People of the Lakes(114)

“Does this have a purpose?”

“Tonight, if we don’t have problems, we should arrive at the Hilltop clan grounds. Great Ring is a very important man. Critical for us, since he knows all the gossip. He can tell us a good deal about what’s happening up the Serpent River.”

“And what is it that you want of me?” Not to cave in some silly fool’s head when he asks me if I’m a warrior?

Otter placed callused hands on his hips, the duck dangling limply. “I thought we might come to some sort of understanding.

Maybe I could do something, change something. Make it easier for you. I know—”

“You could start by stopping this silly chatter. You make as much sense as those ducks back there.” Black Skull made three steps before Otter was at his side.

“What does it take?" the Trader demanded hotly. “Another bolt of lightning? We’ve got a long way to go. It won’t be pleasant if you insist on acting like a big dumb rock!”

Black Skull reacted instinctively. He let the bola drop as his hands flashed out to clamp around Otter’s neck. For a delightful moment, he replayed the image of the Trader killing the duck, enjoying it in his soul. At the last instant, some vestige of restraint stopped him from tightening his grip beyond reprieve.

Under the inexorable pressure, the Trader’s mouth opened, the tongue pushed up. His eyes glazed with a spreading panic as they bulged outward.

“A long way to go?” Black Skull asked evenly. “Then perhaps we should go kick that idiot Green Spider out of his warm blankets and head upriver. What do you say to that, eh, Water Fox?” With that, he shoved the Trader away, leaving him staggering and pale, feeling of his throat with a worried hand.

Black Skull retrieved his bola and bulled forward, fueled by a sense of well-meted justice.

Of course, he shouldn’t blame the Trader. He was every bit as mired in the mud of this insane trip as he. The blame belonged to the fool—and his silly Vision of Many Colored Crow, and Masks, and saving the world.

At that moment, as if they’d heard him, several of the black birds soared over the treetops, cawing and rasping to each other.

The rising sun caught their feathers in a sheen of ebony as they darted artfully through the air. The hoarse sound of beating wings carried on the still morning.

He executed the throw with polished perfection, the arm flexed, shoulders rolling, as he whirled the bola. He extended in a perfect cast, sending the weapon up at an angle, the weighted tips whistling. The birds moved rapidly. One of the toughest targets he’d ever tried.

The lead crow reacted a second too late, seeking to cup the air with its wings while the others slipped and dove. The hesitation was the bird’s undoing. The bola embraced the startled crow in a stranglehold.

Black Skull shielded his eyes with his hand, but the first rays of morning sunlight blinded him as he followed the falling bird down. Blinking in the afterimage, his vision rilled with a ghostly face; his mother’s features were etched by brightness. Did he hear her coarse laughter?

As the bird plummeted to the ground, it let out a curious screech, then disappeared behind the tree line. Black Skull heard its body thud. The vision—tracery of sunlight, or imagination— vanished from his eyes.

No matter. He’d killed his mother with the same disciplined efficiency that he’d killed the crow.

When he broke through the thin belt of oaks, he found Green Spider bolt upright in his blanket. The Contrary had a comical expression on his thin face as he gaped at the shiny, black-feathered mass that had fallen at his feet. The bird had a broken neck, and it seemed to be staring directly into the fool’s eyes..

Otter rushed into camp a moment later, one hand held to his bruised neck.

“Not a bad cast. Don’t you agree?” Black Skull said evenly as he untangled the broken bird from the bola thongs. Some of the futility seemed to have bled off. Not much, but enough to get him through this day.

“Oh, a good cast indeed,” the fool whispered. He turned to stare at Black Skull with eerie, haunted eyes; then he laughed hysterically, tears running down his cheeks.





Seventeen




Star Shell held Silver Water in a crushing embrace, desperate to protect her daughter. Tall Man, like some oversized doll figure, scuttled around the perimeter of the little hut. His undersized feet kept wadding up the crumpled blankets. When he was close enough, he reached out, his stubby fingers plucking up the wolfhide.

He advanced with the cape held before him, the way he would if he were about to net a trapped rabbit.

Star Shell could sense the menace, heavy in the air like greasy smoke. Sweat, despite the cold, had beaded on the Magician’s face, the sheen accenting his turtle-like features.