The Dawn Country (36 page)

“Sindak?” Wakdanek cried. He was fighting a losing battle against three warriors, trying to keep them from getting to the canoes and the children. They were taking turns swinging at him, forcing him backward while they laughed. Sindak’s gaze briefly flitted to the canoe, noting that he didn’t see Baji or Zateri. Were they hiding beneath the packs?

Sindak swerved for Wakdanek just as an arrow
zizz
ed by his ear.
Blessed gods!
He gasped in surprise, thinking it was meant for him, but the arrow neatly sliced through the chest of one of Wakdanek’s opponents.
Cord.
He was still alive! The enemy staggered, looked down at the brightly fletched shaft protruding from his lungs, and a bizarre smile lit his face before he collapsed to his knees and started howling.

With only two left, Sindak shouted, “Take the canoe. Get the children out of here!” and leaped a war club aimed at his knees. Before the man could recover, Sindak crushed his right hip and was spinning for the last man. “Go, Wakdanek!”

The big Healer leaped forward, shoved the canoe away from the shore, and ducked a whistling arrow as he madly paddled out into the current. The other canoe sat alone on the bank.

The last man roared and charged Sindak. Sindak skipped sideways. The momentum of the man’s rush carried him past. Before Sindak could batter his brains out, an arrow slashed through Sindak’s left shoulder and punched through the other side just above his collarbone, pinning his cape to his chest and rendering his left arm useless.

“Ha!” his opponent crowed. “You’re a dead man.”

Panic seized Sindak, but he managed to lift his club to block the warrior’s next blow.

As the man lifted his club again, he bellowed, “Now, Hills coward, die!”

Sindak jerked when an arrow pierced the back of the man’s skull. The warrior staggered, and his mouth opened as though to scream, but he just fell facefirst to the ground and started shuddering spastically.

Cradling his wounded arm, Sindak ran for cover. He got into the trees through a shower of arrows and dropped to his knees behind a head-high pile of deadfall. In the snow, he saw the small tracks of two children. They’d been running.

“Think about it later,” he whispered to himself as he propped his club against a fallen log and gripped the blood-slick arrow that pierced his shoulder. He gritted his teeth to prepare himself, snapped the tip off, then reached behind him for the fletched shaft. When he jerked it out of his back, it was as though the cry was ripped from his throat by a jagged fish hook. The pain left him panting breathlessly.

From the edge of his vision, he saw several of the enemy warriors fleeing into the forest.

Fighting nausea, he forced himself to pick up his club again. He saw Gonda get stabbed in the side, but the wound didn’t slow the man down. Gonda jerked the deerbone stiletto from his legging and plunged it into the throat of the man on top of him; then he rolled and scrambled to his feet just as another warrior swung his club at Gonda’s head. Gonda ducked and drove himself headfirst into the man’s stomach, bowling him backward, where they both collapsed to the ground. As they grunted and gasped, struggling for the club, Sindak searched the clearing. Dead men scattered the ground. CorpseEye had cut a swath through the enemy. No one was left standing.

Where is Koracoo?

Was she down? He didn’t see her. Had she followed someone into the forest? Baji and Zateri?

No … there were no adult tracks mixed with those of the children.

Terror chittered through Sindak’s souls. Koracoo wanted Gannajero dead … and Towa was sworn to protect her. Had she gone after Towa?

Gonda let out a hoarse cry, pulled the club from his opponent’s grasp, and brought it down squarely in the middle of the man’s skull. The sodden crack echoed through the trees. As though completely spent, Gonda collapsed on top of the dead man. He just lay there for several moments, breathing, before he rolled off and began probing the stab wound in his side.

Soft whimpers erupted behind Sindak, and he turned to see Gitchi staggering up the trail. Blood covered the wolf puppy’s head, and one of his eyes had swollen closed. He kept stumbling, wobbling, obviously clubbed. The wolf braced his shaking legs and lifted his nose to sniff the breeze, looking eastward; then he let out a low growl.

Through the wavering firelit shadows, Sindak made out two men. One crouched on the hilltop twenty paces away. The other stood beside him, clearly visible, seemingly unaware that he made a perfect target.

Moments later, Cord rose and trotted out of the trees. He carried his nocked bow and scanned the clearing as he ran for Sindak. The other man remained standing alone in the darkness.

Cord said, “Where’s Gannajero?”

“I don’t know. I was occupied when she left. Who were you talking to up there?” He tipped his chin toward the man.

“A friend. I think. I’ll explain when we have less pressing concerns. Wakdanek made it away?”

“Yes. But I didn’t see Zateri or Baji in the canoe, and I don’t know where Towa went. He may have thought it was his duty to carry out our chief’s orders and protect that miserable old woman. If so—”

“Koracoo went after him?” The serpent tattooed on Cord’s cheeks writhed as he grimaced.

“I think so. I have to find Towa before she does. I have to talk to him.”

He gestured to Sindak’s shoulder. It was streaming blood down his cape. “Are you able?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then go. I’ll care for Gonda’s wounds.”

Forty-four

Odion

Dakion hisses, “Shut your mouths! I can’t hear anything,” and cocks his ear to the night.

I hold my breath and listen. The other children go still. Someone is coming. We all hear feet rapidly slogging through the snow; then we hear cursing. As the man climbs the low hill just beyond the clearing, a thin layer of Cloud People cover Grandmother Moon, and her light dims. The distant chaos of screams and shouts carries on the freezing wind. We’ve heard it off and on for about one finger of time. The longer it takes Mother and Father to come striding over that rise, the more my stomach aches. I fight not to imagine what happens if they are both killed and Gannajero is the one who returns.

“Dakion?” a man calls from below the rise, and Dakion rushes to look down the slope.

“What? What’s happening? I keep hearing the sounds of—”

“So do I!” The man appears on the crest of the hill. He is of medium height, with an oval face and a pug nose. He stands before Dakion, breathing hard. “When I left, everything was under control. I have to get back immediately. You have to bring the children. Follow my tracks and you’ll have no trouble finding the camp on the river.”

“Bring the children! Are you insane? What good—?”

“That’s what the old woman wants. In exchange for the children, Chief Atotarho and the Wolf Clan have offered her the leadership of Atotarho Village. Whoever chooses to serve as one of her personal guards will be rich beyond his wildest imaginings. Now, bring the children!” The man turns and runs back, slipping and sliding, disappearing over the hill.

Dakion licks his lips and grumbles something under his breath, as though deciding whether or not he will follow Gannajero’s orders.

Wrass looks at me, and I shake my head. I can’t believe that Chief Atotarho would …

Wrass whispers, “Two days ago, a man found Gannajero alone at our camp and told her that in exchange for ‘both of them’ her brother would fulfill her dreams. Do you think Atotarho—?”

“Is her brother? I know he is.”

Dakion snarls, “Shut up, brats! Get on your feet. We’re going to the river.”

Auma and Conkesema rise. I try to help Wrass up, but he cries out the instant I lift him. “I can’t do it, Dakion! Leave me. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Dakion stalks over the hill with a hateful gleam in his eyes. “I’m not coming back. No one is. You’re not worth the effort.”

As he strides for Wrass, Auma and Conkesema back away, and I lock my knees. The wooden stiletto in my moccasin seems to be growing larger, pressing against my leg.

Conkesema whimpers when Dakion lifts his war club over Wrass’ head and says, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

Wrass throws up his arms to block the blow and cries, “
No!
” just as I grab the stiletto, step into the space below Dakion’s uplifted arms, and plunge the weapon repeatedly into his chest, belly, arms—anything I can reach. Someone is shrieking, but it takes me a long time to realize it’s my own voice. From the corner of my eye, I see the war club swinging toward me, but it seems to take forever to impact my shoulder and drive me into the ground. I hear bone snap and topple to the snow.

For a few instants, the world goes black; when my eyes see again, Wrass is on top of Dakion, plunging his stiletto into the man’s chest over and over. Every time he pulls the stiletto loose, the wooden tip slings blood, but Wrass can’t stop. Dakion is still weakly flailing and trying to yell, though the only thing that bubbles from his throat is blood. Wrass does not stop until Dakion goes limp and his eyes fixedly stare at the snowflakes drifting out of the gleaming sky. Even then, Wrass hesitates with the stiletto poised over Dakion’s already mutilated heart, waiting for him to rise again. When it’s clear that he’s dead, Wrass sobs and crawls away, dragging his injured foot behind him. The first thing he says is, “Odion? Are you all right?”

I shake my head. The pain is stunning. I’m crying breathlessly. “I—I think he broke by shoulder. My collarbone. I—”

“Odion, listen to me. You have to go look for the other man. Did he hear us and turn around?”

Fear surges through me. I drag myself to my feet, whimpering in pain, and trot over the crest of the hill. The forest below is still and glistening. “No, he’s gone. I think we’re safe.” I tuck the bloody stiletto into my belt and pull my left arm against my chest. Without warning, I throw up. The agony runs through my entire body. I gasp, “We should run.”

Wrass is sobbing brokenly, but he nods. “I can’t, Odion. But the three of you have to. You—you’re the leader now. Make sure they’re safe.”

A strange feeling comes over me. Wrass has passed the mantle of leadership to me, but I’m terrified and hurt. “Wrass, I don’t … think I can. I—”

“Yes, you can,” he insists. “Now get away from here! When Dakion doesn’t show up in the camp, they’ll send more warriors. You can’t be here when they arrive!”

I vomit again. When I finally turn to Auma and Conkesema, I’m choking on my own bile, but I manage to say, “Follow me. We’re going to run east, away from the river.”

Auma squares her young shoulders and calmly says, “All right. But first, let’s take Dakion’s weapons. We’re going to need them.”

Her sensibilities in the face of extreme danger leave me in awe. “You’re right. Take them all. We’ll divide them later.”

The three of us trot back to his body and begin stripping it of weapons. Auma takes the ax and two deerbone stilettos, while Conkesema gingerly pulls a hafted knife from Dakion’s belt. My head is spinning when I pick up the man’s war club, then his bow and quiver. I carry the bow down to Wrass and lay it, along with the quiver, beside him. “The moonlight is bright. Don’t let them get too close.”

Wrass smiles gratefully and pulls the bow and quiver onto his lap. As he nocks an arrow, he stammers, “Not if I can help it.”

The pain in my shoulder has grown so stunning I can’t stop the tears that flow down my cheeks, but I call, “Auma? Conkesema? Let’s go.”

The girls fall into line behind me, and I start leading them out into the gloom, trudging through the light snow.

I’m praying that Mother and Father have already killed Gannajero’s party and are, even now, trying to find me. But the past moon has taught me that I can’t count on anyone rescuing me or my friends. We have to save ourselves. As my breathing begins to return to normal, the horrifying realization is sinking in. I killed a man. I can’t feel my left hand, but the blood on my right has grown sticky. It glues my fingers to the war club. The only thing that helps keep my souls from fleeing my body is the fact that if I hadn’t killed Dakion, Wrass would now be dead, killed with this very club, and I might be dead as well.

We haven’t gone more than one hundred paces when I hear something. Ahead of us, on the other side of a wall of brush,
someone
is walking toward us … .

“Shh!” I hiss, and extend the war club to block Auma and Conkesema from taking another step.

The feet are almost silent. Warriors fleeing the fight? I take a new grip on the club. The pain in my shoulder is unbearable, but I have to concentrate and do what I must to give Auma and Conkesema a chance to run.
Stay focused. Focus!

Two dark shapes appear and disappear through the brush. Just before they emerge, one stops and whispers something to his companion. Then both charge from the brush at dead runs, heading straight for me.

Zateri shouts,
“Odion? Odion!”

Hot blood stings my veins. I can’t help it. The mixture of hope and relief is so great, I stagger and can barely stay on my feet. My knees long to buckle. “Zateri? Baji?”