People of the Masks(13)

She had given both her souls to the Paint Rock Clan.

And she had suffered so much at their hands.

Many winters ago Briar had told him that her son protected Paint Rock Village. It seemed true. After the dwarf boy’s birth they had triumphed, winning not just battles, but ball games, running matches, spear-throwing contests. Lamedeer had believed with every sinew in his body. Perhaps because he’d so desperately needed to.

Silver Sparrow had tried to shatter that belief, and Lamedeer had treated the old man like a child.

Crowfire jerked suddenly. “Did you hear that?”

Lamedeer stiffened as Jumping Badger called, “Nock your bows!”

We are not really here, Lamedeer longed to tell his people. We are on a hunt. It’s autumn and the trembling leaves are crimson and gold. Deer are bounding through the forest before us … . The sweet scent of roasting venison rose so clearly in his souls that for an instant he thought he truly smelled it.

“Make ready!” Jumping Badger shouted.

The words leaped from man to man, echoing back and forth across the valley.

It had taken five winters, but Jumping Badger had finally trapped Lamedeer. He must be light-headed with joy, slapping his warriors on the backs, promising them great honor if they succeeded today.

The shadows filtered through the trees and coalesced into a black line at the periphery of the meadow.

Lamedeer straightened, and grains of sand cascaded from his blood-stiff war shirt, playing a soft serenade on the cave floor.

“They’re coming,” he said.

Breathed words slipped through the darkness. Longhorn said, “I have no arrows. I didn’t wish to tell you. I used them last night.”

Eyes glinted as people turned toward her.

“You will have plenty of arrows soon enough, Longhorn,” he told the young woman. “They will be shooting uphill. Many of their arrows will sail over our heads and strike the rear and ceiling of the cave. We will collect them and use them against the Walksalongs.”

Dark shapes collided in the back of the cave, people struggling to their feet, or dragging wounded limbs across the floor searching for a safer place. Muffled moans and gasps rose. Lamedeer saw a hand moving spiderlike in the darkness, reaching for a bow.

“Kingfisher, Sapling,” he called, “stand with Blackstone and me.” He searched the remaining faces. “Sorrel, be prepared to take the place of the first man that falls. Willow, I know your leg is injured, but you must rise after him. Understand?”

Heads nodded.

The wounded man started panting again, like a dying beast running for its life. An arm detached from the shadows along the rear wall, and the man’s hand fell limply to clutch at his belly. A muffled groan replaced the panting. Yarrow. He was barely a man. Fifteen winters. Lamedeer clutched his bow more tightly.

Blackstone, Kingfisher, and Sapling lined up in the entry. The quivers over their right shoulders carried two or three arrows. Lamedeer had one left. He nocked it and turned to stand with his men.

From the edge of his vision, he saw Yarrow’s twin brother, Walking Teal, crawl across the floor and slump down beside Crowfire. The youth must have stood witness to his brother’s draining strength, and intensifying pain, all night long. He looked terrified. Crowfire wrapped his arm around Walking Teal’s shoulders, and hugged him.

“Look,” Blackstone whispered.

Lamedeer swung around.

Like an oncoming wave, the Walksalongs rushed across the valley, their arrows gleaming in the slanting sunlight. They leaped the creek and raced for the cliff. When they started up the slope, the taste of victory turned their war cries shrill.

“Remember,” Lamedeer said in a strong voice, “they must climb the slope to get to us. Do not waste arrows on questionable targets. Let them come close. When you are sure of striking the enemy, then, and only then, should you fire.”

A flock of arrows arced through the golden morning.

“Fall to your knees!” he ordered, and watched his archers smoothly drop.

Arrows shot into the cave, clattering against the ceiling. Curses rang out as stone chips flew.

Near the creek, Jumping Badger stood with his arms folded, studying the progress of his warriors. Handsome and arrogant, he had a reputation for brutality. Villages for a moon’s walk spoke of the grisly acts he’d committed. Though his hide shirt and pants were grimy with blood and dirt, he had greased his hair into a tight bun for this occasion. It gleamed with a blue-black fire.

As they came on, five warriors fanned out, taking the lead. Lamedeer gripped his bow and forced himself to wait. Wait! Sweat ran coldly down his chest.

“They are going to rush us!” Blackstone warned.

Arrows rattled from the cliff, and tumbled end over end when they hit the ground, bouncing from the rocks.