Kotin eyes Wrass. Wrass glares defiantly at him and braces his hands on the ground to stand.
Kotin says, “You only think you want him. We beat him half to death last night. He’ll throw up all over you.”
“Oh, well …” The giant’s lips pucker. “All right, I’ll take the skeleton.”
I do not move.
“Get up, boy,” Kotin orders.
“No!” Tutelo cries and runs forward. She throws herself at Kotin, slamming her fists into his legs. “Leave my brother alone! Leave him alone!”
“You little wildcat.” Kotin puts a hand on her head and shoves her hard to the ground.
Tutelo starts wailing in a high-pitched voice I’ve never heard before.
“Tutelo!” I cry and leap to my feet to run to her.
But Kotin catches me by the back of the shirt and swings me around and right into the giant’s arms. Kotin smiles. “We’ve been saving him for you, Manidos. He’s fresh. You’ll like him. If you don’t, I’ll refund half the price.”
Manidos crushes my hand in his and drags me away into the forest. My heart is thundering. He’s in a hurry, walking fast, trying to get far away from the camp. I can’t keep up and keep tripping over rocks and roots. Each time, he hauls me to my feet without a word.
Thirty-seven
Gonda trotted in the lead. Ahead, black smoke billowed into the night sky, creating what appeared to be a massive thunderhead that blotted out the campfires of the dead.
The People of the Dawnland called their country Ndakinna, meaning “our land,” and it was a beautiful place, filled with towering tree-covered mountains and rushing rivers. Despite the stench of smoke, red cedars, firs, and black spruces scented the air with sweetness.
He slowed down to trot beside Koracoo. Her short black hair clung to her cheeks, matted by sweat. They’d been running most of the day. “The war party may still be there.”
She nodded. “They will certainly be close by. Be especially careful. We are all so tired we’re shaky and vulnerable.”
Gonda forced his wobbly legs to climb the steep trail and trotted through thick pines. When he reached the crest of the hill, he saw the burning village. The sight was stunning. There had to be over one hundred houses. The pole frames had collapsed into heaps, and flames leaped fifty hands into the air above them. Koracoo stopped beside him. In the firelight, her flushed face looked like pure gold. She didn’t say a word. She just looked out over the horrifying vista.
“Blessed gods,” Gonda said. “I had no idea Bog Willow Village was so big.”
Koracoo took a deep breath and coughed, then rubbed her throat. “A Trader once told me over one thousand people lived here.”
By Standing Stone standards, the Dawnland People had a crude, backward culture. Their houses were partially subterranean pit dwellings made by digging a hole in the ground twenty-five hands long and around twenty wide, then erecting a pole frame over the top and covering the oval structure with bark. They lived in their pit dwellings from fall through spring, but abandoned them in the summer to fish the many lakes and streams and gather plant resources.
“The attack was brutal,” he said softly, and scanned the hundreds of bodies that littered the ground. Crushed baskets, broken pots, and other belongings were strewn everywhere, probably kicked by racing feet.
“To make matters more complicated,” Koracoo said, “there will be survivors roaming the forest, waiting for a chance to kill any enemy warrior they find.”
“Which means us.”
Sindak and Towa stopped beside them, breathing hard, and stared out at the devastation. Sindak’s sharp gaze moved across the village, then out to the blackened spruces that fringed the plaza, and finally westward to the endless blue mountains. “Who attacked them?”
Koracoo answered, “Flint People, probably. They’ve never gotten along with the Dawnland People. Let’s continue on.”
She broke into a trot again, taking the lead.
As they moved closer, the gaudy orange halo swelled to fill the entire sky, and ash fell like black snowflakes, coating their hair and capes.
Gonda said, “This happened just a few hands of time ago.”
They veered wide around the burning houses, passing them from less than fifty paces, close enough to see that most of the bodies lay sprawled facedown, as though they’d been shot in the backs as they’d fled. The coppery tang of blood and torn intestines was redolent on the wind.
Gonda trotted by the last burning house and out onto the main trail that led south. He’d gone no more than two hundred paces when he saw a new orange gleam in the distance.
He slowed down and lifted his arm to point. “If that’s a warriors’ camp, it’s huge.”