The People of the Black Sun (24 page)

Gonda tugged his red-painted leather cape more tightly around him. The frosty wind pricked his bones. He tried to force his attention away from their debate and to the happenings in the plaza.

No one had really slept last night, but those who'd gone to bed at all had arisen many hands of time ago. As had the enemy. Out beyond the plaza, murmuring echoes of unknown forces moved across the hills and the brittle musty scent of old leaves, kicked by thousands of feet, wafted in on the wind.

Kittle was right.
Truly
panic was an odd choice of words, since Gonda doubted it was possible for them to be more panicked. Thousands of dead bodies lay rotting everywhere they looked. The stench was growing. This was a special kind of panic, however, not the frantic grouse-with-its-head-chopped-off kind. No, this was the sort of panic the end of the world was made from. A certainty felt in the bones. A knowledge that everything a person cherished was about to be taken from him, and there was little he could do about it.

It would be easier if Atotarho would just attack.

Gonda glanced away when two litters emerged from beneath the door curtain of the Deer Clan longhouse. Upon them lay the bodies of those who'd died during the night. Thirty or so mourners followed the litters. Their cries blended eerily with the cynical amusement of the warriors on the catwalks, men and women who could see the enemy surrounding the village, and were preparing for their own deaths the only way they knew how, with morbid jokes.

Gonda turned to the west. Just over the rim of the palisade, Grandmother Moon shone like an oblate silver pendant. Most of the noise came from that direction. Large war parties on the move resembled massive wolf packs. They yipped and growled. The effect was a combination of the clatter of weapons belts, arrows rattling in quivers, laughter, and feet puncturing crusted snow. It made the hair stand up on the back of Gonda's neck.

As well, the dawn smelled like resin. It was a subtle, but terrifying scent, known to every warrior. Bur Oak Village was virtually helpless, Atotarho's victory a near certainty. His army was eager for the kill, sweating in anticipation, and the vile stench of their emotions filled the air.

“Gonda,” Kittle called. “Please assist us.”

He lurched forward, covering the distance in two bounds. “Yes, High Matron? How may I help?”

Kittle shoved wind-blown hair away from her dark eyes. “What is your opinion of Atotarho's intentions? What does he want? What can we give him to convince him to leave in peace?”

Sindak vented a low close-mouthed laugh, and shook his head at the inane notion, which drew a lethal glare from Kittle.

“Would you rather answer first, Sindak?” she asked curtly.

“You already know my opinion, High Matron. I'd rather hear Gonda's ideas.”

“Then endeavor to hold your tongue.”

Sindak suppressed a grim smile. “Yes, High Matron. My apologies.”

Gonda glanced around the circle. Expressions were hard and unyielding. Sweat beaded the curve of Sindak's hooked nose. Kittle's chest rose and fell in swift breaths. Only Jigonsaseh appeared to be in utter control of her senses.

He turned to her. “My former wife, I think there's only one thing Atotarho really wants. And I suspect you know it, too.”

“Maybe, but tell me anyway.”

“He wants our son.”

Jigonsaseh held his gaze, then nodded. “You mean because of the Human False Face prophecies?”

“Yes. For most of Atotarho's life, his people believed him to be the prophesied Spirit-Man who would don the cape of clouds at the end of time and save the world. I remember, twelve summers ago, when he told us it had never been an easy title to bear.”

“And now that Sky Messenger's vision is sweeping up and down the trails, and he sees his own people applying that title to Sky Messenger, he's desperate to—”

“I'd like to say something,” Kittle broke in. Jigonsaseh gracefully yielded to the High Matron. “If Sky Messenger is the only thing Atotarho really wants, all he has to do is hunt him down and kill him. He doesn't have to destroy the entire Standing Stone nation. Yet, here he is, massed outside the last bastion of the Standing Stone People, a village filled largely with starving elders and children. Why?”

Sindak waited while Gonda, Jigonsaseh, and Kittle stared at each other, then he said, “Because Sky Messenger isn't all he wants.” He dipped his head apologetically to Gonda. “I mean no disrespect, Gonda. You are right that Atotarho is obsessed with achieving Sky Messenger's death, but he wants a lot more than that. He wants to rule all five nations south of Skanodario Lake.”

“Well, that's never going to happen,” Kittle blustered. “He's an evil cannibal sorcerer. No one will agree to submit to his rule. He'll have to enslave us to do it.”

As though to affirm her suggestion, the yips and growls of the huge army moving across the valley outside penetrated the palisades, and the warriors on the catwalk muttered darkly. Several nocked bows. Other's reached uneasily to dip cups of water from the pots hanging from the palisade wall, getting one last drink while they had a chance.

Jigonsaseh's eyes suddenly cut to Sindak. “If that is his intention, we are no good to him dead. He needs us alive to work the fields, to build new longhouses, to repair his vast new territory and help to guard it.”

Sindak nodded. “A few of you, at least.”

“Does that mean he plans to negotiate? Is that why he didn't attack last night?”

“Well”—Sindak's head waffled—“you know as well as I do that night attacks are unwise. In the darkness, it's hard to tell your own warriors from the enemy's. Too many accidents happen. The only thing night is good for is sneaking warriors closer to their targets. As to whether he plans to negotiate your surrender…” He shrugged. “If so, why didn't he send a messenger to you yesterday?”

Gonda's souls sifted the information, trying to think like his enemy, and a feeling of impending disaster seeped through his veins. “Maybe he plans to wait until we're desperate enough to give him everything he wants. When our food and water run out, when our warriors have no more arrows to let fly…”

He let the conclusion hang.

“Anything he wants?” Kittle asked. “Including Sky Messenger's dead body?”

“Or live body. He probably thinks Sky Messenger is still in this village.”

The litter bearers reached the inner palisade gate, and the warriors on duty obediently checked with the second palisade guards to confirm it was safe to exit, then swung the gates open. The guards had been instructed to allow the dead to be transported beyond the walls, for as long as it was safe to do so, to keep the plaza from becoming filled with rotting corpses.

Gonda watched the middle palisade gates swing open. As the litter bearers moved toward the exterior gates, he returned his attention to Sindak. “You realize, don't you, that in the end Atotarho will also demand that we turn over you and your warriors?”

Sindak gave him a level stare. “I do.”

“Well,” Kittle exhaled the word. “I give you my oath we won't do that.”

Sindak smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. “That's nice to hear. However, High Matron, there will come a time in the struggle when the circumstances will require that you make a choice between my people, and your own villagers. I assure you, it won't be hard.”

Kittle's eyes flashed in indignation. “If you were intelligent enough to allow us to adopt you into the Standing Stone nation, that choice would cease to exist. You would
be
my villagers.” Her eyes blazed. “And in the future, do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do, or your next sight will be from high up on my longhouse wall.” Meaning she'd keep his severed head for a trophy.

A breath of icy wind swept the plaza, swirling up snow, and sending it gusting about.

Jigonsaseh clutched her white cape beneath her chin. “With respect, Kittle, adopting Sindak and his people may change their status in our own nation, but it will also obliterate their status in the eyes of the Hills nation. Right now, though they have opted to fight on our side, the Hills nation may reunite and the new Ruling Council may forgive them. Especially if there are other Hills matrons and chiefs who think Atotarho is insane—”

“And there are,” Sindak said.

“However, if Sindak and his people become sons and daughters of the Standing Stone nation, it's treason. A death penalty.”

Kittle cocked her head slightly, as though seeing an opening to Sindak's vitals. In a soft deadly voice, she said, “I want to know the names of every matron and chief who thinks Atotarho is insane. If we can win them to our side—”

“I'll give them to you.”

Sindak and Kittle stared at each other.

As the exterior palisade gates groaned open on damp leather hinges, the litter bearers trotted outside. Elder Brother Sun was still below the horizon, but a yellow halo arched into the eastern sky. The shadows of the hills scalloped the valley, and the dismantled ruin of Yellowtail Village glowed sadly, its palisade missing in too many places to count. The last two rings of palisades remained upright only because the gaps were held together by the catwalk. Through one of the gaps, Gonda spied movement, low to the ground, probably dogs hunting the ruins of the refugee shelters that had been built between the rings. Piles of debris cluttered the bent pole skeletons, which leaned precariously. Many of the ruins would collapse in the next strong wind.

Sindak turned to Kittle with an expression of guarded annoyance. “High Matron, if I may, I'd like to…”

A roar went up from the catwalk and warriors began running just as screams erupted outside.

Kittle said, “What…”

Litter bearers and mourners shoved one another as they scrambled to make it back inside the palisade gates ahead of a hail of falling arrows.

“I'm a fool!” Gonda cursed himself, and yelled, “Move! They're shooting from Yellowtail Village!”

As though part of a synchronized dance, Jigonsaseh, Gonda, and Sindak drew their war clubs simultaneously and ran to defend the gates.

 

Twenty

Before Baji opened her eyes, she was conscious of the slight steady rhythm of Sky Messenger's breathing and the feel of his ribs pressed against her back. His arms were around her, holding her.

A sensation of contentment possessed her.

When the morning breeze eddied, crackles sounded two paces away, and cedar smoke, rich and sweet, filled the air. Sky Messenger must have carried her to a bed beside the fire—though she didn't remember—and added branches throughout the night to keep her warm.

She inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly.

The almost soundless shift of paws told her that Gitchi sat on his haunches nearby, his yellow eyes on the forest, guarding them, as he had always done.

When she opened her eyes and smiled at the old white-faced wolf, Gitchi's tail thumped the ground. He leaned down, licked her forehead, and vigilantly took up his duties again, glancing only briefly at the falcons that wheeled in the sky.

Sunlight streamed through the deep brown hickory branches above her. Where it landed, the forest floor steamed. Already much of yesterday's snow had melted into shining pools. Had they slept so long? It must be at least two hands of time past dawn.

Gently, so as not to wake Sky Messenger, she tilted her head to look out across the vista. They slept upon a rocky high point overlooking a broad river valley. The largest boulders below appeared tiny and distant, like the dream of her own death that had tormented her for half the night …
falling, with him, bright light, can't get air …

For a while, as the forest became luminescent, she lay there in Sky Messenger's warm arms, watching the bone-white winter light being born—light licked clean by the invisible Spirit predators that hunted the rolling land.

She eased one hand up to touch her head wound. The swelling had diminished by half, but pain continued to throb through her skull.

Sky Messenger must have felt her move. He tightened his arms around her, drawing her slender body more securely against his, and whispered, “How are you feeling?”

“Better today. I … for the past few days … I've been waking … with my heart thundering and I wonder if my heart is bursting … or if I'm just dying of loneliness.”

She rolled to her back to look at him. Every line of his round face told her how much he cherished waking this way. His brown eyes shone. A small fragile smile turned his lips, as though he was afraid to be happy, for fear that she would vanish. Last summer, during the brief alliance between the Flint and Standing Stone nations, they'd awakened this way every morning.

“I'm here, Baji. You're not alone now.”

He tenderly pressed his lips to hers, then pulled aside the wealth of her long hair and studied the wound behind her right ear. “The wound looks better. Thank the Spirits you're a fighter. Last night, I was giving you poor odds.”