The People of the Black Sun (12 page)

And at the far corner of her vision … to her left … she saw a flash. Just a small glint, but like a rock thrown into a pond, it seemed to leave a wake in the cold air. Baji just had time to leap.…

 

Nine

Blighted as though by perpetual wind, the moonlit slope bristled with tormented shapes: pines with branches on only one side, the twisted trunks of leafless sycamores, rocks scoured as smooth as polished agate. Some of the boulders stood half-again as tall as War Chief Negano, and he was a tall man, lean and muscular, with long black hair. His plain undecorated buckskin cape flapped around his legs as he hiked up the trail through the icy wind.

Across the narrow valley, hundreds of campfires glistened. He could hear the laughter of his warriors, and the hum of conversations. They made a strange contrast to the deep bass notes of the battlefield, where low groans and sobs lilted like perverse music. They had used their clubs to silence the Flint wounded. These cries came from his own people.

Negano had just visited the field where his wounded had been carried. The grasping hands, the pleading voices of men and women who just wanted to be carried home to die so that their families could Requicken their souls in new bodies and they could live again—all of it had made him ill.

When dry leaves crunched behind Negano, he spun around with his war club lifted … but all he saw were the glowing white faces in the valley below. Moonlit visages of the Flint warriors they'd slaughtered that afternoon. The valley bottom had been the heart of the ambush, the killing pen. Hundreds sprawled there, a feast for the wolves whose shining eyes winked up and down the valley.

Negano sucked in a breath and let it out slowly.

He should have been ecstatic. His ambush had been perfect! Brilliantly planned and executed.

But on nights like this, he swore he was being tracked by enemy ghosts. He lowered his club, silently berated himself, and turned back to the trail, heading up to where Chief Atotarho camped just below the crest of the hill. Five men, the Chief's personal guards, stood behind the old man.

As he walked, Negano continued to hear footsteps, soft, carefully placed. It took an act of will not to whirl around again.

The Flint People were fighters. It did not surprise him that death would not stop them. Negano's cape was spattered with their gore. In the distance, to the west, he could see the bodies of those who'd made it out of the killing pen and desperately tried to flee. They'd scrambled up the wind-combed hills like terrified rabbits. Few had escaped. Negano had commanded two thousand warriors to Baji's five hundred. The enemy hadn't had a chance.

A twig snapped behind him. Negano instinctively spun on his toes to face his attacker … only to see nothing.

Laughter erupted from the Chief's personal guards, and Negano clamped his jaw. Were they laughing at him, or at some joke that had been told?

“You're being a fool,” he growled at himself. “Stop it.”

At the age of thirty-two summers, Negano had lived with death, and the dead, for so long they rarely left him, waking or sleeping. Somehow, though, tonight was worse than usual. He could feel vast solitudes pressing down upon his lungs, squeezing the air out, and he felt certain Sodowegowah was standing right there, backed by an army of ghosts, all staring him in the face.

Negano cursed himself and marched straight toward where his chief sat on a rock, clutching a long stick in his hand. Atotarho's hunched back looked like a misshapen pack hidden beneath his clothing. When the old man heard him coming, he looked up. The black pits of his eyes, staring out of a cadaverous face, made Negano's belly muscles go tight. They were alive with malice.

Negano called, “It is I, my Chief. Do not be alarmed.”

The circlets of human skull that decorated Atotarho's black cape flashed as he prodded his fire with the stick, sending tornadoes of sparks swirling into the cold night air.

He didn't appear to be in good humor. Negano inhaled to prepare himself. He knew perhaps better than anyone, for Negano had been the head of the old man's personal guards until last night. Negano had never had designs on the position of War Chief … too much responsibility, too little reward … but here he was. No choice now but to try and make the best of things.

Out on the far side of the narrow valley, a group of warriors began singing the Victory Song. Deep and triumphant, their voices swelled over the winter-bare trees. Other warriors joined in, then more, until the valley of the dead echoed with exultation.

Chief Atotarho stopped tormenting his fire to listen. His wrinkled face twitched. He had seen sixty-four summers pass, and had suffered from the joint-stiffening disease for the past twenty. His bent, crooked body pained him constantly. His enemies said it was the Spirits' revenge for his witchery. Negano knew better. The old chief wasn't a witch, but he hired witches, like the frightening Ohsinoh, to do his bidding. In this way, entire villages vanished, poisoned or decimated by strange plagues. No man in the world was feared more than Chief Atotarho … except perhaps Sky Messenger. That must be galling the old man.

As Negano approached, he saw the freshly chewed human ribs that lay around the fire pit, cast there by the chief after his teeth had stripped the cooked flesh away. Who had the person been? A chief probably, or maybe a war chief. Possibly the great Cord himself? Atotarho refused to consume lowly warriors.

Atotarho snapped, “What took you so long? I summoned you over one-half hand of time ago.”

Negano bowed. “Forgive me, my Chief, I had to check on the wounded. They—”

“In the future, you will come immediately when I call for you.”

Negano straightened, confused. “But, my Chief, I am now War Chief. It is my duty to make certain the wounded are being well cared for. When we return to Atotarho Village, their families will wish to know that I did everything possible to—”

“We'll be leaving the wounded here tomorrow. We have other priorities.”

Negano stiffened. The words were a slap in the face. It was inconceivable that they would not carry the wounded home to their families as quickly as possible. “I don't understand?”

“That doesn't surprise me. When I divided our forces yesterday, sending two thousand warriors back into Hills country, did you think I did it for no reason?” Atotarho glared at him. As a symbol of his dedication to war, he'd braided rattlesnake skins into his gray hair. They lay in plaits along his sunken cheeks.

“I'm sorry, my Chief,” Negano apologized again, “I understood that you wished to punish the rogue Hills villages that had sided with the enemy and fought against us, but I thought that as soon as our group of two thousand had taken care of the Flint war party, we would, naturally, return home.”

“In the future, you will not assume. Have you determined how many total warriors deserted after the Standing Stone battle and today's fight with the Flint People?”

“Out of the four thousand that lived and remained loyal to you, only a few hundred. Some went home, but some will certainly return. They're just out in the forest, hunting, getting their bellies full and trying to make sense of what happened. They'll be back. Yesterday, when Zateri, Gwinodje, and Kwahseti betrayed us and joined the enemy, I think many of our warriors could not bear the thought of killing their own relatives. Then when Sky Messenger called that monstrous storm … a few fled to join the enemy, including War Chief Sindak. Gods, while I do not agree with Sindak's actions, I understand his reasons. It was like watching one of the great heroes at the dawn of creation.”

The awe in Negano's voice seemed to anger the old man. Atotarho's teeth ground beneath the thin veneer of wrinkled skin that covered his jaw. In a thin reedy voice, he asked, “Fortunately, he'll soon be dead. Providing you followed my orders and dispatched warriors to hunt him down?”

“I did so last night. If they managed to slip by Jigonsaseh's scouts, they should have arrived at Bur Oak this morning and have been watching for him.”

Atotarho used one of his clawlike hands to massage his aching knee. “I want every deserter hunted down and killed, starting with Sindak.”

“Of course. I thought that once we'd carried the wounded home, we would—”

“We're not going home.”

Negano blinked, as though clearing his eyes would make it easier to grasp this latest lunacy. His gaze sought out the chief's personal guards, standing in a group five paces away. They'd been listening to his conversation with the chief, and now stared at Negano as though expecting him to do something about this madness. After all, he was War Chief. The wounded must be carried home. It was his duty to explain these facts to the Chief.

The new leader of the Chief's personal guards, Nesi, sharply dipped his head toward Atotarho, urging Negano to say something. Nesi was a big, square-jawed giant with a heavily scarred face. He had seen forty summers pass. A decade ago, Nesi had been the War Chief of Atotarho Village. He understood Negano's new duties better than Negano did.

Negano braced his feet. “My Chief, as you well know, our warriors have fought two hard battles in as many days. They're exhausted. Many of their friends and family members are injured. Some are dying. Our warriors expect to take them home where they can be properly cared for.”

Atotarho calmly rested his stick across his lap, and sternly repeated, “I told you, we are not returning home.”

“Do you plan to remain here until the wounded can travel?” It was the only reason he could think of.

“At dawn, we're going back to Bur Oak and Yellowtail villages.”

When Negano cast a glance at Nesi, the giant frowned and shook his head; he was just as confused as Negano. Negano said, “Do you plan to attack those villages again?”

Wolves got into a fight over one of the bodies in the killing pen, and a snarling, growling cacophony arose. Negano could see eyes coalescing around the pair that fought, creating a jewel-like silver ring. The battle lasted barely ten heartbeats before one of the wolves yelped and whimpered away.

Atotarho waited for the commotion to die down. “I wish you to dispatch a messenger tonight to the new High Matron of our nation. Inform Kelek that we will remain in Standing Stone country for another half-moon, perhaps even a moon. That should be long enough. Also, after our war parties have destroyed the traitorous villages, she should immediately dispatch two thousand warriors back to Bur Oak Village to aid us.”

“Very well.”

“I also wish you to dispatch messengers under white arrows to carry the news of our great victory to other nations. Have them say that the Standing Stone nation is on the verge of extinction, and we are about to assure it.” He aimed a crooked finger at Negano's heart. “I especially wish messengers to be sent to the Mountain People. Tell them that if they wish to ally with us for a few days, we will be able to exterminate the Standing Stone nation even faster.”

“I doubt they'll accept, my Chief. They hate us. Even if they do accept, it will take them seven or eight days to arrive.”

Atotarho just stared at him.

“I'll dispatch the messengers immediately. Now, Chief, if we may, I'd like to return to our former discussion. What will we be doing in Standing Stone country for another moon? How will we feed our warriors while camping in a winter forest?”

Negano waited for an explanation of how he planned to use their current force of one thousand seven hundred warriors, and then another two thousand.

Atotarho did not answer. He'd occupied himself tossing more branches on the fire. Sparks whirled through the air.

“Chief, three thousand seven hundred warriors is a huge force. I ask again, how will we feed them?”

“Now that you know we are not going home, you should start by stripping the Flint bodies of every shred of food they have in their packs, then ration it to our warriors. It will take days for our reinforcements to arrive. By then, I'm sure you will have thought of something to keep the army fed. After all, you are War Chief. It's your responsibility.”

When Atotarho offered no further information, Nesi, who stood where the chief couldn't see him, stabbed his war club at the Chief, insisting that Negano ask the necessary questions to finish the discussion.

Negano sighed and asked, “What is it you wish to accomplish in Standing Stone country, my Chief?”

Atotarho prodded the fire again. The burning logs crackled and spat. Orange light fluttered like huge wings through the nearby pines, and sparks gushed into the darkness. Atotarho lifted his wrinkled face to watch them climb into the Sky World. He appeared to be offering a silent prayer.

When he looked back at Negano, the old Chief murmured, “I plan to teach a lesson none of our enemies will ever forget.”

Negano's eyes narrowed. “What lesson? Do you plan to take the Standing Stone villagers hostage? To make them slaves? I'm sure our villages would appreciate being able to increase their numbers, but there are thousands of survivors from the Bur Oak and Yellowtail battle. How will we feed so many on the way home?”