People of the Longhouse(58)
“Come on,” she hissed. “Wake up. Wake up, blast you.”
By now, the Yellowtail Village survivors would have arrived at Bur Oak Village, and rumors would be running wild. They’d blame her for the attack. They’d say that if she’d left Deputy Deru in charge, instead of assigning Gonda, their families would be alive—which was probably true. They’d say she’d depended upon the wrong man, that she’d favored him because he was her husband, and it had cost them everything … . Or they’d say she should have never left on the scouting mission the morning of the attack.
She looked at Sindak, Towa, and Gonda. When the fight came, could she depend upon any of them? The only person she was absolutely certain she could depend upon was herself, which meant she would have to be the linchpin of any plan. What would happen if she fell? Which of them would take over and rescue the children?
For twelve summers, she had known the answer to that question. The fact that she no longer did terrified her. Memories were her greatest enemy. One, from three summers ago, kept replaying over and over. It always started the same way. She saw the forest fire reflected in Gonda’s eyes. The rest of their war party had been killed during the first day of fighting. She and Gonda had been running through the burning trees for four days, trying to find a safe way home—but Flint warriors had cornered them in a narrow rocky canyon. When Koracoo had fled there, she hadn’t noticed that it dead-ended twenty paces back. They’d scrambled behind a tumbled pile of boulders, and the victory cries of the Flint warriors had been deafening … .
“How many are out there?” Gonda had asked as he’d checked the arrows in his quiver. Sweat matted his black hair to his round face, making his nose seem longer.
“I’d guess fifteen or twenty.”
“I hate to tell you this, but that’s fourteen more than I have arrows for.”
“And fifteen more than I have.” She’d pulled CorpseEye from her belt.
As the warriors clambered through the rocks around them, Gonda had given her a grin. “I’ve heard the elders talking. You’re going to be war chief someday soon. Surely the future war chief of Yellowtail Village can figure a way out of this trap.”
Koracoo had laughed. He’d always done that to her—made her laugh in the most dire of circumstances. Five arrows simultaneously battered the rocks around them, showering them with rock chips. They’d both hit the ground and covered their heads.
When she’d dared to look up, she said, “Absolutely. Are you ready?”
He’d given her a surprised look. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to climb out of here and start bashing out the brains of any warrior who leaps up to face me.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very sound strategy to me. There are a lot of arrows flying out there.”
“Would you rather wait here? They’ll be coming soon.”
He’d rolled to his hands and knees. “No, I wouldn’t. But before we die, I want you to know that you are everything to me. If we die here—”
“Stop being sentimental. Tell me tomorrow.” She’d jumped up and started swinging CorpseEye.
He’d been right behind her … .
Koracoo forced the memory away, but not before an incapacitating ache filled her chest.
As though he knew, Gonda whimpered.
Koracoo listened, her heart pounding. He was not a coward, or stupid. But by disobeying her, he had broken her heart and betrayed her trust. She vacillated between longing to beat him to death with her bare fists, and bury her face against his chest and weep until she had no tears left.
For days, she’d secretly endured the same fear that lived in his eyes—the fear that they would never find their children, or that Odion, Tutelo, and Wrass were injured, or being tortured. Worst of all was the knowledge that their children were lying awake at night, praying that she and Gonda were on their trail coming to save them.
Even worse, even worse, every time Gonda looked at her, his eyes were reverent with faith in her. And she understood perfectly. Gonda believed that Koracoo would save their children.
As the knot in her belly tightened, she quietly rose and went to stand beside Sindak. He kept his gaze on the trail. She guessed his age at eighteen or nineteen summers. His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the starlight, and his lean face reminded her of an eagle’s, beaked, with sharp brown eyes.
Without looking at her, he said, “My watch is not over. You have another hand of time to sleep, War Chief.”
Koracoo studied the faint crystalline haze that filled the air. Amid the swaying branches, elusive winks of stars flashed. “At dawn, we will go back and take the left fork in the trail.”