The People of the Black Sun (39 page)

He needed time to consider the ramifications of such an arrangement. “When do you require an answer to this request? My Ruling Council—”

“Perhaps we are mistaken.” Wasa tilted his head as though he knew he was being toyed with. “We have heard you have supreme control of the Hills nation. The Ruling Council merely advises you. Is that wrong?”

Atotarho's livid expression must have worried the elder, for the old man's eyes narrowed to slits. With deadly softness, he said, “I have control.”

“Then, since you do not have to send a message to your Ruling Council seeking permission for this agreement, we require an answer immediately.”

Atotarho took a new grip on the head of his walking stick. The impudence was stunning! Not only that, it would outrage the Ruling Council if the Hills army destroyed the Standing Stone nation today, and no longer needed the Mountain People's help. Chief Wenisa would arrive expecting to be awarded half the Standing Stone territory for coming as he'd asked, and Atotarho would be forced to give it to him, lest Wenisa turn his army on Atotarho's decimated forces.

Which the greedy fool might do anyway once he sees that his forces greatly outnumber mine.

Cheers echoed from across the valley, high-pitched, pounding the air. Atotarho kept his gaze on Wasa's.

“Tell your Ruling Council its offer is acceptable.”

Wasa bowed deeply and smiled. “Then our army will be at your service.”

Wasa backed away and hobbled toward four men Atotarho had not seen before. They stood just on the other side of his personal guards, carrying the litter that must have borne Wasa here.

Atotarho watched the old man climb onto the litter, then his bearers carried the old man off toward the trail to the west.

He turned back to the battle. The Bur Oak palisade was on fire in several places. Warriors scurried along the catwalks dumping water onto the flames. Every drop brought them closer to destruction.

A low laugh shook Atotarho.

No matter how many warriors he lost today, with the two thousand that he'd instructed Kelek to send back to him, and the two thousand Mountain warriors already on their way … the Standing Stone nation would soon be nothing but a despicable memory.

 

Thirty-eight

Clusters of black willows and yellow birches whiskered the slope in front of Hiyawento and Towa, running like a rumpled blanket down to Shookas Village. In the late afternoon light, the windblown branches created a vista of constant movement where shadows leaped and danced across the hills. Fortunately, the forest fire had not reached here. This was the first time since dawn that Hiyawento had been able to get a breath of fresh air into his ash-choked lungs.

Hiyawento gripped his war club and studied the hastily constructed camps that completely encircled the village palisades. Most were composed of scavenged branches that had been tied together at the tops and covered with hides; they resembled small rounded huts. From this perspective, he couldn't see inside Shookas Village, but warriors crowded the catwalks of the double palisade. He tried to estimate their numbers. Maybe eight hundred on the walls?

They're expecting an attack.

To the west of Shookas Village, Sapling River cut an arc that paralleled the curve of the oval palisades. The dark green water glinted with sunlight as it wound its way across the countryside.

“Blessed Ancestors,” Towa said in a dire voice. “The entire nation must have fled to Shookas Village.”

“My guess is that there are two or three thousand people outside the walls, living in the huts. How many usually live inside?”

Towa shrugged and his long black braid, which hung like a frizzy rope over his left shoulder, bobbed up and down. “After the fever that devastated them last moon? Maybe two thousand. There are six longhouses, each is six hundred to seven hundred hands long. Before the fever around three thousand people occupied the village. If there are three thousand outside, plus two thousand living here, and even more refugees from other villages in the plaza … there are probably another three or four thousand people inside the walls.”

“Then six or seven thousand people total? Of those, around two thousand are trained warriors. What do you think is going on?”

Towa shook his head. “I don't know. Perhaps, like our own faction of the Hills nation, they've abandoned all their other villages and joined forces to protect each other.”

“Or every other Landing village has been destroyed, like Agweron Village.”

“Yes, that's possible.” Towa's brown eyes narrowed as he surveyed the thousands of people roaming between the huts. Children darted around, playing games, as though nothing was wrong. Occasionally dogs barked. “Where are we supposed to meet Sky Messenger?”

“About where we're standing, on the eastern trail into Shookas Village.”

Towa rubbed his jaw with his sleeve. “I don't like the looks of this. There are too many warriors on the catwalks. I think they're expecting a raid.”

“I agree. Which means they're going to be especially vigilant. Are you sure you can get us through that crowd and into the village to see High Matron Weyra?”

“Well”—Towa gestured uncertainly—“no one has ever tried to stop me before.”

“No, but have you ever entered their village with a Hills War Chief at your side?”

“I'm still alive, aren't I? Of course not. And I won't today, either. As of this instant you are not a war chief. You're my new assistant, a young Trader from the Standing Stone People on his first visit to the Landing villages.”

Hiyawento shifted uncomfortably. “Why the Standing Stone nation, and not—”

“Because they hate the Hills People almost as much as they hate the Mountain People, though not quite. They're attacked far more frequently by Mountain raiders. And your Standing Stone accent may help us. Matron Jigonsaseh and Matron Kittle routinely feed Landing war parties as they pass through Standing Stone country. As a result, a small amount of goodwill exists between the Landing and Standing Stone nations.”

Hiyawento thought about that. Not so long ago High Matron Kittle had made a point of telling him that he had no name among their people. He was Outcast. Forgotten. When he'd allowed himself to be adopted into the Hills nation so that he could marry Zateri, he'd committed treason. It had been a moment of generosity on Kittle's part that she had not carried out his death sentence on the spot. Of course, that was before he'd switched sides and fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Sky Messenger against Atotarho. But he still felt uncomfortable about pretending to be a Standing Stone Trader. However, if such a deception would help Sky Messenger? Well, his feelings were of no consequence. “Very well. What's my name?”

Towa gazed at him thoughtfully. “I'd go by my boyhood name: Wrass. It's easier to remember. You're Bear Clan of Yellowtail Village, just as you were before you wed Zateri. And when Sky Messenger arrives, he will be Odion.”

“What if someone recognizes us? Most war chiefs know each other.”

“True, but many of their war chiefs died when the fever swept their villages. Still, I think we should paint our faces before we approach the camps.”

Towa shrugged out of his Trader's pack and knelt on the trail before it. As he pulled out his paints box, Hiyawento glimpsed the black pointed shapes of buffalo horn sheaths. Since they were worth a fortune, Hiyawento was surprised that Towa hadn't hidden them somewhere, waiting for a more opportune time to Trade them.

“Are you hoping to Trade here?”

“Absolutely. That's why we're here. And you'd better remember it.” As he opened his paints box, the cold leather hinges squealed. “As we Trade, we will talk about the great miracle that occurred during the Bur Oak battle, but we'll just be gossiping, passing along the news of other nations, as Traders do.”

“What about Sky Messenger's vision? Shouldn't we—”

“Really, Hiyawento.” Towa looked up and his mouth quirked. “How poor a Trader do you think I am? Since I first heard of his vision, I've been carrying the story everywhere I go. The last time I was here, the Ruling Council called in every storyteller. They asked me to retell the story over and over, to make sure they had the details right, so they could go home and repeat it.”

“Do they believe his vision?”

Towa rose with his paints box in hand, studied Hiyawento's eaglelike face and dipped a fingertip into the white paint. A mixture of clay, crushed shell, and bear fat, it had a pleasing sparkle. As he began painting Hiyawento's face, he answered, “I happen to be a very good storyteller. When I was finished with the fifth telling, no one with a soul could have doubted its truth. Every jaw in the council house hung slack with awe. Even the children had hushed and stared at me with huge eyes.”

Hiyawento smiled. “Sky Messenger will appreciate that, old friend.”

“He'd better. Retelling the story forced me to remain in the midst of the sickness far longer than I'd intended. I had to stay away from Riverbank Village for another five days to make sure I hadn't been infested with the Evil Spirits. The last thing I wished to do was carry them home to Riverbank Village.” In a sad voice he added, “Though when I arrived I discovered sickness had already entered the village, carried in the bodies of Flint captives taken during the latest raid on Monster Rock Village.”

Concerned, Hiyawento asked, “How are your wife and son?”

“Both were sickened, but got well. I was fortunate. Many others perished.”

The expressions on Towa's handsome face shifted as he scrutinized his painting, then decided to add black circles around Hiyawento's eyes and mouth. “There, not even Sky Messenger would recognize you.”

While Towa painted his own face, red on top and gray on the bottom, Hiyawento's gaze returned to the village. As Elder Brother Sun descended in the west, the colors of the late afternoon began to shade toward dusk. The yellow sunlight that had illuminated hundreds of huts only moments ago had turned deep amber, and the lengthening forest shadows pointed eastward like black lightning bolts zigzagging across the hills.

When the breeze shifted, the scent of hundreds of campfires blew around him.

Towa tucked his paints box back into his pack, tugged the laces tight and slipped it over his shoulders again. As he rose, he exhaled the words, “I think we should get a little closer. Their scouts will already have spotted us. If we just keep standing here they will become suspicious that we are Mountain People spies. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then let's go, Wrass.”

Towa led the way down the hill at a slow trot.

 

Thirty-nine

Matron Jigonsaseh stopped long enough to tuck grimy black hair behind her ears. As the hush of evening settled over Bur Oak Village, small fires continued to burn, mostly in the longhouse roofs, sending ash floating across the plaza in waves. The cool air was pungent with the odor of charred slippery elm bark, and redolent with the cries of the wounded and grieving. Their losses had been devastating. When they were attacked again,
not if,
they'd be overrun. She suspected it would take Negano less than four hands of time to completely destroy the last survivors of the Standing Stone nation.

She propped a hand on CorpseEye where he rested in her belt, and continued toward the wounded where they were laid out in rows. The few remaining pots of water had been stashed close to them. From this point on, only the wounded that were certain to live would receive water. Her long-empty stomach—empty of both food and water, for she would not eat or drink if her warriors couldn't—had been playing tricks on her souls. Sometimes the screams and sobs seemed far away and tiny, like the incoherent dreams born of a fever. Later, they bombarded her like huge fists, beating her heart to dust. She was tired, so tired, but she could not lie down until this was finished.