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People of the Black Sun(3)

By:W.Michael Gear


“I appreciate your concern, but it’s not necessary. Return to your duties.” Her hand, however, instinctively dropped to CorpseEye where he rested in her belt.

“As you wish, Matron.”

The gates swung closed behind her without another word.

She walked eastward across the battlefield, weaving through the corpses, and down the long littered slope toward the Flint People’s camp. Dropped bows, water bags, weapons belts torn free by desperate hands, and severed body parts lay tumbled across the ground. All around her, people with torches wandered through the blowing smoke, searching faces, clothing, jewelry, trying to recognize bodies. Their expressions were haunted. The shock was just setting in, turning their hands shaky.

Jigonsaseh rubbed her burning eyes.

Before war cries had split the day, it had been a splendid clean morning, filled with the laughter of children dashing across the plaza, and the happy barking of dogs. It was hard to believe that their world had been obliterated in such a short time.

She marched out of the killing field and straight for the sentries who ringed Chief Cord’s camp. Any other chief would have placed his camp in the middle of his warriors, where he’d be better protected, but Cord had been a war chief for most of his life. He preferred to have his back against a small moonlit pond. The water glittered and cast reflections over the faces of the five people seated on logs around his fire. On the far side of the circle, she could see him clearly. Tall and muscular, he had a long pointed nose and piercing brown eyes. He’d seen forty-one summers pass. A black roach of hair ran down the middle of his shaved head. Turtle shell carvings decorated his black cape. The snake tattoos on his cheeks seemed to coil and strike as he spoke.

“Halt!” one of the sentries shouted at her. “Identify yourself.”

He boldly stepped in front of her.

Jigonsaseh tiredly braced her feet. “I am Jigonsaseh, Village Matron of Yellowtail Village, and a friend to Chief Cord. I request a meeting with him, if he is not too tired.”

At the sound of her deep voice, Cord instantly rose and walked toward her, his long legs stretching out, covering the distance in mere heartbeats.

She called, “May I speak with you?”

“Of course. Let her pass, Deputy War Chief,” he ordered.

The sentry leaped to obey, and Jigonsaseh walked to meet Cord. They stood eye-to-eye for what seemed like an eternity.

… reflections off snow dancing over his tattooed face … the strength in his dark eyes enough to convince me we could achieve anything … slim rations eaten at the same fire … his closeness a physical torment …

Cord said, “Will you join me?”

“I would, thank you.”

As she neared the fire, the other warriors rose and bowed to her.

Cord said, “That will be all for tonight. We will reconvene tomorrow morning when War Chief Baji is better.”

Men wandered away, muttering to one another, casting glances over their shoulders at Jigonsaseh.

“Baji is hurt?”

“Nothing dramatic. Her left arm is swollen. A glancing blow from a war club.”

Jigonsaseh relaxed a little. She’d known Baji since she was a girl of barely twelve summers. The tie between them went beyond clans or nations. “Please tell her I am concerned about her.”

“I will.”

Cord gestured to the log where he’d been sitting. “Please, sit. May I dip you a cup of tea?”

“No, but I thank you for the offer.”

She lowered herself to the log, pulled CorpseEye from her belt, and rested him across her lap. Unconsciously her hands smoothed the well-oiled wooden shaft. The club had been in her family for generations, passed from warrior to warrior. He had an ancient presence, like a great old war chief who has seen too much, and longs only to rest until the next battle begins. The carvings on the shaft added to his presence. The antlered wolves seemed to be trotting after the winged tortoises, who were in turn being hunted by prancing buffalo. The red quartzite cobble tied to the club’s head glinted in the firelight. It had two black spots that resembled staring eyes. She had no idea how much blood the club had absorbed over the long summers, but more than she could imagine.

Cord sat beside her, four hands away, and shifted to face her. His black roach glittered with firelight.

She began, “I don’t know what to say to you.”

He smiled. “Then tell me what you think of this strange alliance between the Flint, Hills, and Standing Stone nations. Will it last?”

“It must,” she said firmly. “For all our sakes. I plan to work very hard to assure that it does.”

She looked at the superb snake tattoos in the frame of his oval face and noticed for the first time how deeply the lines cut his forehead. Others ran down his cheeks like careless chisel scratches, broken only by the prominent knife scar that slashed across his square jaw. When she lifted her gaze, his mouth tightened slightly. While she’d been studying his face, his gaze had been locked on her eyes, probably assessing the emotions he saw there.