People of the Black Sun(116)

Hiyawento cups a hand to his mouth. “I’m only asking for thirty warriors. Just thirty! The rest of you must return home to help protect your nation.”

Slowly, as though accepting their fate, a handful of warriors come forward. Then more. One by one, they shoulder to the front of the crowd, circling me. Most are big burly men with quivers and bows slung over their shoulders. A few are strong women with hard eyes. I count only sixteen, but their eyes glow when they look at me.

Hiyawento studies them, deciding their worthiness. He pounds fists into arm muscles judging strength, scrutinizes bows and arrows to see how well they’ve been cared for, and looks into each person’s eyes assessing something far more subtle, character. He is a renowned War Chief, greatly feared by the Landing People. These warriors clearly respect him, but several glare into his eyes. Have they fought against him? Will they obey him when the time comes?

A tidal wave of questions rolls through the crowd. People shift, arms extend to point.

I turn.

At the top of the hill, Baji stands with her long hair blowing around her broad shoulders in the soft winds of evening. She has her bow nocked and aimed at the ground, but her chin is held high as she scans the crowd. Gitchi lopes nervous circles around her, hair bristling, guarding her. I know without a doubt that he will fight to protect her until he cannot fight any longer. The sight of them standing together is like a Spirit plant rushing in my veins.

Everyone sees her! Look at them. They’re all looking at her. She’s here … Blessed Spirits … she’s here.

Hiyawento lifts a hand to Baji, and she lifts a hand back and gives him a firm nod.

Hiyawento yells, “Guards, we have to move up the trail to that hilltop in the distance where we can protect the Prophet. Do whatever you have to to keep the crowd back as we walk!”





Forty-four

As High Matron Kelek made her way across the dark plaza of Atotarho Village with her guard, her old heart thumped. She felt weary beyond exhaustion. White hair hung about her wrinkled face like a cloud of spiderwebs. The meeting with the village councils from Turtleback and Hilltop had not gone well. All day long Atotarho Village had been in an uproar. Accusations had flown about like diving falcons. No one had been left unscathed, especially Kelek. She felt as though she’d been pecked to pieces by a flock of rabid turkeys.

The sight of the Bear Clan longhouse made her utter a deep sigh. She longed to sleep. As she parted the entry curtain, she shivered in the sudden warmth, and headed toward her chamber at the far end of the house. Her guard dutifully stuck close behind her, his war club in hand.

At just past midnight, the six-hundred-hand-long house appeared still and quiet. Less than a dozen people sat around the thirty fires that sparkled down the center aisle. A few of the curtains had been drawn closed across chambers, but most remained opened to the warmth from the hearths. People slept beneath piles of hides with dogs curled up beside them.

When she reached her chamber near the south entry, Kelek turned to her guard. Thirty summers old, with short black hair, he wore a greasy cape streaked with soot. He’d just returned from the Standing Stone battle, like so many other warriors, and looked as though he hadn’t even changed clothes. It was disgraceful.

“Be vigilant, Hakowane.”

“I will, High Matron.”

His voice was utterly devoid of emotion, which she found peculiar after the day’s emotional turmoil.

Kelek scrutinized him. He was slender now, but as a child, he’d been known as a glutton. He’d seemed to spend every waking moment shoving food into his mouth, which is why she’d never really liked him. Not only that, he had a pointed face that resembled a long-tailed weasel’s, the eyes dark and beady, the nose pink, and ears too big for his small head. When he smiled, his pointed teeth resembled fangs.

“You’re from the Eti’gowane’s lineage, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“High Matron,” she corrected.

“Forgive me, High Matron.” He bowed in apology.

“The Eti’gowane has been a good Matron of the Cornfields.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, High Matron.”

The man seemed distracted, his eyes shifting around as though he expected monsters to emerge from the night shadows. She reached over to unhook her curtain from its peg. As it fell closed across her chamber, he vanished, but as the curtain swung, she glimpsed him slip his war club into his belt and draw a chert knife. An odd choice. Any warrior worth his reputation would have stood guard with his war club. It was more threatening.

At this moment, however, she didn’t have the strength to care.