People of the Fire(147)

"White Calf?"

"Hush!" The old woman had tried to wave it away. "I don't have long. My Power will be with you, girl. Use it well. Just promise me you'll follow the Dreamer. He's coming. I can feel him. Feel him with the edges of my mind. Power's calling."

"I was afraid when I saw the whirlwind."

"Pretty good, eh? Wish I knew if I'd done that ... or if it was just chance. Wish I could see their faces when that fool warrior tells . . . tells ..."

"Easy. Rest easy, White Calf."

"Dreamer's coming. Dreamer ..." And the old woman's eyes had stopped, staring in the glazed look of death as her body sagged in Tanager's arms.

Now she ran, powered by anger, driven by a will to see her darts driven through as many Short Buffalo People as she could find. Not until the last had choked to death on his blood, not until the mountains were rid of their foul feet, would she rest. Nor would she smile again until the sun set on the last of their raven-picked, coyote-ravaged flesh.

"So a Dreamer's coming?" She glared down the trail. "So is death, Short Buffalo People. And I'm bringing it/'

The shouts drifted faintly through the trees. Tanager slowed, catching her breath, moving with the silence of a midnight shadow as she threaded her way through the thick stands of fir. Louder now—she placed their location.

She skirted a meadow, catching a glimpse of men moving across the grass. Before her rose a knob of rock defended by only a few, while a circling band of warriors shouted and shook fists, Dancing to their Power before they cast darts up into the rocks above.

Through the clear air, Never Sweat s voice carried as he stood resolute on the top of the outcrop. "Come and die, Short Buffalo! You may kill us, but we'll chase the souls of your dead on past the Starweb!"

A roar of shouted insults erupted from the surrounding warriors as the attackers launched slivers of death.

Tanager's anger broke loose as she charged heedlessly into the open, sprinting across the grass, a dart already nocked in the balanced atlatl. White Calf's soul seemed to pulse through the spear thrower, throbbing, vibrant. Power ran through her, thrilling her heart as she burst into the midst of the enemy, driving a dart through a man's back as he prepared to cast at the defenders.

From the depths of her enraged soul, Tanager shouted and whirled, close enough to physically drive a dart through another. A song burst from within, echoing the anger and Power of her soul. Spirit took her, possessing her, Dancing her through the darts, making her a whirlwind of death.

As if in a haze, she fought, wheeling, releasing her darts one by one, Singing them into the bodies of her enemies. A man charged, his dart seeming to slip harmlessly past as she plucked the heavy Short Buffalo man's atlatl from her belt and cracked his skull. The rest milled around now, one cast dart missing her by a whisper to drive into another charging warrior.

The Power coursed through her veins, giving her the strength and agility to Dance away from deadly darts and close with her enemy. Her jabs and thrusts seemed to slip by their guard, bringing blood before she skipped lightly away. Pandemonium broke loose as they charged her, unable to cast their deadly missiles lest they impale their friends.

Around and through them, Tanager Danced death, her Song ringing in her ears, drowning their shouts and confusion.

Then the enemy broke, running, scattering as she pursued, aware of Never Sweat and other Red Hand following, plucking up dropped darts to cast at the backs of the Short Buffalo warriors.

Her band pursued, chasing stragglers down the trails and into the maze of timber, where the enemy died one by one. When they ran out of darts, they smacked skulls with their atlatls.

Tanager paused, aware that the last of her victims lay groaning at her feet. She struggled for breath, trembling, as she bent to wrench an angular rock from the resisting ground. She grunted as she lifted it. The man turned, looking up, a low moan breaking his lips as he shook his head, a pleading in his eyes.

The stone cracked bone as she drove it down on his face.

In silence she stood, the forest eerily quiet, not even broken by the chirr of a squirrel. A soft wind began to sigh through the trees as she stared at the dead warrior.

Drained, she turned, lungs laboring, and slowly retraced her way. In the meadow, she stopped to pull darts from the dead, driving the keen points into the hearts of the wounded despite their whimpers and pleas for mercy.

She stood on the thick summer grass, watching Never Sweat's warriors walking out of the trees, laughing, jumping, slapping each other on the back. They went quiet as they approached, staring around at the dead, nervous, awed glances returning to her.

Where she stood over the body of a dead warrior, she reached down, placing her hand in his blood. She met their eyes, one by one, as she straightened, lifting her bloody hand to the sun.