People of the Longhouse(100)
Breathing hard, she clenched her jaw. She couldn’t take her gaze from the scrubby ashes. Then, for a brief instant, the glimmer became two fiery eyes, and the hair on her arms stood on end. She could feel him turn to look at her. He seemed to materialize out of nothingness—a shape, blacker than the background sky, tall, wearing a long cape. His hood buffeted in the wind.
Then he was gone.
Gannajero lifted a hand to clutch her constricted throat. “We’re heading south immediately, Kotin. Gather the slaves. Collect our payments.”
“South?” Kotin said. “Into the lands of the People Who Separated? But we’ve never—”
“That’s why we’re going there! No one knows us. Find a Trader. Buy us two canoes, and let’s be on our way.”
Kotin shrank back from her anger. “Shall I hunt for the missing girls and Hehaka first, or—”
“I said we’re heading south now. Forget them!”
“All right. I understand. I’ll get things organized. But none of us have eaten, Lupan. We’ve been so busy trading—”
“That’s true.” Waswan nodded. He was sapling thin and looked half-starved. He held Hawk-Face’s sleeve. “I’m hungry.”
“The stew pot at our campfire is full. Feed the men quickly!”
Kotin backed away from her with his hands up. “Right away, Lupan. Come on, Waswan. You can help me collect our last payments; then we’ll eat, and leave.”
They trotted into the center of the camp, calling orders, assembling the new men she’d hired. Most trotted for the pot to eat, while Kotin and Waswan worked through the camp, collecting payments, dragging Hawk-Face with them. The boy was a nuisance. He kept tripping, sliding his feet, falling on the ground—anything to slow them down. Waswan ended up clubbing the boy in the head to make him stop.
Gannajero stared at the northern hill again, and an unearthly fear gripped her. She couldn’t seem to get her feet to move. In the dark spaces between her souls, she heard him laugh.
“Don’t witch me, Child!” she snarled through gritted teeth. “That’s why I left you for the wolves. I did everything I could for you, and you betrayed me!”
The faint laughter continued, rising up from the darkness that lived and breathed deep inside her.
Her slitted gaze tracked across the camp, staring at the firelit faces of hundreds of warriors. Then she trudged to her own campfire and began arranging her packs.
Four of her newly hired men were gobbling down spoonfuls of stew as fast as they could, joking between bites. Two others were digging in their packs for their cups. Three of the men were Flint warriors; two were Mountain people—including War Chief Manidos, who was a real catch; and one was a young warrior from Atotarho Village. All were slit-eyed thieves with no honor at all, loyal only to themselves and the acquisition of wealth. Perfect.
Gannajero knelt to tie three packs together and saw Kotin and Waswan shouldering through the camp, dragging the roped children behind them. Whimpers and coughs filtered down the line. The last child, Hawk-Face, kept stumbling to the side to vomit. How hard had Waswan hit him? She wasn’t sure he was going to survive the night—and if he did, tomorrow he’d wish he hadn’t. The boy staggered along with his head down and his eyes narrowed in pain. Chipmunk Teeth—just ahead of him in line—kept speaking softly to him, but Hawk-Face never replied. He looked sick to death.
Kotin stopped in front of her. “We bought two canoes. They’ll be waiting for us at the river landing.”
“Good.” Gannajero rose to her feet and growled, “Fill your bellies and let’s go. We’re done here.”
“Yes, Lupan. We should—” Kotin halted abruptly and stared at the men.
She followed his gaze. Two warriors stood over the stew pot with their empty cups in their hands. Obviously they’d been just about to fill them when their gazes had been drawn to War Chief Manidos.
Manidos grimaced suddenly, then grabbed for his belly. “I don’t feel … very …” He walked unsteadily to the side and started retching violently.
“What’s the matter with him?” Kotin asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he—”
Another warrior stepped away from the fire, bent double, and vomited.
In less than three hundred heartbeats, all of the men who’d eaten from the pot were on their knees or writhing on the ground. Manidos had both hands around his throat, clutching it as though to strangle himself. His face had gone blue.
Gannajero swallowed hard and backed away. Kotin and Waswan retreated with her, dragging the children behind them.