Lamedeer pulled on his heaviest cape and moccasins, and reached for his bow and quiver.
When he ducked outside, the night air stung his lungs. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the small rounded shapes of the lodges. Paint Rock Village lay quiet and peaceful. A few sparks escaped through smoke holes and winked in the cold breeze. Lamedeer shivered as he walked across the frozen plaza.
Wind Mother whimpered through the towering oaks, and tousled his graying black hair around his face. Cold leeching from the ground ate into his moccasins. Though snow had not yet started to fall, he could smell it in the air.
He quietly passed Briar’s lodge, and continued up the trail.
He’d slept fitfully, spending much of his time with old ghosts. The dead had come to twine their icy bodies around his like mating snakes. Lamedeer had never had the gift of Dream guessing, though many among his clan did. A person could recite his worst, most complicated nightmare to Red Pipe, for instance, and in less than thirty heartbeats he would have deciphered the meaning, and told the person what he had to do to appease the Spirits.
Tomorrow. I’ll go to Red Pipe. Perhaps he can help me understand the images.
Before he reached the trunk of the old oak, he could see that Calling Hawk was not there. Yet every warrior in the village knew it meant death to leave his post without authorization.
Angry, Lamedeer started up the trail, his moccasins crunching the frozen leaves. He halted when he noticed a strange shadow clinging to a sycamore trunk. Against the white bark, the shadow looked vaguely human. Lamedeer stepped closer. A man stood there, his head bowed as if in shame.
“Calling Hawk?” Lamedeer said. “What are you doing out here? I should carve you alive!”
The man said nothing, and Lamedeer lifted his bow, nocked an arrow, and eased forward until, in the dim light spilling through the clouds, he could see the arrow that pinioned Calling Hawk’s body to the tree. A stone ax had been used to split his skull. Blood had soaked his cape and pants. The coppery tang clawed at the back of Lamedeer’s throat.
Lamedeer stumbled backward.
Warriors oozed from the trees like ghosts. In shock, Lamedeer watched. No. This can’t be happening. The False Face Child said we were safe. He told us not to send runners. He—
He shouted, “Awaken! Everyone! Get up. Hurry! We must—”
War cries split the night, and dogs scrambled from lodges, barking, racing out to meet the intruders. Red Pipe staggered from his lodge, his wrinkled mouth agape as he ran. A woman warrior shot him in the back, knocking the old man facedown in the dirt. Everywhere, people flooded from their lodges and raced across the plaza. Mothers clutched infants to their breasts. Men threw themselves at the intruders. Old people and children scurried for cover.
Deafening cries rose. They climbed Lamedeer’s spine like a lightning bolt. He charged into the chaos, shooting his bow wildly.
People shrieked and fell all around Lamedeer. He saw two men duck out of Briar’s lodge. One carried Rumbler in his arms. Briar’s shrieks of “No! No, please!” pierced the din. There had to be a hundred warriors! They couldn’t fight this many! A tiny dagger of flame flared in his heart and built to an insane blaze.
Lamedeer screamed hoarsely, “Follow me! Don’t try to fight! Follow me before we are all killed!”
Elk Ivory lowered her bow. A half a hand of time had passed since they’d first entered the plaza. In the glare of the burning lodges, she could see there would be no more fighting this night. Bodies scattered the ground, mouths gaping in silent cries. A tall, muscular woman with shoulder-length black hair, she had seen thirty-eight winters … but she had never witnessed anything like this. What the men did to the dead sickened her. She straightened to her full height, and sucked a breath in through her broad flat nose. Smoke and the odor of burning flesh filled the firelit darkness.
Jumping Badger stalked up the trail toward her, his beaver-hide coat covered with blood, his long black braid tangled and matted with gore. He’d slung his bow and quiver over his right shoulder. At the age of twenty-four winters, he was one of the youngest war leaders in the history of the Walksalong Clan. A handsome man, he had finely chiseled features and dark eerie eyes.
As he passed by her, Elk Ivory gripped his arm, and stared at him. “You ordered the men to rape the dead? To cut unborn children from their mothers’ wombs? Why?”
He leaned closer to her, hissing in her face, “Because I wished it.”
He shook off her hand. In the lurid gleam, his eyes shone. “Stay here. Watch over the men until they have finished carrying out my orders, then bring them.”
She clutched her bow hard, knowing she could not refuse. “Bring them where, War Leader?”