People of the Mist(52)
A mighty shout broke from the lungs of Black Spike’s warriors. Nine Killer swallowed hard. He’d seen that stiffening of spines, that raising of heads, and that hardening glint of proud eyes. Only an act of the gods would turn them back now.
“Here they come!” Nine Killer called, retreating to the edge of the trees. “Let’s show them what we’re made of, and we’ll get out of this yet!”
But when he met Flying Weir’s eyes, he could see the truth there.
“Within a hand of time we’ll be overrun, wiped out to the last man. You know that, don’t you?” Flying Weir asked quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. Nine Killer grinned humorlessly. “No one lives forever.”
“No—but I curse Hunting Hawk for sending us on this fool’s errand.”
Across the flats, Black Spike called the fatal order. His unbroken ranks of warriors let out a wild whoop, then started forward.
Nine Killer pulled another arrow from his quiver, shouted, “Hold your shots until they close,” and prepared himself to die.
Here they came, breaking into a trot. He could see the bright feathers woven into their hair. Painted and decorated loincloths swung with each step. Their skin was shiny with grease, each body painted dark red with puccoon root.
Glancing from the corner of his eye, he felt pride swell within him. His own warriors waited stoically, tense but resolute. None would run in these last fragile moments.
Shouts rang out from ahead, and to Nine Killer’s surprise, the ranks of Three Myrtle warriors slowed, looking back toward the canoe landing. Like fibers fraying from a cord, the attack faltered as the enemy warriors stopped short to mumble among themselves. Word worked up the line until even Black Spike hesitated. Across the distance, Nine Killer could hear him calling out in disbelief.
“What’s this?” Flying Weir asked warily, his bow clutched in a tight fist.
“I don’t know.” Nine Killer stepped out from the trees, looking south. A young warrior and a girl escorted an old man up from the landing.
“High Fox!” The name carried across the distance. Nine Killer craned his neck, his gaze hardening on his target. Yes, and the girl was Sun Conch, High Fox’s faithful friend. But who on earth was that old man?
No sooner had the trio approached the first of the Three Myrtle warriors than the men recoiled as if from a rattlesnake.
Nine Killer’s blood froze at the words that passed from lip to lip: “It’s The Pantherl”
Nine Killer instinctively made the warding gesture with his fingers.
“The Panther?” Flying Weir wondered as he stepped out beside Nine Killer. “The witch? What’s he doing here?”
“I have no idea.” Nine Killer’s mouth had gone dry. “But look who he’s with. That’s High Fox. You see a witch walking with a murderer. How much worse do you think it could be?”
Flying Weir shook his head, his grimace that of a man who’d bitten into a moldy beach plum.
After all of Panther’s worry about meeting strangers, the notion of walking into a battle left his stomach tied in an uncomfortable knot.
As he walked toward the shouting warriors, he cast a quick glance at each of his companions. High Fox still looked glum—as guilty as if caught in the act. Sun Conch appeared calm and stoic, but then she still believed she’d surrendered body and soul to a dangerous witch. She’d given herself up for dead days ago.
Panther squinted at the line of warriors. The closest man had stopped to call High Fox’s name to his companions. Sun Conch shouted, “I have brought The Panther to look into the charges made against High Fox! He will speak for my friend!”
The nearest warriors melted away like snow from a fire, and Panther could see the rising panic in their eyes. At that moment, had the command but been given, they’d gladly have turned on him, skewering him with arrows until his flesh resembled a porcupine’s.
Panther stalked forward and glared to the right and left. By Okeus’ bloody balls, if they thought him a witch, he’d use the belief against them.
“What goes on here?” he demanded angrily. “Who is responsible for this mess?”
Warriors wheeled like a covey of quail to form up behind a tall man, his left forearm bound with a bloody strip of hide.
“Who are you?” Panther demanded, catching a glimpse of other warriors up in the trees. “And who are those people over there?”
The leader, his face ashen, whether from the wound or Panther’s appearance, swallowed hard. “I am Black Spike, Weroance of Three Myrtle Village. Those dogs hiding in the trees are Flat Pearl warriors belonging to the Weroansqua Hunting Hawk.”