People of the Masks(170)

Jumping Badger’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d heard Sparrow’s thoughts. Panting, he gestured with the bloody stiletto. “Rides-the-Bear … bandage his throat … I want him alive.”

“If you want him to live, let me do it!” Dust cried. “I’m a Healer. Let me take care of him!”

Jumping Badger glared at her, then waved to the men who held her. “Let her do it.”

He turned, and tramped down the trail that led to the lakeshore, vanishing into the swirling fog.

Dust dropped on her knees at Sparrow’s side, and pressed the heels of her hands over the wound above his coat collar. As she looked up, fear tightened her eyes, but she whispered, “These are bad, but not lethal. Hold still.”

She removed the heels of her hands from the first wound and jammed them down hard against the side of his throat. Blood from her fingers spattered his face.

Sparrow closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on breathing. He heard someone retching, followed by a groan. Then voices closed in around the village.

He opened his eyes to see Gull, Hungry Owl, and six other members of Sleeping Mist Clan being herded into the village at arrow point. Hungry Owl had his chin high, but Gull walked like a man going to his own execution—which was very probably true. Walksalong warriors converged from all sides, forcing the eight captives into the center of the plaza.

Sparrow silently counted the numbers of the enemy. Twelve warriors, including Jumping Badger. Where were the others? Dead? Wounded? Or still out in the forest?

Dust ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of her dress and wrapped it around Sparrow’s throat. “Can you breathe?”

He nodded, glanced at the two warriors standing close by, and mouthed the word, “Rumbler?”

Only Dust’s eyes moved. They slid to the berry bramble, and came back.

Gods, Rumbler must be huddling in terror. That’s why Dust had run. To draw the warriors away from the boy’s hiding place.

Sparrow weakly reached up and clasped her forearm. She looked down into his eyes.

He murmured, “Will he stay?”

She glanced at the warriors, and shook her head, indicating she didn’t know.

A cold gust of wind blew up from the lake, shredding the mist and tumbling it over Sparrow’s head.

They would not truly lose until Rumbler came out, or the Walksalongs found him.

Either would mean death for all of them.

Sparrow exhaled wearily. He had no particular fear of death. He had been looking death in the eye for a long time. Most people did. They just didn’t realize it. Death was the mirror that people held up to their faces every day. It reminded them of what they really faced, and how little time they had to appreciate it.

Tonight, finally, he fully appreciated it. He only wished he’d—

A wrenching scream split the darkness, coming from down near the lakeshore. Jumping Badger shouted, “Hold still, or I’ll kill you!”

The wind picked up, gusting over Sparrow’s hot body, and tousling his white hair. He took a deep breath. The scents of damp earth and wood smoke thankfully overpowered the smells of blood and death.

“Oh, Spirits, no,” Dust whispered.

Sparrow turned his head, looking down the trail to the shore.

Jumping Badger marched from the mist with several packs slung over his shoulder, and his fist twined in the dark blue fabric of Little Wren’s shirt.





Thirty-Six



As Jumping Badger dragged Little Wren into the village, he dropped the packs on the ground, and shouted, “Elk Ivory! Elk Ivory, where are you?”

Wren kicked and slammed her fists into his stomach and legs, but Jumping Badger barely felt it. Euphoria fired his veins. He had beaten the ghosts! He lived, and they had vanished into nothingness! He held tight to the collar of the girl’s shirt.

“Elk Ivory!”

Everyone in the plaza went quiet. The eight captives who sat together twenty paces away, surrounded by ten Walksalong warriors, whispered and shook their heads at the sight of Wren. As if they didn’t know her. But Silver Sparrow and Matron Dust Moon appeared worried, frightened for the girl. Dust Moon sat on the ground with Silver Sparrow’s head in her lap. Fresh blood speckled his wrinkled face and white hair, and soaked his coat. A thick bandage encircled his throat. Jumping Badger gave the old man a smug smile, but Silver Sparrow looked past him, to Little Wren’s face, noting each bruise and cut, and the curve of Silver Sparrow’s mouth went hard. Dust Moon’s eyes glowed darkly.

Jumping Badger threw back his head, and bellowed, “Elk Ivory, you treacherous … !”

The words died in his throat when Elk Ivory slipped from between two sour gum trees on the hill to Jumping Badger’s left. Tall, her expression cold, she held her bow down at her side, but her arrow remained nocked.