People of the Lightning(186)

Musselwhite continued on, but her heart thundered. She had no help here. No one to …

“You are still bold, Musselwhite.”

She whirled and for a brief instant her eyes met Cottonmouth’s, then she saw warriors emerging from hiding places in the brush. They converged upon her from several directions, loping in like hungry wolves.

Musselwhite let out a shrill war cry, twisted sideways, and slammed her elbow into the face of the first man who dared to reach for her. When he cried out and stumbled, she leveled a deadly punch to his throat, and ran for her life—straight into the chaos of the village. People tripped over each other trying to get out of her way, shoving back, and a great dreadful roar rose. Gasps and shouts increased in volume until they drowned out every other sound.

She swerved around the central bonfire, her long legs pumping, hair flying, and headed for the beach. If she could just make it into the water, she might be able to …

“Musselwhite! No! Not that way! There are too many guards! You must …”

Diver’s scream shredded her soul. She glimpsed him on his knees in the council shelter, his face twisted in horror … just as she raced headlong into the six armed warriors he had been trying to warn her about. They spread out along the shore before her, looking terrified.

Ripping her stiletto from her belt, she leaped on the closest man, plunged the weapon into his heart and threw his body into the path of her pursuers before she sprinted on. A warrior tripped over his friend, yelled in indignation, and fell. The others jumped over him, shrieking war cries as they pounded after her.

Diver let out an incoherent shout. She jerked to peer over her shoulder, her heart throbbing, and saw three guards leap on him. Despite his bindings, he’d managed to get to his feet and had made it several paces beyond the council shelter before they’d brought him down. He slammed out at them with his bound fists.

Blessed Sun Mother, if only—

A warrior struck Musselwhite from behind. His powerful arms went around her waist, and the force of his attack knocked her to the ground. She screamed in rage as the other guards fell upon her like dogs, grabbing her arms and legs, handfuls of her hair, anything they could hold on to.

Spectators rushed forward, closing in around them, bellowing questions, gasping at the sight of Musselwhite, and craning their necks to get a better view.

Musselwhite wrenched her head sideways, and saw, as if from one of her nightmares, a tall slender man coming through the press of onlookers. A breathless hush fell as people shoved each other aside to make a path for him. The grace of his movements, the sight of his handsome face, struck her like physical blows.

Cottonmouth knelt at her side. He did not say a word. His intent gaze slowly went over her, as if comparing every detail of her face and body with his memory. A strange haunted light grew in his dark eyes.

Softly, he ordered, “Bring her to my shelter.”





Dace edged forward, quiet as Mouse, placing his feet with great care so that he didn’t snap any twigs or frighten a night animal that would scurry away and draw attention to him. He lifted his dart and nocked his atlatl, concentrating on the voices that echoed from the clearing ahead. Loud. Angry. Diamondback had heard them first, and suggested they all separate and surround the clearing. As Dace sneaked toward a dense tangle of vines, the meadow came into view, and he glimpsed a white face … ghostly white.

No. Oh, no.

His heart rose into his throat. At the sound of muted sobs, he fought to restrain himself from charging forward.

Pondwader knelt in the grass, tears drenching his face. Four warriors stood around him, feet braced, stilettos up. They looked scared to death.

“I don’t believe it!” a warrior said. Not much older than Dace, he wore a headband to keep his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. “Cottonmouth told us the Lightning Boy would be here, but I never—”

“Shut up, Wasp,” the tall skinny man next to him growled. “Gullwing, you and Cloudfish tie his hands. Wasp and I will search his two packs; then we will take him back.”

“Yes, Woodduck.”

The two warriors who had to be Gullwing and Cloudfish jerked Pondwader’s hands up and began tying them securely with cordage. About the same age, two-tens-and-two or -three summers, both had cut their hair at chin length, but Gullwing was a much more powerful man, broad in the shoulders with long muscular legs. Cloudfish was slight by comparison, with a moony face and flat nose. Pondwader put up no fight. He just bit his lip and yielded.

Dace got on his knees and crept closer, halting behind a thorny bramble of rose bushes. Red fruits covered the stalks and scented the air with sweetness. From this angle, he had a better view of Pondwader. His friend sat unmoving, his expression one of cold defeat, as if he’d lost everything in the world that mattered to him. Dace frowned. He had seen that look on Pondwader’s face once before—the day Pondwader’s grandfather died. The old man had raised Pondwader, been more than his father, and the loss had left his souls floundering.