“I understand, Nesi.”
Negano had to concentrate. He needed an explanation. It hadn’t occurred to him that as soon as he set foot in camp, Chief Atotarho would be waiting for him.
“Good,” Nesi said. “Now, before you have to face him, stop and let me pull this accursed arrow out of your quiver. A finger’s width to the left or right, and you’d be back there dying with the rest.”
Twenty-nine
Jigonsaseh slung her bow and turned to Deru where he stood beside her on the catwalk batting out the sparks that alighted on his hair and shoulders. The sweat had mixed with ash and filled in the hollow of his crushed cheek; it created a black oval that extended across his squashed nose. “War Chief? I’ll return shortly. Keep a close eye out. They may return with reinforcements.”
“Yes, Matron.”
As she walked away, Deru began marching up and down, his red cape swinging, praising his warriors, clapping exhausted men and women on the shoulders.
The moans and cries of the wounded that had been carried to the council house drifted through the falling sparks and ash.
Jigonsaseh climbed down to the plaza where the three teams she’d organized waited for her just outside the inner gates. Her stride lengthened as she hurried toward Kittle.
“High Matron,” Jigonsaseh said. “I don’t like it that you are going out there. You should—”
“The scouts you dispatched will warn us if we are in grave danger. Any final instructions?” Kittle’s beautiful face had a haunted expression. She used her sleeve to pound out the flickering sparks that landed on her hood. She must know, and fear, how enraged Atotarho would be when he discovered what they’d done to his army.
“Just work quickly. The enemy could be rallying to return. The mist and smoke make it impossible to know. We need to act now. Tell your party to collect as many usable arrows as you can find. Grab quivers, bows, and any other weapon you can carry.”
Kittle nodded, lifted a hand, and ordered, “Open the gates. We’re going out.” She waved to the women in her group, gesturing for them to follow her.
Jigonsaseh shouldered through the crowd to reach Taya. Her fourteen-summers-old face had gone as pale as frost. She’d been vomiting every morning, and feeling queasy most of the day. Jigonsaseh had no doubts but that Taya carried her son’s child.
“Taya, waste no time. Strip the corpses of belt pouches, packs, and water bags. If you have time, dispatch a small group with the water bags and meet Tutelo in the marsh to fill them. But hurry! Any questions?”
“No, Matron.” Taya gave her a confident nod.
“Good. Be fast.”
Taya called to the elders in her group, “We have to hurry! Our job is only food and water bags! Let’s go.” She led the elders through the gates.
Jigonsaseh turned to Tutelo, who stood ten paces away, talking with her group of fifty children. Each carried an empty pot.
“Tutelo? Are you ready to head to the marsh?”
“We are.” Short black locks, irregularly layered, stuck to her cheeks.
“Go.”
Tutelo and the children flooded for the gates.
When everyone was gone, the village seemed stunningly empty. Jigonsaseh looked around. The warriors on the catwalks had their bows nocked and aimed at the billowing smoke and firelit mist. The fires in Yellowtail Village had died down somewhat, but sudden roars and hisses still erupted at odd moments, and tornados of sparks spun continually into the night sky.
Like black snow cascading from charred heavens, ash fell. It coated everything. She absently brushed at her cape. Then she marched back for the ladder, climbed up to the catwalk, and returned to her position.
Outside, villagers worked in grisly silence, jerking quivers and packs from shoulders, racing across the meadow collecting arrows, rolling corpses over to find belt pouches and water bags. Tutelo’s children in the marsh had already started streaming back through the gates with filled water jars. They lined them up neatly along the walls of the Deer Clan longhouse.
As Jigonsaseh unslung her bow and nocked an arrow, her gaze drifted out across the marsh to the hills in the distance where enemy campfires sparkled. They’d still be picking up the pieces, caring for their wounded, assessing what went wrong. But tomorrow morning …
“Matron?”
Sindak trotted down the catwalk. He carried his bow nocked. “We must talk.”
“I want to know everything.”
“First, did Papon and Wampa make it back?”
“Yes, unharmed.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Next, Gonda is wounded. He—”
“Badly?”
“The small bone in his lower leg is broken.”