Towa didn’t know.
He backtracked the herringbone trail until it intersected with the dead man’s tracks, and his eyes narrowed. Something strange had happened here. The dead man had started running, first one direction, then another, charging about as though being pursued. But the herringbone sandals hadn’t moved. He’d been standing still.
A cold shiver climbed Towa’s spine.
“Why did you start running? Did you see something that frightened you? Why didn’t the man wearing the sandals run?”
Wind clattered in the branches—a thin rattling that reminded Towa of teeth chattering.
He ran his fingers over the copper breastplate beneath his cape and tried to fathom what had happened here. The dead man had been panicked, taking long strides; he’d clearly been running for his life.
Towa turned to stare at the herringbone sandal prints again … and decided to follow them.
Twenty paces later, he stumbled over a second dead man. Another Flint warrior, or at least he wore the same hairstyle. The first man’s lost friend? Sondakwa? Towa walked closer. He saw no blood. The man hadn’t been shot, or clubbed; he just lay sprawled on his back staring emptily up at the storm clouds that filled the afternoon sky. He looked like he’d just fallen down dead in the trail.
Towa glanced around. Birds and squirrels hopped through the trees, unconcerned, but a deep gnawing sense of dread filled him.
“I have the feeling,” he whispered uneasily as he stared at the herringbone sandal prints, “that now I know what frightened the first man into running. I wish I had more time to track you, my friend.”
But he didn’t.
Towa checked the faint shadows, figured the direction, and broke into a trot, heading for the rendezvous place.
Thirty
Rain fell, misty and cold, from a charcoal-colored dusk sky. Sindak’s cape and war shirt dripped onto his moccasins as he maneuvered around the hickory trunk, trying to remain hidden. He felt like a hunted animal, running for its life with no hope of escape.
Soft steps pattered the trail behind him. At first, he’d thought the sounds were nothing more than splashes of rain hitting the ground, until one of his pursuers stepped on a twig and snapped it. Now he knew better. The stealth with which they stalked him told him they were warriors.
How many?
Doesn’t matter. Even if only one man is following me, he might be the advance scout for an entire war party.”
Sindak looked northward. White pines covered the hilltop where he’d taken refuge, but in the distance he could see giant hickories and beech trees thrusting up through the ground mist. He was less than a half-hand of time from the fork in the trail where he was supposed to meet Towa, Koracoo, and Gonda. It was too late to make a mad dash for them, and he wouldn’t even if he could. No matter what happened, he would not lead the enemy to his friends.
As the steps came closer, he heard murmuring. One voice? Two? He couldn’t be sure. Sindak nervously licked his lips. There wasn’t enough light left to effectively use his bow. If they came at him, he’d have no choice but to start swinging his club and pray.
More murmuring, the voice at once sad and reproving, as if the man were speaking to a wayward child.
Sindak closed his eyes to hear better, and it magnified the shishing of the rain and the faint tapping of the man’s feet on the trail.
More than one man …
The steps of the other two people were almost inaudible. More like wings batting air than moccasins striking earth.
It was almost night. Surely these warriors would return home when they could no longer see.
Sindak didn’t move a muscle, but his gaze drifted northward again.
Towa would just be starting to worry. He’d be staring out into the darkness with a frown on his face, probably cursing Sindak for being late. In another hand of time, Towa would stop cursing. No matter what War Chief Koracoo said, he would trot out into the forest to start looking for Sindak, and maybe run right into the arms of Sindak’s pursuers. Sindak couldn’t let that happen.
He sniffed the rain-scented breeze. It was pine-sharp and cold. Wherever men went, they carried with them the odors of their fires or their sweat, maybe the food they’d spilled on their capes. He didn’t smell any of those things.
In the distance, silver light penetrated the storm clouds and shot leaden streaks across the pine-whiskered mountains. Here and there, orange halos of firelight painted the underbellies of the clouds, marking the locations of villages. The glow to the east was probably Hawk Moth Village, but it could be a large war camp. In all likelihood, the men who followed him were from there, warriors sent out to scout the Flint borders.
Very faintly, a voice called, “Odion?” Then, again, “Odion?”