Sindak propped his fist on top of the palisade wall as he scrutinized the scene with narrowed eyes. His lean face and hooked nose shone in the pale blue gleam. “I don’t think so.”
“Who else could they be?”
Sindak didn’t answer for a time while he continued his evaluation. Moans and cries filled the plaza below and seeped from every smoldering longhouse. While they still had two hundred real fighters perched on the catwalks and another three hundred elders and children with bows, their losses yesterday had been staggering: approximately four hundred dead, and five hundred wounded. Jigonsaseh had developed a system. Minor wounds were tended by family and friends in the longhouses. Major wounds that Old Bahna thought would Heal went to the council house. Those who had no chance of getting well were laid in rows at the south end of the plaza … near the growing pile of dead. The worst cries, mostly screams for water, came from the south end of the plaza.
Sindak pointed. “Can you see the headdress worn by the big man in front of Atotarho?”
Gonda peered out into the muted gleam, trying to make out what the man wore. As the image congealed, and he saw the pricked wolf ears, blood seemed to drain from his head. “Blessed gods, that’s Chief Wenisa.” His heart slammed his ribs so hard he felt sick to his stomach. “They’re Mountain People.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Speculations ran up and down the catwalks, creating a low ominous hum.
Gonda’s gaze darted over the valley, trying to verify their suspicions. Dawn was coming fast, but not fast enough. He still couldn’t see very well. Only the most brilliant campfires of the dead, the big council fires, continued to burn. Flaming points of red and azure, and one lonely fire beaming gold lit the sky.
Wenisa began pacing in front of Atotarho, striding back and forth with his arms waving. From this distance, he was as shadowy and quiet as the wind. Yenda had always been an arrogant fool. Having Chief Wenisa’s soul Requickened in his body probably hadn’t helped. Wenisa had been known far and wide as the most brutal chief in the land.
In an unnaturally calm voice, Gonda asked, “There must be … what?… two thousand Mountain warriors out there?”
“Two thousand that we can see.”
“Then the Mountain People and the Hills nation have created some sort of alliance?”
Sindak examined the irregular line of warriors that surrounded Atotarho’s army on three sides, probably wondering what he would do if he were in Negano’s place. He frowned. “Do you want the truth, or should I lie to make you feel better?”
Gonda ran his tongue over his chapped lips. They were all desperately thirsty, but there was no water, not even for the wounded children. His souls briefly spun thoughts of hot tea steaming in a cup, warming his hands. Tangy and sweet, it ran warm into his body, easing his rigid joints, and the agony in his broken leg. It was amazing how even dreaming of hot tea helped, especially when a man was staring death in the face. “When have you ever lied to make me feel better?”
“Never, but I thought you might want me to make an exception on this last morning.”
Bizarrely, Gonda felt like laughing. “No exceptions, thanks.”
Sindak straightened. “Then I suspect they’ve allied for just this one battle. They’re here to take part in the destruction of the Standing Stone nation.”
Gonda’s voice had an annoyingly desperate ring to it. “What do you think Atotarho promised them in exchange for their help?” As though it matters …
Sindak shrugged. “Enough to get them here.”
Gonda massaged his brow. It occurred to him that by the end of the day, he would be his old enemy’s personal slave … or his body would be lying on top of the pile of corpses. Hopefully, the second.
Sindak said, “There’s a man on the ground at Atotarho’s feet. I didn’t notice him before, but as the light gets better, I’m starting to see more. Who do you think he is?”
“A prisoner delivered to Atotarho? A Hills deserter?”
Softly, he answered, “Possibly.” He must be worried that it was one of his own warriors, Saponi, or another trusted friend.
As Elder Brother Sun lifted from the celestial tree and neared the eastern horizon, the sky took on a pinkish hue. The breeze picked up, sawing through the leafless branches, and sending the musty fragrances of smoke and old leaves sweeping down over them.
“I don’t recognize the prisoner’s cape, do you?” Gonda asked.
“No, but I can’t really make out the designs—just white figures around the bottom.”
With an odd fatalistic composure, Gonda said, “Well, I hate to—she’s had so little rest—but we should wake Matron Jigonsaseh.”