Wrass, and three children he did not know, rode in the second canoe. Four warriors dipped their paddles and drove their canoe forward. They were moving swiftly, heading south into the lands of the People Who Separated, a group of rebels who’d broken away from the People of the Dawnland many summers before. The banks were thick with dark green holly. Just beyond them, leafless birches and elms grew. They cast cool, wavering shadows across the leaden river.
Wrass repositioned his hot cheek on the gunwale. His headache caused tears to constantly leak from his eyes and silently fall into the river. Before Gannajero had separated them, Zateri had thrust strips of birch bark into his hands and told him to chew them. They’d helped a little. When he could keep them down long enough. He’d thrown up so often his throat was raw and swollen. And he kept having blackouts—long periods where he couldn’t remember anything.
A warrior waddled down the canoe, making it rock from side to side. Water sloshed, and whitecaps bobbed away. The man knelt beside Wrass. “You let them catch you, didn’t you?” he hissed. “To distract them from hunting the other children? You’re a stupid boy. You could be halfway home by now.”
It took a gigantic amount of strength to lift his eyes to the man. “Who are you?”
The stars’ gleam cast a pewter glow over the warrior’s pudgy, florid face. He’d taken off every ornament and piece of clothing that would have identified his clan or People, and wore a plain elkhide cape and black leggings. Wrass tried to focus on him, but he was blurry, his face striped with the dark shadows of the passing trees.
“Gannajero says if you’re not better by the time we make camp tonight, I have to kill you.” He sounded unhappy about it.
A smile touched Wrass’ lips. “That must be hard … for a coward like you.”
The warrior brutally punched Wrass in the belly, and he scrambled forward to hold his head over the gunwale and vomit into the river. Nothing came up, but he couldn’t stop gagging.
“Just wait, boy. If you think it’s bad now, when I tell Gann—”
“Akio!” Kotin called. “You lazy fool, what are you doing? Get back to your paddle.”
The fat warrior glanced at Kotin, then leaned over Wrass and growled, “I know you were the one who poisoned the stew, boy. I saw you by the pot. I’ve just been waiting to tell Gannajero.” He tramped away and picked up his paddle again.
The wrenching convulsions continued until the edges of his vision started to go gray and fluttery … and Wrass … he … he was …
Vaguely, he felt his body sink into the canoe, and knew his head rested on soft packs.
Forty-eight
Later that night, just before Koracoo was supposed to wake Sindak to take over her sentry position, Gonda filled his lungs with the damp smoky air and walked in her direction.
As frost settled over the clearing, the fallen plums resembled a field of small white river rocks. He tiptoed around the fire, which had burned down to a glistening bed of coals, trying not to wake anyone. Koracoo watched his approach with worried eyes. Every twig on the bare branches behind her was tipped in silver.
Gonda stopped a pace away and gripped his war club in both hands, holding it in front of him like the locking plank of a door that should never be opened.
“What is it, Gonda?”
His hands hardened to fists. “Please, just listen. Don’t say anything.”
She spread her feet, preparing herself.
When he began, his voice was low and deep. “You’d sent Coter and Hagnon out to scout that morning. They came back at dusk. Coter was wounded. Hagnon dragged him through the front gate and told me that the attacking warriors had let him through. They thought it was all a big joke … because it didn’t matter what they told me.” Her eyes narrowed, and he looked away. He couldn’t bear to see the cold, impenetrable wall go up. He plunged on. “Hagnon told me he suspected there were at least one thousand warriors—”
She shifted to reposition her feet.
“—spread out through the forest, aligned for waves of attacks. I kept going to our elders, begging them to let me create some kind of diversion that would allow a few of our old people and children to escape, but they refused. They told me to keep fighting.”
He expelled a breath. He dared not look at her now—not until he’d finished. “Two hands of time later the palisade was on fire in fifty places, riddled with holes; enemy warriors were crawling in, swarming all over like rats in a corn bin. I ran through the longhouses, gathered all the children and elders who were still able to run, and led them outside with one hundred warriors at my back. We—we fought hard, Koracoo.” His voice was shaking. “Gods, it was terrible. But … some … a few … escaped.”