing. “And you, Soul Keeper? Is it true that you were staying among the Raven People?”
Rides-the-Wind thrust his face uncomfortably close. “Is it true, Tsak, that you’re going to keep us waiting out here answering stupid questions while the Great Astcat is in need of shelter, food, and water?”
“But these warriors?” He indicated the hard-eyed warriors who had formed a knot on the trail behind them. They looked nervous as they fingered their weapons and appraised him with wolfish eyes.
“Are the protective escort for the great matron,” Evening Star said hotly. “If you’re not going to allow us entry, let us know so we can tell Chief Cimmis to turn the entire procession around and send it back to Fire Village.”
“He’s close?”
“A hand or two behind us. Cimmis deemed it
important
to bring the great matron ahead.” She crossed her arms, those imperious blue eyes narrowing.
He hesitated for a moment, some voice of warning crying out inside him. But it made sense. If Astcat was incapacitated Cimmis would want her stowed away somewhere out of sight.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Go on. Inside, all of you.” He turned his attention to the warriors. “Who is in charge here?”
A wiry young man in a torn cloak, mud-spattered moccasins, and grimy war shirt stepped forward. “I am war chief.”
“Camp your men just inside the gate. I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”
Gispaxloat had already raised Astcat’s litter. And so it was that she, her party, and Sleeper’s five tens of warriors were ushered past Wasp Village’s gate, War Chief Tsak trotting at their heels.
 
 
O
n the ridge above Gull Inlet, Dogrib experienced fear like he had never known it. His mouth was dry, his hands damp. His skin
crawled as alternately fear-sweat beaded on it or shivers traced patterns across it. He hated the runny feeling in his bowels. His jaw was clamped so hard his cheeks were spasming.
He had hidden himself and four other men in a patch of raspberries just off the Wasp Village trail. They had burrowed down into the old musty leaves, thorns scratching and burning any exposed skin. He and his warriors now waited, each locked in his thoughts as the long moments passed.
He heard them coming, talking among themselves. Then came the moment of greatest terror. The North Wind scouts jabbed halfheartedly at the brush while, huddled in the center, Dogrib and his warriors shivered.
And then they passed.
Dogrib exhaled the terrible tension from his body and grinned at his companions through a hole in the thorns.
White Stone had commanded superb discipline at the burned ridge. When he broke Bluegrass’s attack, most of his warriors had stood firm, refusing to break formation. Now, everything depended on Dogrib, on his ability to break that control.
Dogrib lifted his head, wary of exposing his white hair. Through the tangle, he could see Great Chief Cimmis walking beside Dzoo and White Stone. In that moment, he saw what fate had granted him.
Cimmis …
His heart hammering like thunder, he wet his lips.
Let them come closer.
Wait. Just wait. That’s it.
Then, as they were almost even, he rose, shouting,
“Now!”
He cast, putting all of his body behind the atlatl as it catapulted his finest spear. The missile flew true, as if drawn toward Cimmis’s heart …
White Stone was caught completely by surprise. With one arm he shoved Cimmis, and slapped out with his other, touching the shaft, deflecting it at the last instant. It was enough. The spear meant for Cimmis’s heart drove deeply into the bone of the old man’s hip.
At the same time, Dogrib’s other warriors had cast. He had no time to see the results. He shouted,
“Run!”
They thrashed their way out of the raspberry patch, ripping their skin, tearing their war shirts. Feet beat the ground behind him as they raced toward escape. He heard screams, curses, and then the most glorious sound: White Stone bellowing,
“After them!”
It was working! A quick glance over his shoulder showed warriors
pounding in pursuit. A spear thudded into the ground ahead of him, the shaft vibrating with the force.
He leaped a fallen log and hurtled down the steep hillside almost out of control. He couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. His only hope was to guide his headlong flight around obstacles—like boulders—that might kill him. Another spear hissed past him to shatter on an angular basalt boulder.
“It’s Dogrib! Get him! Run faster!” an enemy warrior called.
Over his shoulder, Dogrib shouted, “Eat maggots and die, you worms!”
Two more spears came close enough that he could feel the wind of their passing. He shot through a small hollow surrounded by trees and headed straight for an opening in the far side.
“Oh, my Ancestors, please help me!”
Just when Dogrib was certain he was dead, he heard Rain Bear shout:
“Hold … hold!
Cast!
”
Spears glittered as they shot from the trees ten paces ahead and to either side. Dogrib dove for the ground, hit, and rolled, the wind knocked out of him. In a retching agony, he covered his head. The sound of the spears cutting through the air above him was like tens of falcon wings hissing by. When they’d flown over, he jerked around to look.
The spears arced into the midst of the enemy warriors. Every man in the front row shrieked, tumbled as if broken, and fell writhing to the ground. Some jerked futilely at the spears embedded in their flesh. Others stared in disbelief, mouths open in horror. Others whimpered with pain and fear.
The remaining warriors rushed onward, coming ever closer. Dogrib figured that if he stood, he’d look like a mouse who’d roused a porcupine.
“Hallowed Ancestors,” he whispered, “let me live through this and I promise I’ll never—”
“Cast!”
Rain Bear shouted.
Another volley hissed angrily through the air barely ten hands over Dogrib’s head. He tried to curl into an invisible ball in the grass.
The screaming grew louder. A man fell on top of him. Dogrib stared into the fellow’s wide, panicked eyes. The spear had taken him through the heart, but his body didn’t know it yet. The man struggled to rise, a horrible sucking sound coming from his impaled chest.
Dogrib looked past him to see another two tens of warriors racing down the hill, straight into Rain Bear’s trap.
When the few surviving North Wind warriors turned and ran, a great roar went up.
Dogrib held his breath, waiting.
Then he heard it. On the hill above him, White Stone ordered more warriors down the hill. Their distinctive North Wind war whoops ululated as they ran.
“Come on!”
Rain Bear cried and burst from cover. “Keep them running!” He pointed to the fleeing North Wind warriors.
Dogrib watched his fellows rush from the trees, screaming their war yell—a sound like the hoarse throaty caws of a flock of ravens.
Within moments, the ululations and caws mixed with the whistling of spears to form a terrifying sound that resembled an avalanche tumbling downhill.
Dogrib froze until the last of the Raven warriors dashed by him; then he rose. His four warriors poked their heads up, wide-eyed as they gasped desperately for breath. He could see the amazement in their expressions. Like him, they were stunned to be alive.
Dogrib began to laugh. Starved for breath, surrounded by maimed and dying men, peal after mad peal of laughter shook him.
His men took it up. Together they laughed with the intensity of the insane.

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