No one had really slept last night, but those who’d gone to bed at all had arisen many hands of time ago. As had the enemy. Out beyond the plaza, murmuring echoes of unknown forces moved across the hills and the brittle musty scent of old leaves, kicked by thousands of feet, wafted in on the wind.
Kittle was right. Truly panic was an odd choice of words, since Gonda doubted it was possible for them to be more panicked. Thousands of dead bodies lay rotting everywhere they looked. The stench was growing. This was a special kind of panic, however, not the frantic grouse-with-its-head-chopped-off kind. No, this was the sort of panic the end of the world was made from. A certainty felt in the bones. A knowledge that everything a person cherished was about to be taken from him, and there was little he could do about it.
It would be easier if Atotarho would just attack.
Gonda glanced away when two litters emerged from beneath the door curtain of the Deer Clan longhouse. Upon them lay the bodies of those who’d died during the night. Thirty or so mourners followed the litters. Their cries blended eerily with the cynical amusement of the warriors on the catwalks, men and women who could see the enemy surrounding the village, and were preparing for their own deaths the only way they knew how, with morbid jokes.
Gonda turned to the west. Just over the rim of the palisade, Grandmother Moon shone like an oblate silver pendant. Most of the noise came from that direction. Large war parties on the move resembled massive wolf packs. They yipped and growled. The effect was a combination of the clatter of weapons belts, arrows rattling in quivers, laughter, and feet puncturing crusted snow. It made the hair stand up on the back of Gonda’s neck.
As well, the dawn smelled like resin. It was a subtle, but terrifying scent, known to every warrior. Bur Oak Village was virtually helpless, Atotarho’s victory a near certainty. His army was eager for the kill, sweating in anticipation, and the vile stench of their emotions filled the air.
“Gonda,” Kittle called. “Please assist us.”
He lurched forward, covering the distance in two bounds. “Yes, High Matron? How may I help?”
Kittle shoved wind-blown hair away from her dark eyes. “What is your opinion of Atotarho’s intentions? What does he want? What can we give him to convince him to leave in peace?”
Sindak vented a low close-mouthed laugh, and shook his head at the inane notion, which drew a lethal glare from Kittle.
“Would you rather answer first, Sindak?” she asked curtly.
“You already know my opinion, High Matron. I’d rather hear Gonda’s ideas.”
“Then endeavor to hold your tongue.”
Sindak suppressed a grim smile. “Yes, High Matron. My apologies.”
Gonda glanced around the circle. Expressions were hard and unyielding. Sweat beaded the curve of Sindak’s hooked nose. Kittle’s chest rose and fell in swift breaths. Only Jigonsaseh appeared to be in utter control of her senses.
He turned to her. “My former wife, I think there’s only one thing Atotarho really wants. And I suspect you know it, too.”
“Maybe, but tell me anyway.”
“He wants our son.”
Jigonsaseh held his gaze, then nodded. “You mean because of the Human False Face prophecies?”
“Yes. For most of Atotarho’s life, his people believed him to be the prophesied Spirit-Man who would don the cape of clouds at the end of time and save the world. I remember, twelve summers ago, when he told us it had never been an easy title to bear.”
“And now that Sky Messenger’s vision is sweeping up and down the trails, and he sees his own people applying that title to Sky Messenger, he’s desperate to—”
“I’d like to say something,” Kittle broke in. Jigonsaseh gracefully yielded to the High Matron. “If Sky Messenger is the only thing Atotarho really wants, all he has to do is hunt him down and kill him. He doesn’t have to destroy the entire Standing Stone nation. Yet, here he is, massed outside the last bastion of the Standing Stone People, a village filled largely with starving elders and children. Why?”
Sindak waited while Gonda, Jigonsaseh, and Kittle stared at each other, then he said, “Because Sky Messenger isn’t all he wants.” He dipped his head apologetically to Gonda. “I mean no disrespect, Gonda. You are right that Atotarho is obsessed with achieving Sky Messenger’s death, but he wants a lot more than that. He wants to rule all five nations south of Skanodario Lake.”
“Well, that’s never going to happen,” Kittle blustered. “He’s an evil cannibal sorcerer. No one will agree to submit to his rule. He’ll have to enslave us to do it.”