Koracoo ducked the blow intended to crush her skull, and danced back. As she lifted CorpseEye again, the man shrieked a war cry and charged. She spun in low, cracking him across the kneecap. He staggered. Koracoo twirled and broke his right arm. Galan’s war club dropped to the ground, but he didn’t give up.
He shouted, “Gannajero will avenge my death!” and lunged for her, one hand shooting for her throat.
She didn’t dodge fast enough. He body-slammed her to the ground and got his hand around her windpipe. As he squeezed, he said, “Does she have your children, bitch?”
Gasping for breath, Koracoo dropped CorpseEye, pulled a stiletto from her belt, and stabbed him repeatedly in the side and back. All the while, he howled and kept the pressure on her throat, strangling her.
Sindak and Towa raced toward her. Sindak cried, “Make sure the big man is dead! I’ll take care of the other one.”
Sindak clubbed Galan in the head and pulled him off Koracoo.
Koracoo sat up, rubbing her injured throat.
Blood poured from Galan’s head wound, but he managed to smile at Sindak. Sindak lifted his war club to kill him.
“No!” Koracoo shouted hoarsely. “Don’t kill him, Sindak!”
Sindak whirled to stare at her in confusion, and she said, “They were … Gannajero’s scouts … . Make him … tell you … the meeting place.”
Sindak’s eyes flared. “Where are you supposed to meet Gannajero tonight, you piece of filth?”
Gonda ran by her, heading straight for the dying warrior, and fell to the ground at his side. He shouted in Galan’s face, “Tell us! You have nothing to lose now! Tell me and I’ll make sure your family knows where your body is!”
Blood poured down Galan’s face. He stared up at Gonda as though he couldn’t quite see him. “Too late,” he said. “You’re … too late.”
“Too late for what?”
Galan chuckled. “Children … all dead.”
Gonda seemed to go weak. He straightened for a few instants; then he balled his fist and slammed it into Galan’s face, shouting, “Liar! You’re lying! Tell me you’re lying!” Gonda kept hitting him.
Sindak didn’t seem to know what to do. He stepped away, then glanced uneasily at Towa and Koracoo.
Koracoo got to her feet and, holding her throat, staggered toward Gonda. The dead warrior’s face was bloody pulp, and Gonda was still slamming his fists into his face. She put a hand on Gonda’s shoulder. “Stop. Gonda … stop! If we hurry, we should b-be able to track them right back to her camp.”
Gonda swung around to look at her; then his gaze shifted to the clear tracks they’d left in the frost. “Blessed Spirits. Sindak? Towa? Take their weapons and their packs. We’re leaving immediately!”
Sindak and Towa obeyed, ripping the men’s packs from their shoulders and emptying their quivers.
Koracoo mustered her strength and walked over to pick up CorpseEye. After she tied the club to her belt, she wiped her sweating face on her cape. Her throat ached.
“Sindak,” she ordered, “take the lead. If the trail forks, Gonda and I will follow one path; you and Towa will follow the other.”
“Yes, Koracoo.”
Sindak took off at a slow lope with Towa behind him.
She started to follow, but Gonda said, “Koracoo?” She turned.
“Forgive me.” He unthinkingly threw his arms around her in a hard embrace, as he’d done a hundred times. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was almost too late.”
Somewhere deep inside her she heard Odion cry out, “Mother!” and she went rigid in Gonda’s arms. He seemed to understand. Slowly, reluctantly, he released her and moved back.
They stared at each other. In Gonda’s eyes, she saw barely endurable pain, and enough guilt to smother a nation. From the excruciating expression on his face, he must see in her eyes exactly what she was feeling: nothing. There was only emptiness in her heart. It wasn’t natural. It was monstrous, and he did not understand it.
“Koracoo?” he said barely above a whisper. “Are you all right?”
“The frost is melting quickly, Gonda.” She held a hand out to the trail. “Please, hurry.”
Thirty-six
Odion
Ash from the burning longhouses floats through the air like black snowflakes.
I shove food into my mouth as fast as I can. We sit on the shore of a river lined by white cedars and scrubby bladdernut trees. I’ve heard the warriors call it Quill River. The water is covered with ash and reflects the lurid light of dozens of campfires. There must be three or four hundred men here. For the first time ever, Gannajero gave us each a wooden bowl heaped with food: roasted dog meat, freshwater clams and mussels, boiled corn gruel, squash, and dried plums. She must have Traded for it. Every warrior here swaggers around with a stuffed pack, smiling. More than a dozen games are in progress. Shouts and jeers fill the night. And there are many new children. Too many to count. Gannajero walks through them, selecting the ones she will keep. I try not to look. To feel.