People of the Mist(17)
The faintest of smiles bent Copper Thunder’s lips. “That fast, eh?”
“You and Hunting Hawk have shaken the hornets’ nest, and the insects are buzzing.”
“This was a large party?”
“Two tens. Yellow Net’s daughter was out gathering wood and saw them skulking along the bottom of the ridge.” He pointed downhill with his bow. “I caught him just yonder.”
“And you let him go?” Copper Thunder’s face darkened as if a mighty rage were brewing.
Nine Killer planted his bow firmly before him. “I did.”
“In the name of the gods, why?”
“I am not your War Chief.” Nine Killer peered into those dark, dangerous eyes. He might have looked into a black abyss, the sort that sucked the soul right out of a man’s body. “I serve Greenstone Clan, and Flat Pearl Village. Not you.”
A deep guffaw boomed up from the Great Tayac’s belly. With that he smacked Nine Killer on the shoulder. The blow would have rocked a lesser man on his heels.
“You’re a worthy one, War Chief. I hope Hunting Hawk knows your value.”
“She does.” Nine Killer noticed that Copper Thunder’s warriors had relaxed. Some even smiled.
Copper Thunder gave him a knowing grin. “We understand each other, you and I. Yes, I think we do. Now, tell me, warrior to warrior, why let the enemy go?”
“I know him. Winged Blackbird is better demoralized than dead. He’ll report back to Corn Hunter that the message was delivered, and they’ll both be shaken. Corn Hunter did this thing on his own—rushed it—and sent his warriors unprepared against us. He will hesitate before informing the Mamanatowick of his action. Whereas an ambushed messenger can stir a rage for revenge that can fire men’s souls into action regardless of consequences.”
Copper Thunder stared down the ridge toward where the encounter had occurred. “Such a shame to just let them go.”
“Perhaps, but the important thing is what they take with them. None of those twenty will want to come back. If someone orders them to, they will return with half empty hearts.”
A malicious gleam entered Copper Thunder’s dark eyes. “Yes, well, let’s get on about finding my wife, shall we?”
The Great Tayac strode away, directing his warriors to fan out in a search pattern.
Nine Killer took a deep breath. How curious that Copper Thunder talked about killing with a great deal more passion than he talked about Red Knot.
I need to find Red Knot, put her in Copper Thunder’s canoe, and have this over with!
He lifted his bow and gestured his warriors forward. “Come along. Let’s find Red Knot.”
Four
Flat Willow stood slowly, his gut twisting as he smacked the damp leaves from his hands. Around him the midday forest was oddly quiet. In the distance, he could hear men’s voices, but for once the implications didn’t settle into his mind. The only thing more hideous than murder was incest.
He leaned against the smooth trunk of the great beech tree. Death wasn’t new to him—he’d dealt enough of it to animals, and even to men, during the last war with the Water Snake’s warriors.
“Why did you climb up here again?” he asked himself absently.
Because she was the center of my dreams. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing he shouldn’t have come back to the ridgetop. Better to have continued stalking the deer. He opened his eyes, fixing the scene in his soul: She lay sprawled on her face, one arm thrown out, her right leg bent at the knee. The left leg was straight. Her long black hair was piled over her head in a tangle. Leaves had been hurriedly tossed over the corpse with some pulled away around her head, as-if by a hasty hand.
The left side of her skull had been crushed, and the wound had bled profusely. Smudges on her skin showed where High Fox’s fingers had rested on her cheek.
“Why, Red Knot?” he asked. “Why did this have to happen to us? I had it fixed, you see. It was the only way I could have you.”
The thoughts wouldn’t quite come together. He forced himself to see her murder as an unattached hunter would: perplexing. An enemy warrior would have taken her captive for a slave. A vengeance killer would have left her out in the open to be found by her relatives: insult to repay injury. Nothing had been cut from her body for a trophy: no scalp taken, no fingers or ears cut off.
Bending down, he carefully lifted her deerskin apron from her rounded buttocks. Like most women, she’d plucked her pubic hair, and her vulva was exposed by the lifted right leg. He touched the dribble of moisture with a fingertip and sniffed it.
Urine, and not the slightest tang of semen; proof a man hadn’t been inside her. As to the urine, her bladder had relaxed in death. He’d seen enough of that from the deer he’d killed. He dropped her apron and squinted at her right hand. It clutched something he hadn’t noticed before. He lifted her stiff arm from the leaves and pried a bunched necklace from the stiffening fingers. A stone shark’s tooth, carefully drilled, hung from a leather cord. To either side were four drilled pearls, and to either side of those, a series of polished shell beads.