Stone Cob took a deep breath, and stared at the soaked sand beneath his feet. “Are sense and honor gone from the world?”
“Bind him up,” Black Spike ordered. “Then prepare! Nine Killer will come by water, seek to land his warriors in the trees in the night.”
A warrior asked, “What if Stone Cob told us lies? What if Nine Killer cuts across to the south, approaches through the fields?”
“We’ll prepare for that, too.” Black Spike studied Stone Cob through half-lidded eyes as the warrior’s hands were bound. “And if that’s the case, we’ll know that the honorable Stone Cob was sent as a spy to mislead us. Were I to discover that to be true, I’d bash his brains out myself.”
Black Spike turned on his heel and strode back into the palisade. The warriors shoved Stone Cob after him.
Nine Killer could almost believe that Okeus had been against him from the very beginning of this raid. He’d been able to muster less than half of his warriors, the others gone mysteriously missing. Most were reportedly “out hunting.” Then, just after they’d discussed the plan of attack, Stone Cob had disappeared. Stone Cob, of all people!
No sooner had Nine Killer launched his little fleet to paddle down to Three Myrtle Inlet than the weather had turned blustery, and then downright miserable. Two of his canoes had swamped, the warriors swimming their sodden boats to the safety of the shore before dumping them out and re launching
Wet, miserable, and shivering, they watched the night sky as the misty rain turned into slushy snow.
With his unerring sense of direction, Nine Killer had led them to the trees just north of Three Myrtle Village. Here, they huddled in the darkness, soaked to the bone, teeth chattering from cold, as dispirited as any band of raiders he’d ever led.
“What do you think?” Flying Weir asked as they crouched in the lee of an ash tree and peered out into the darkness toward Three Myrtle Village.
Nine Killer wiped water from his numb face and squinted toward where he knew the palisade stood. “I don’t hear a thing. Only a mad idiot would be out in weather like this. Perhaps, after all we’ve been through, this weather is a blessing.”
“A blessing?” Flying Weir wrung out the fringes of his shirt, the sopping leather squishing in his hands. “My balls are sucked up so tight with cold that I have trouble swallowing.”
“Well, I guess if you’re the sort of man who swallows through his balls, you might not understand a blessing when you had one.”
Another gust of wind blew in, spattering them with chill droplets. Nine Killer crouched down, wincing as the wind whipped off toward Three Myrtle Village.
He cocked his head. A nagging hesitation crawled around in his gut, trying to tell him something.
He searched the sky for any hint of light. Just how long did he have until dawn? The weather worked against the defenders of Three Myrtle Village, but it also worked against his raiders. When Nine Killer’s party rushed forward, they had to be able to see their objective, negotiate the palisade gate, find High Fox—in Black Spike’s Great House, no doubt—and then retreat to the canoes without getting lost. The one thing he couldn’t afford was bumbling around in the dark.
He couldn’t help but think about how terribly dark it was. “All right,” he growled at Flying Weir. “This wind is coming from the north, blowing right down our backs and toward the village. That will give us our direction. As I remember it, it’s no more than a bow shot to the palisade. I want everyone to join hands. That way we can’t be separated. I’ll lead. At the palisade, we’ll feel our way around to the gate and wait until it’s just light enough to see. Then we can rush them.”
“Right,” Flying Weir muttered. He didn’t sound convinced, but he passed the orders on.
“Let’s go.” Nine Killer took Flying Weir’s hand and stood, starting off into the murky night, feeling with his feet. The darkness pressed down on him, as if to smother his very soul. He could feel Flying Weir shivering; his own body shook so hard his teeth rattled.
Step by step they proceeded, worry building in Nine Killer’s gut. What was it? There wasn’t some ditch out here, was there? No, nothing he could remember.
In the back of his mind, an image formed, a memory of a summer day not so long ago: three laughing children chasing around with a pack of barking dogs. They’d been running back and forth across these flats, playing stick and-ball shinny, the dogs barking and barking … “Hold up!” Nine Killer hissed, squeezing Flying Weir’s hand.
“What?”
Nine Killer cocked his head, realizing just what had upset him. The wind … right down our backs, and not a dog barking at our scent.”