People of the Masks(166)
Wren locked her knees. All the thoughts she’d had of home, the warmth of the longhouses, the soft sounds of people moving about in the morning, their laughter, her grandmother’s voice … gone? All gone?
Wren’s head trembled as she nodded. “I will. Help you keep it.”
Elk Ivory put a hand on Wren’s shoulder. “Then I will tell you when to run. When I do, you mustn’t hesitate. I don’t care what’s happening, what you see, or hear. Your duty is to run away as hard and as fast as you can. You understand?”
“Yes.”
Elk Ivory started to walk away.
“Elk Ivory?” Wren called softly, and the warrior looked at her. “Thank you.”
Elk Ivory’s face remained expressionless. “In a few moons, you may not feel such gratitude, Little Wren. The road that lies ahead of you will not be an easy one to walk.”
Wren bowed her head, and rubbed her sore wrists to get the circulation going. “At least I’ll have the chance to walk it.”
Elk Ivory studied Wren a long moment, then slipped her knife from its belt sheath and handed it to Wren, hilt first. “You will if you live through this night.”
Wren took the knife, and gripped it tightly.
Sparrow, crouched between the woodpile and fire, could no longer see Dust, or the lodges in the village. A swimming sea of fog separated him from the rest of the world.
He tossed another log onto the fire. Flames leaped and crackled, and the mist gleamed with an unearthly brilliance. He felt as though the Spirits had spun a glittering cocoon around him, encasing him against his will. He reached down, pulled his stiletto from his belt and tucked it into his coat pocket.
The people hiding in the forest must be feeling the same anxiety. They couldn’t see more than three paces in front of them. When the battle came, it would be invisibles fighting invisibles. Warriors would be afraid to move, lest they snap a twig, and catch the attention of an attacker cloaked in mist. Not even the bravest …
Peent! Peent! The sharp nighthawk’s call rang through the trees.
Sparrow silently rose to his feet. He saw nothing. No one. But he sensed movement in the mist. He slowly turned around in a full circle. A few tree trunks slipped through the fog, then vanished again. Less than one hundred hands away Hungry Owl and several of his people hid behind a snowdrift, but the fog had swallowed them whole.
Peent! Peent!
Sparrow unslung his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver.
Waiting.
Thirty-Five
Jumping Badger walked the trail a step at a time. Waves washed the shore, and water dripped from the trees. A hundred paces ahead, he thought he glimpsed dark branches wavering through the fog. But as the twilight deepened, he couldn’t be sure of anything. They might be ghost legs, running to surround him.
The dead had been waiting for this moment. He had no torch. No light to keep them back. His knees shook.
Behind him, that accursed Rides-the-Bear whispered, “Elk Ivory wanted to attack in the darkness. It looks as if she will get her wish. Unfortunately, we can’t see them any better than they can see us.”
Jumping Badger held up a hand and clenched it to a fist, ordering silence.
He took another step.
Rides-the-Bear, Shield Maker, and the two other warriors moved with him, the sound of their moccasins too faint to be heard from more than three or four paces away.
Out on the lake, a goose honked, a distant, haunting cry, as if the bird called to a lifelong mate who could suddenly no longer answer.
Jumping Badger stopped, slipped his pack from his shoulders, and let it down easy onto the sand. He gestured for his warriors to do the same. In a dangerous situation, the weight of a pack could unbalance a warrior and make his arrow go awry. None of them would take chances tonight. Especially him. He would be fighting for his life against the living and the dead.
His breathing now came in shallow gasps.
The warriors did as he’d instructed, and Jumping Badger continued up the trail.
He knew this village. When they attacked before, he’d memorized the layout and the trails that led into the plaza. Most visitors approached either from the lakeshore, or from the inland trail that ran east from Silent Crow Village. Massive piles of deadfall bordered the village in a number of places on the southern and western margins. They provided excellent hiding places—and the warriors who had been with him on the first attack knew it. Most of their losses had come from people lurking in those intricate hives.
Jumping Badger stopped when the first conical lodge came into view. Four paces across, it stood around twelve hands high at the peak. No smoke curled from the roof.
He walked closer. Two more lodges appeared out of the mist. Both stone-cold.