People of the Lightning(118)

They had been on the trail since long before dawn this morning, and exhaustion weighted Pondwader like a cape of stone. His body ached for sleep and food. Worse, guilt ate him. He was slowing her down, and she continually let him know it—a sharp glance, an irritated wave of her hand, a deep-throated growl when he stumbled or stopped to dip up a handful of water. But he understood. She had to reach Standing Hollow Horn Village in time to save Diver. Which meant she had to get there quickly. Of course Pondwader’s presence upset her. He couldn’t walk more than three paces without tripping over the hem of his robe. Though he had been trying so very hard … .

As he leaned back against the muddy wall, the familiar ache began, like tens of thorns pricking his calves. He grimaced and rubbed his legs.

“Blessed Spirits, I’m tired,” he murmured to himself.

The baby Lightning Bird made a new sound now, not the old rumbles and roars. Pondwader couldn’t quite define it, but it resembled the high-pitched crackle of lightning flashing right overhead, except that the crackle whispered to him—almost words—but no matter how hard he concentrated, he could not understand. And with every crackle, Pondwader sensed something crawling in his veins, like … like swarms of tiny biting ants.

Above him, to his left, Pondwader heard the splashing of turtles as they dove into the shallow stream, followed by a sparrow’s indignant chirp.

He stopped breathing.

He listened.

What had frightened the animals? It might have been anything. The shadow of a passing hawk, an alligator …

Something groaned.

The first time he heard it, he told himself it could not be a heavy foot placed hastily in the deadfall.

The second time, he decided it had to be wind in the trees, and squinted at the swaying branches.

The third time, he sank into his hole, panting.

“Lightning Boy?”

Pondwader’s insides shriveled. He did not recognize that hushed voice.

Another groan, closer.

Sweat soaked the robe beneath Pondwader’s arms, and beaded on his pointed nose. He’d started breathing like a hunted fox.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man said. “I heard you talking to yourself, and came to see you. You can come out.”

If he had been able to, Pondwader would have turned himself into dirt and melted into the ground. The panicked urge to run filled him. He silently squirmed into a crouch, preparing to bolt.

“Come out!” the man ordered, still in a hoarse whisper. “If you don’t stand up, by the Shining People, I’ll—”

“All right,” Pondwader answered. “D-don’t hurt me!”

It took a few moments to convince his shaking legs to hold him, but when he’d done it, he slowly rose to his feet. Just as his eyes cleared the hole, he saw the warrior, crouching much closer than Pondwader had expected, a stiletto in his left hand. His right arm had been injured. Filthy, blood-encrusted rags wrapped the wound. The man’s eyes widened when he saw Pondwader. He stood up.

“Please!” Pondwader pleaded. “Don’t—”

At the sound of Pondwader’s voice, the forest seemed to explode. Musselwhite lunged from the trees, her atlatl raised.

“No!” the unknown man cried and dove, trying to escape as she cast her dart, but it caught him low in the back, flinging him to the ground with a dull thud. Blood splashed the trunk of the pine beside him. The man managed to grab onto the tree and pull himself to his knees, shuddering, his stiletto up to defend himself. Musselwhite stealthily approached him, another dart nocked in her atlatl.

Pondwader stood staring, stunned. The entire battle had lasted only a few instants, barely enough for him to grasp what was happening. Musselwhite knelt beside the wounded man, and Pondwader saw a blot move behind her. The scream tore from his throat as he scrambled out of his hole, “Musselwhite!”

She pivoted, but too late. The warclub slammed into her skull, and she sprawled across the ground, then struggled to get on her knees, but her strength failed. She wilted, her tall slender body falling into the brittle autumn leaves.

Her attacker threw his head back and shrieked a hideous war cry, then laughed joyously. “I killed Musselwhite! The great Musselwhite! People will Sing my honor for tens of summers!”

“No!” Pondwader shouted as he ran. “She’s not dead! My wife can’t be dead!”

The man gripped his warclub in both hands, smiling. He stood about the same height as Pondwader, but his shoulders spread twice as wide, and rippled with muscle. Without taking his eyes from Pondwader, he asked the wounded man, “How badly are you hurt, Batfish?”

“Bad,” the man croaked as he struggled to sit up. “I can’t feel my legs! My legs are numb! Give me a hand, Spotted Paw. Help me up!”