“War Chief, you can’t—”
He reached out, taking Bad Cast’s hands in his strong grip. “Do I have your word that you will take care of my wife?”
Bad Cast swallowed hard, and nodded. “Yes, War Chief.”
From where he lay in his bedding, Ripple made a soft whimper and turned onto his side.
Forty-nine
Throughout the afternoon Leather Hand’s men had filtered down off the mountain. In ones and twos they had made their way, packs over their shoulders. Some had dressed in hunting shirts, others in farmer’s kilts. The patches of trees that surrounded the base of the Dog’s Tooth became their lair. There, they secreted themselves, burrowing into brush, hunkering under duff-covered blankets among the rocks.
In the last fingers of light, they had emerged, opened their packs, and removed their bright red shirts. They strung their bows, counted the arrows in their quivers, and practiced swinging war clubs to loosen their muscles.
Leather Hand himself had taken the scout’s position, secreting himself beside the trail. Motionless as a snake, he had covered himself with a gray blanket and watched as five slow processions of the elders made their way no more than two arm lengths from his hide. He had heard their soft barbarian speech, listened to the tension in their voices.
Matron Larkspur’s informant had been right.
He waited for a half hand of time, watching the stars slowly rise on the southern horizon. Then, the moon appearing, he rose and took up his weapons. The only sound he made was a hooting, the sort one of the cliff owls would have made. Another hoot answered. And then another.
Step by careful step, he began the climb up the Dog’s Tooth. The first sentry was a mere boy, the lad so stupid he asked something in his incomprehensible tongue. Leather Hand’s whistling war club thudded into his neck, snapping the spine.
He could see the walled enclosure, now little more than a dark blot against the moon-bright sky. There would be other sentries, some perhaps smarter than this one had been.
Whistle, still caked with trail grime, stood tall, a war club in his hand. The central fire in the Black Shale Moiety kiva cracked and popped, sending sparks toward the wide opening in the roof. Firelight reflected amber off of the support posts as well as the ring of watching faces. The elders sat on the kiva bench as was their due; the war chiefs, such as they were among his people, sat on the floor—ten young men of dubious valor and experience.
Old White Eye sat in the preeminent center of the bench, his snowy eye cast red from the fire. “How will we know when the war chief is in position?”
Whistle said, “We will have runners, people you delegate to us. As we prepare our assault, we need you to make a demonstration lower on the mountain. If each of our clans deploys their warriors and begins to ascend toward Guest House, Burning Smoke will mass his warriors there. Given the narrow approach to Pinnacle Great House, he’ll want to concentrate his forces.”
“You’re sure?” Hoarse Caller of the Strong Back Clan asked through her rasping voice.
Whistle gave her a nod. “Burning Smoke is no fool. The clans will outnumber him. His strategy will be to narrow our front of attack. He knows his fighters are better than ours. His warriors are trained. Ours will be made up of hunters and farmers. Most of our people still use atlatls. Knowing this, Burning Smoke’s warriors will be close to cover, far enough away that they can duck and dodge. His goal will be to hold us back, or induce us to charge. If the latter, he’s counting on the effectiveness of his bowmen. In the time it takes for our fighters to close, his men can send a hail of arrows down. Then, our ranks weakened, morale lowered from the casualties, his warriors attack with war clubs. They need only to break our attack and send our fighters fleeing back down the hill.”
Rattler, of the Blue Stick Clan, said, “And that’s the one thing we cannot allow to happen.”
“Correct,” Whistle replied. He looked at the uncertain war chiefs. “It is imperative that we hold back. Do you understand? This will be a game of nerves. We must keep the threat up, but never allow ourselves close enough where they can rain arrows upon us.”
One young man said, “We have to tease them.”
Whistle nodded. “That’s right. You may allow some of your most fleet young men to dance in and out of the danger zone. Burning Smoke’s warriors will be anticipating this, so don’t expect them to draw many arrows.” Whistle steepled his fingers. “You see, they, too, will be playing the game. They will try and tempt your young men farther and farther into the killing area.”
Wizened old Black Sage asked, “How long does the war chief expect us to keep this up?”