Out on the far side of the narrow valley, a group of warriors began singing the Victory Song. Deep and triumphant, their voices swelled over the winter-bare trees. Other warriors joined in, then more, until the valley of the dead echoed with exultation.
Chief Atotarho stopped tormenting his fire to listen. His wrinkled face twitched. He had seen sixty-four summers pass, and had suffered from the joint-stiffening disease for the past twenty. His bent, crooked body pained him constantly. His enemies said it was the Spirits’ revenge for his witchery. Negano knew better. The old chief wasn’t a witch, but he hired witches, like the frightening Ohsinoh, to do his bidding. In this way, entire villages vanished, poisoned or decimated by strange plagues. No man in the world was feared more than Chief Atotarho … except perhaps Sky Messenger. That must be galling the old man.
As Negano approached, he saw the freshly chewed human ribs that lay around the fire pit, cast there by the chief after his teeth had stripped the cooked flesh away. Who had the person been? A chief probably, or maybe a war chief. Possibly the great Cord himself? Atotarho refused to consume lowly warriors.
Atotarho snapped, “What took you so long? I summoned you over one-half hand of time ago.”
Negano bowed. “Forgive me, my Chief, I had to check on the wounded. They—”
“In the future, you will come immediately when I call for you.”
Negano straightened, confused. “But, my Chief, I am now War Chief. It is my duty to make certain the wounded are being well cared for. When we return to Atotarho Village, their families will wish to know that I did everything possible to—”
“We’ll be leaving the wounded here tomorrow. We have other priorities.”
Negano stiffened. The words were a slap in the face. It was inconceivable that they would not carry the wounded home to their families as quickly as possible. “I don’t understand?”
“That doesn’t surprise me. When I divided our forces yesterday, sending two thousand warriors back into Hills country, did you think I did it for no reason?” Atotarho glared at him. As a symbol of his dedication to war, he’d braided rattlesnake skins into his gray hair. They lay in plaits along his sunken cheeks.
“I’m sorry, my Chief,” Negano apologized again, “I understood that you wished to punish the rogue Hills villages that had sided with the enemy and fought against us, but I thought that as soon as our group of two thousand had taken care of the Flint war party, we would, naturally, return home.”
“In the future, you will not assume. Have you determined how many total warriors deserted after the Standing Stone battle and today’s fight with the Flint People?”
“Out of the four thousand that lived and remained loyal to you, only a few hundred. Some went home, but some will certainly return. They’re just out in the forest, hunting, getting their bellies full and trying to make sense of what happened. They’ll be back. Yesterday, when Zateri, Gwinodje, and Kwahseti betrayed us and joined the enemy, I think many of our warriors could not bear the thought of killing their own relatives. Then when Sky Messenger called that monstrous storm … a few fled to join the enemy, including War Chief Sindak. Gods, while I do not agree with Sindak’s actions, I understand his reasons. It was like watching one of the great heroes at the dawn of creation.”
The awe in Negano’s voice seemed to anger the old man. Atotarho’s teeth ground beneath the thin veneer of wrinkled skin that covered his jaw. In a thin reedy voice, he asked, “Fortunately, he’ll soon be dead. Providing you followed my orders and dispatched warriors to hunt him down?”
“I did so last night. If they managed to slip by Jigonsaseh’s scouts, they should have arrived at Bur Oak this morning and have been watching for him.”
Atotarho used one of his clawlike hands to massage his aching knee. “I want every deserter hunted down and killed, starting with Sindak.”
“Of course. I thought that once we’d carried the wounded home, we would—”
“We’re not going home.”
Negano blinked, as though clearing his eyes would make it easier to grasp this latest lunacy. His gaze sought out the chief’s personal guards, standing in a group five paces away. They’d been listening to his conversation with the chief, and now stared at Negano as though expecting him to do something about this madness. After all, he was War Chief. The wounded must be carried home. It was his duty to explain these facts to the Chief.
The new leader of the Chief’s personal guards, Nesi, sharply dipped his head toward Atotarho, urging Negano to say something. Nesi was a big, square-jawed giant with a heavily scarred face. He had seen forty summers pass. A decade ago, Nesi had been the War Chief of Atotarho Village. He understood Negano’s new duties better than Negano did.