The People of the Black Sun (20 page)

After her death he had spent many torturous moons trying to make sense of it, and had come to believe that her staggering sufferings were, in reality, a glimpse granted by the Ancestors of a greater truth: The “Law of Retribution” extended far beyond the world of the living. It coiled in the heart of existence itself—and existence demanded that someone pay the price of war. Hopocan had not been called; he had.

He turned to look back at the trail.

The white slash weaved through the forest, glistening as it filled up with snow, obliterating Baji's tracks. He couldn't let her get too far ahead.

When he fell into a steady, distance-eating trot, he whispered, “Yes, Baji, I did.”

 

Sixteen

War Chief Hiyawento stood tall and straight, his nocked bow gripped in his hands, watching his warriors appear and disappear, moving through the stark trees, searching the forest for either intruders or survivors of the Riverbank Village battle. The stench of carrion was everywhere. Drawn by it, wolves had come in the night, prowling for the food inevitably left in the wake of war parties. Occasionally, a man shouted at the animals, and warning growls and barks erupted in response.

Wind Woman flapped his short hair around his eagle face as he turned to examine the smoldering palisades that sent black smoke trailing across the blue midmorning sky. The village sat on the highest terrace of the Sundrop River, a small rushing stream that babbled over rocks as it cut its way across the tree-covered hills. Inside the village, Zateri, Kwahseti, and Gwinodje wandered through the destroyed longhouses. Their ominous voices carried.

The story was clear. The villagers had received Kwahseti's message to leave as soon as possible, but a small contingent of warriors had remained behind. If he'd been at Coldspring Village when such a message came, he would have done the same thing. Get most of the people out, but leave warriors—all volunteers—to guard the walls for as long as possible, delaying the enemy, giving their fleeing relatives more time to reach the safety of Canassatego Village. As best he could tell, thirty warriors had remained. Men and women who knew it was a death sentence, but stayed anyway.

War Chief Thona wandered the ruins with his jaw clamped, a handful of trusted deputies at his side. When Thona pointed, deputies bent to collect the bones of the fallen. Most were blackened. Those warriors had died in the fires, still at their posts on the walls. Others, the survivors, had been chopped apart. Their bones bore the unmistakable evidence of cannibalism. The long bones of the legs and arms had been split open with war clubs to get to the roasted marrow inside. Several showed “pot polish,” the sheen associated with having been stirred in a ceramic pot for a long time.

Hiyawento's pulse beat a dull rhythm in his ears. Did Coldspring Village look like this? Or worse? Had any of the villagers managed to escape? Or had they been attacked before they could leave? His souls spun hideous images.

Curses rang out in the forest. A man shouted. A woman tried to calm him down. Dread tingled the winter-scented air. Every person feared this place and the lost souls who roamed the shadows. They were all anxious to be away, to get to Canassatego Village to find out which of their relatives had survived.

Hiyawento looked inside the destroyed village again. Sky Messenger had told Hiyawento once, just a few days ago, that he could see them … the lost souls. They appeared as small yellowish lights bobbing across battlefields or through the husks of destroyed villages. Sometimes, he heard them weeping, confused because their relatives wouldn't talk to them, not understanding they were dead.

Hiyawento bowed his head and glared at the brown oak leaves tumbling across the ground in the cold gusts of wind. He felt dead inside.
Too much violence.
It gutted the world. His body echoed with emptiness, as though the deaths of his daughters, and the constant warfare, had chased his souls away, leaving behind a hollow cocoon filled with rage. Is that how these lost souls felt?

He searched for any glint of bobbing soul lights, but saw only wind-tormented branches and ash and smoke whirling through the air.

Thona stalked across the decimated village, exited the gates, and came to stand beside Hiyawento. His heavily scarred face was grim and determined. “We should be on our way.”

“Matron Kwahseti has decided not to bury the remains of your relatives?”

Thona shook his head. “We'll return when we can and care for them. Right now, we must care for the living. Canassatego Village may be under attack as we speak. If so, our living relatives need our help more.”

Zateri, Kwahseti, and Gwinodje walked through the smoking gates, talking softly, their faces pale and cold, as though what they'd seen had drained them of warm blood from their bodies.

Zateri's desperate gaze clung to Hiyawento's. She must be seeing the same hideous images he was: Their home burned to the ground, cannibalized dead bodies strewn across the forest …

Kwahseti's gray hair flipped around her squinted eyes. She stared at Hiyawento, then Thona. “Call in our warriors. We're leaving now.”

“Yes, Matron,” Thona answered. He cupped a hand to his mouth and yipped his distinctive lone wolf cry.

Warriors instantly began to emerge from the forest and trot toward the village, coalescing into a whispering, eddying army of exhausted men and women.

Just before Hiyawento turned toward the trail, voices went up at the outer margins of the army, but they were not warning voices. A path opened as warriors backed away, allowing a single man to trot forward.

“Who is it?” Zateri asked as she moved to stand at Hiyawento's side. “Can you tell?”

“No.”

The man came forward at a sluggish trot, as though his legs felt like granite weights. He was tall, with a Trader's burly shoulders. Long black hair draped the front of his undecorated soot-coated cape. Faint recognition began to dawn on Hiyawento. The man had a straight nose. His mouth clamped into a white line. He kept squinting, as though he couldn't see very well at a distance.

“Towa!”
Hiyawento broke into a run, rushing to meet him.

When Towa recognized him, a tired smile came to his lips. They embraced, pounding each other's back hard enough to leave them breathless.

“Blessed gods,” Towa said. “We feared you were all dead.”

“No, my friend, we—”

“Tell me quickly,” Towa said as he shoved away. “Are the stories true? Did Sky Messenger lift his hands and call a gigantic storm that swept the warriors from the battlefield?”

“Yes, yes, he did. Now tell me, did everyone make it safely to Canassatego Village?”

Zateri, Kwahseti, and Gwinodje crowded around them, listening. Chief Canassatego came up behind Gwinodje, his wrinkled face somber, framed with gray braids. Thona stood behind Kwahseti like an angry giant.

Towa swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. I led the Riverbank Villagers there. A few hands of time later, villagers from Coldspring Village rushed the palisades, crying that Atotarho's forces were right behind them.” He took a deep breath and took a few moments to look at the assembled matrons. “Matron Gwinodje, Chief Canassatego, your village was so well prepared it was astonishing. They flung open the gates for the Coldspring refugees, then lowered bracing logs across them and ran to man the catwalks. Our warriors were already up there, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with yours. When Atotarho's forces hit the walls it … it was a grisly sight. Within the first quarter-hour we killed so many that the dead piled against the palisades three deep.” He bowed his head as though unable to continue. A dread silence possessed the army. Every ear strained to hear his story. “After three hands of time, it was over. The remnant of Atotarho's army that survived fled.”

Thona looked shocked. “What fool led the attack? Why didn't he back away when he saw he couldn't breach the walls?”

“A deputy war chief from Turtleback Village appeared to be in charge, but you can't blame him. He died very early in the attack. After his death, his forces seemed to have no head. They just threw themselves at the walls as though senseless rage motivated them.”

“How many died?” Zateri asked in an emotionless voice, as though she'd already braced herself for the worst.

Towa stared at her with an agonized expression. “Inside Canassatego Village, we lost one-hundred-eleven. Another one hundred fifty-two were wounded. But outside … I'd say Atotarho attacked with maybe seven hundred warriors, and when it was done, maybe two hundred fled back through the forest.”

Whispers began to eddy through the army, men and women relaying the story to those farther back who hadn't been able to hear. A low moan, composed of many voices, drifted on the wind. They had been forced to kill their relatives. There would be blood feuds and weeping for generations.

Zateri said, “We can hear the rest of the story after we've arrived at Canassatego Village. Let's move out.”

As Thona tramped onto the trail and fell into a steady trot, warriors swarmed onto the trail behind him. The sound of thousands of feet striking the frozen earth resembled a deep-throated growl. The forest went still, the animals afraid to move.

Hiyawento said, “Give me a moment, matrons?”

Zateri, Kwahseti, and Gwinodje turned to him. Chief Canassatego waited, as well.

“Now that we know our villagers have made it safely to Canassatego Village, I request permission to join Sky Messenger. He should soon be in the Landing People villages. That's a single day's run for me.”

Towa gripped his shoulder and a smile came to his exhausted face. “Will you let me join you? I know the Landing elders. I can make introductions.”

“Towa, you're exhausted. I'll be moving as fast as I can.”

“Even if I hold you back so that it takes two days to get there, I was in Shookas Village only one moon ago. They hate the Hills People so much that I assure you, without me, they will kill you on sight.”

Hiyawento studied the man's fatigued eyes and trembling legs, but said, “Then I would welcome having you along, Towa.”

Kwahseti tucked short gray hair behind one ear. “I have no objections to this.”

Gwinodje turned to Canassatego. “What is your opinion, Chief?”

The man's deeply wrinkled face twisted. “One man will make no difference at our village.”

Gwinodje nodded. “I agree.”

Zateri's eyes tightened with worry. For a long time, she looked at him, as if memorizing his face should she never see it again. “I pray the Forest Spirits guide you. Be careful.”

Hiyawento hugged her tightly, kissed her, and said, “Thank you. We'll return to Canassatego Village as quickly as we can.”

 

Seventeen

Pewter moonlight penetrated the gaps between the Cloud People and shone upon the narrow trail that wound through the towering chestnuts and sycamores. Baji took another step, maintaining the tension on her bowstring.

The scent of snow and wet bark suffused the wind. As Grandmother Moon traveled across the night sky, the branch shadows that created a lattice on the forest floor shifted, striping the snow and the white bark of birches. Then it flashed upon faces. Sometimes, owl eyes reflected, other times wolf eyes. Neither held her attention for more than an instant. Instead, she focused on the two men and the dog in the forest ahead of her.

Dekanawida's knee-length cape, worn and soiled from the soot of many campfires, swayed around his tall body. Since she'd last seen him, he'd cut his black hair short in mourning for friends lost in the battle. It draped over his round face in irregular chopped-off locks. His brown eyes seemed focused on a small copse of pawpaws to his right, which meant he was paying no attention at all to his backtrail. Did he see another threat on the trail ahead? It was the only reason she could determine that he would be this careless. The unknown man sneaking through the forest twenty paces to Dekanawida's left had already nocked his bow. He was smiling, his rotted front teeth exposed in the moonlit gleam.