People of the Black Sun(10)

He bashed the charm to splinters. Chunks of tortoiseshell cartwheeled away, clacking as they struck frozen rocks.

When he straightened up, somewhere out on the battlefield a foot began to tap. Rhythmic. Haunting. A percussion backdrop to the eerie symphony created by the other stiffening bodies.

He listened.

Though the night was filled with sound, a silence too great to be born lived inside him. His daughters were gone. The spaces their voices had carved in his souls boomed like finely crafted drums, hollow, empty, filled with faint circling echoes.

Grief and rage were twins, forever linked, both born in a wounded heart. Where one ended and the other began, he no longer knew.

He was certain of only one thing. Destroying Ohsinoh had not even dimmed his need to kill.

Ohsinoh had just been a hired murderer. The real culprit was the evil cannibal-sorcerer, Chief Atotarho.

Hiyawento unlaced and removed a chert knife from his belt pouch, then bent down, and began cutting Hehaka’s body apart, condemning his afterlife soul to wander the earth alone forever. He would not even dignify the corpse by thinking of its witch’s name.





Four

Chief Atotarho drew his black cape more tightly around him and scowled out at the old leaves gusting by. Wind Woman’s breath scoured the highlands, sucking away any warmth his fire radiated, and leaving his twisted body in agony. Every joint in his body ached, and each time he shifted position, sharp pains lanced down his arms and legs. They made a powerful accompaniment to the sheer rage that ate at him.

My forces ran away today!

He glowered out across the land. They’d made camp on a high rocky ridge three hands run to the north of Bur Oak Village. Slabs of rock made stair-step patterns around them, descending into valleys on either side of the ridge. From this height, Atotarho could see all the way across the rolling hills of the Standing Stone nation and to lands of the People of the Hills, his home.

He shoved another branch in his fire, and waited for the leader of his personal guards, Negano, to return from speaking with the other deputy war chiefs who stood talking twenty paces away in a grove of wind-whipped pines.

“I asked a simple question. What’s taking so long?”

Could it be that without War Chief Sindak, none of his deputy war chiefs knew how to lead? Or maybe Sindak’s treachery had caused irreparable rifts among his warriors? The dominance struggles, warriors seeking opportunities to climb in the ranks, had already begun. He’d had to put down three fights tonight.

Given the day’s events, he wondered what was happening back in his village? Was High Matron Kelek adjusting to her new position? He prayed the runner he’d sent, the fastest man in the Hills nation, would reach her tomorrow afternoon.

Gods! His own daughter, the matron of Coldspring Village, had turned against him today. Worse, she’d taken two other Hills People matrons with her. He tried to imagine how it had happened. Had Zateri spent days or weeks convincing matrons Kwahseti and Gwinodje to betray him? Their disloyalty might have even gone on for moons without his knowledge.

She had ruined his plans.

He had intended to destroy the Standing Stone nation, and immediately proceed westward with his army to wipe out the Landing People. He’d even hoped that the weather would hold out long enough for him to attack the starving villages of the People of the Mountain.

Now, none of that will happen …

He roughly massaged the fingers of his left hand. Like knobby sticks, he could no longer fully straighten them. They remained slightly clenched in hawklike talons.

One man, he couldn’t identify the voice, shouted, “I saw it, Negano! He called the storm. Don’t tell me what I did or did not see today!”

It irked him that this same discussion must be going on all over his camp. His warriors must be whispering about the events of the day with awe in their voices, even longing.

The ten deputy war chiefs quieted. He glared at them. Were they casting their voices to decide who would be the new war chief? Well, they could do all the voice counts they wished. When out on the war trail, it was his decision to make.

Another powerful gust blasted the ridge top, and his fire sputtered wildly. One instant he was smothered in warm smoke and the next submerged in icy air.

Finally, Negano broke away from the gathering and walked toward Atotarho through the firelit darkness. A tall man who’d seen thirty-two summers pass, Negano had long black hair. He’d tied it back with a cord, but it still whipped around his oval face. He had his brown eyes squinted against the onslaught.

When he stood on the opposite side of the fire, he bowed deeply. “My Chief, we are divided in our assessments as to the best route to track down our enemies. It will be difficult, given that we must carry litters filled with the wounded and dead from today’s battle, and we cannot take the main trails. That’s the point of contention. Most of our warriors wish to go home first to care for their relatives before we engage in any other attacks.”