If I live through this, I promise, I’ll never be squeamish again.
With the appearance of the lead warrior all other thoughts were stillborn. He was a tall man resplendent in a bright red war shirt; gleaming necklaces hung at his throat. Three jaunty eagle feathers had been thrust into his hair bun, and striking white moccasins clad his feet. They rustled in the tall grass.
Crow Woman gasped before she clamped a hand to her mouth.
For a second Wrapped Wrist thought the warrior had heard, for his head snapped to the side, his fierce eyes searching the forest. But his step never faltered, and he continued on his way.
Behind him came two ranks of warriors, bows unstrung, quivers packed with perfectly fletched cane arrows. Some carried the long curved wooden war clubs the Blessed Sun’s warriors favored. They talked in low voices, some laughing. The light of triumph seemed to Dance over them as they smiled and nodded amidst animated talk.
The litter jounced into view, and Wrapped Wrist gaped. The expression of disgust on Matron Night Sun’s face might have been chiseled in stone. She wore a dark blue robe, strings of beads at her throat. Bejeweled and decked out, she might have been heading for some great house ceremony. She rode with her back stiff, head forward, imperious of posture; but even from this distance, Wrapped Wrist could see fear glitter in her eyes. The leather binding on her wrists betrayed her true status.
Several of the camp children followed; they were being herded by Ravenfire, Cornsilk’s firstborn. He carried one of the thin wooden war clubs, and walked with a jaunty attitude. Nor were his hands bound.
“Ravenfire?” Crow Woman hissed under her breath. “Gods!”
Wrapped Wrist recognized several of Ironwood’s warriors’ wives. All were naked from the waist up, wrists bound, lengths of thong tied between their ankles to keep them from running. The bruises on their faces, legs, arms, and breasts had that new cherry color. Each one had a bloody pack slung over her shoulder. To Wrapped Wrist’s practiced eye, it looked like they carried freshly butchered meat. One woman held her arm as if it was broken. Several were crying, while others looked tear-streaked, eyes dull.
A squad of warriors brought up the rear; mindful of their charges, they lashed out at any who tarried.
After they passed, Wrapped Wrist remained as if planted. Gods, what had happened? Who were these terrible warriors? He glanced over, seeing Crow Woman’s expression. She looked on the point of tears.
“What in the name of the gods has happened?” Wrapped Wrist asked in a whisper, still unsure whether to trust his voice lest the terrible warriors hear despite the distance.
Crow Woman exhaled wearily. “How?”
Wrapped Wrist waited, his heart beating anxiously.
“That warrior in front,” Crow Woman finally said. “That’s Leather Hand. Somehow, some way, they’ve captured Night Sun.”
“What about the war chief? Orenda and Ripple?”
“I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. “We’ve got to go after Night Sun and Ravenfire.”
Wrapped Wrist reached out, clamping her arm as she started up. “No. Think, Crow Woman. They have thirty warriors. There’s just the two of us, and you’re half-crippled. Before we do anything, we have to find out what’s happened. See if any of the others survived.” He hesitated. “And I’m not sure, but Ravenfire looked like he was one of them.”
She shot a hot glare his direction, started to struggle, and bent her leg. She bit off the groan of pain, and relented. “Yes, you’re right.”
Leather Hand! Wrapped Wrist took a deep breath. He’d looked right into the eyes of the cannibal! “I pray the gods guard Matron Night Sun.”
The climb up the slope to Ironwood’s mesa seemed interminable. Wrapped Wrist chafed, loose soil and pine duff slipping under his feet. Crow Woman, her face a mask of dismay, levered herself up, step after painful step. The way was marked by disturbed ground, churned needles, and tumbled stones.
Wrapped Wrist noted a spot of color: a little boy, his body wedged around a tree trunk. He’d been smacked in the top of the head with a war club, blood having spattered the dirt as he rolled limply down the slope.
Crow Woman shook her head, taking a moment to catch her breath as she leaned on her crutch. “People called him Kit. He wanted to be a warrior like his father, Yucca Sock. He must have angered them.”
At the cleft in the caprock, Wrapped Wrist reached back and bodily lifted Crow Woman onto the top.
They found Orenda at the village. She sat in the center of the plaza, a little dead girl in her lap. Her absent gaze was fixed on the smoke plume that hung over the mountains to the north. Her hand moved like a delicate bird as she fingered the girl’s limp hair. Tears streaked her dusty face, the corners of her mouth trembling.