Wampa’s head turned. Around two hundred enemy warriors stood on the catwalks, talking, joking, ripping off strips of jerky with their teeth. Their conversations drifted through the still night air. Wampa was probably wondering how the thirty arrows in her quiver, plus another thirty in Papon’s, could possibly make a difference.
Gonda continued, “Wampa and Papon, don’t leave the marsh unless you’re forced to. Use the cattails, rushes, and trees as cover when you let fly. As soon as Sindak and I have finished our last duty—if we’re able—we’re going to come boiling back into the marsh, and we’ll all make our way back to Bur Oak Village. Any questions?”
The only sound was the slight rustling of reeds.
“Then let’s go.”
Gonda bent low and began wading through the waist-deep water. Mist swirled by, scalloped here and there with the curls spun off their arm movements as they pushed aside a cattail, pointed to a floating branch, or sleeping bird, or adjusted quivers when they slipped sideways.
Cold, bitter and numbing, ate into Gonda’s feet and legs. He moved around a thick stand of reeds, and waded into the copper-colored portion of the marsh that shone in the firelight streaming from Yellowtail Village. Reflections of tree branches combined with those of the reeds to form a dark filigree upon the water. The effect was stunningly beautiful—perhaps more so because Gonda suspected it might be his last such sight.
Gonda studied the treetops, then pointed out the two sentries high in the branches. Placed as they were, they’d be sure to spot anyone who tried to sneak between the marsh and Yellowtail Village. If it were Negano’s work, it was smartly done.
Gonda hissed, “Wampa, shoot them first.”
“Understood.” She touched Papon’s shoulder, pointed at herself, then the man on the right. Next, she pointed to Papon, and the man on the left. He jerked his head in understanding, and the two began to wade toward their targets.
Gonda’s gaze returned to the Hills’ warriors on the catwalks. One man was gesturing wildly as he told some story. The others around him smiled and nodded, then laughed out loud.
“All right, Sindak.” Gonda gestured to chokecherries masking the shoreline. “I’ll go first.”
Gonda maneuvered through the cattails to the stand of chokecherries. Their smooth gray-brown bark shone with firelight. He ducked down behind them, waiting until Sindak caught up and crouched beside him.
Gonda looked at him. In the reflected light, patterned by cattails, Sindak’s lean face might have been carved of stone, but the lines around his deeply sunken eyes had gone tight. The War Chief’s gaze methodically studied the palisade, noting faces, probably saying names in his head. Was he remembering moments of laughter with these men and women? Perhaps times when he’d saved their lives? Or they, his?
Gonda asked, “The jokester and the three men beside him, who are they?”
“The jokester, on the far right, is War Chief Joondoh of Turtleback Village. He’s short, so he makes up for it by being loud. The tall thin man beside him is Oswego, one of his deputy war chiefs. The other two warriors are from Atotarho Village.” A barely audible tightness entered his voice: “Lonkol and Tadu.”
Gonda was watching Sindak very closely. “Tell me about them.”
Sindak shrugged as though there wasn’t much to tell. “Both are good warriors.”
“Married?”
“Yes.”
“What are their wives names?”
Sindak shot Gonda a look that seemed to see straight through to Gonda’s souls. “Osto and Tawisa.” He hesitated. “Why?”
“I’m just wondering how you can kill them.”
Sindak frowned. “Now is a fine time to ask.”
“I thought I’d wait until you could see their faces.”
“Their faces? You thought … What? That I’d crumble when I saw them?”
Gonda exhaled hard. “I suspect some of these warriors are lifelong friends, men and women who have guarded your back in a hundred battles. Some may have saved your life, and you are about to repay them by killing them.” Gonda paused to study Sindak’s stony features. “I’m not sure I could kill my friends and relatives.”
Sindak didn’t respond. He was staring at the people on the catwalk. The longer he looked, the harder the set of his mouth became.
Wind Woman’s gentle daughter, Gaha, swept the surface of the pond, turning it into a sea of golden glitter, broken here and there by swaying cattails. The scent of the oak fires kindled in Yellowtail Village wafted over them.
“Jigonsaseh says you were such a beloved war chief that your people will hesitate to kill you if they see you. I, on the other hand, think the reverse is probably more likely true.”