People of the Moon(202)

“They’re the lucky ones,” Blue Racer rejoined. “They can just cover themselves in their blankets and doze.”





Gods, it was cold! In the darkness beneath the trees, Bad Cast could barely make out the seated forms of Ironwood’s warriors. Everyone crouched under his blanket and wore his warmest clothes. Yucca Sock, Firehorn, Two Teeth, and Right Hand sat close to the war chief, their heads bent. Warriors were looking uneasily at Ironwood in the gloom. Conversations were whispered, everyone in a dark mood after Ripple’s death.

No one was sure what to believe, or if this was just more madness driven by the end of the world.

Off to one side, Wrapped Wrist sat close beside Crow Woman. They way they huddled, it seemed to be more than just preraid camaraderie. Bad Cast had seen more than one speculative glance cast their way, at least until Crow Woman shot back with a hot glare.

The other warriors waited, some shivering, as they fingered their bows, checked arrows, and hefted their war clubs.

What am I doing here? Bad Cast had to wonder. He carried his atlatl and an ax. He had never considered himself a warrior. Truth be told, he barely made it as a hunter. Sneaking around in silence had never seen him at his best.

“All right,” Ironwood said, rising. “I need you to hear my final orders. This is a rescue first and foremost. The Moon People elders wouldn’t have been taken were it not for my initiating contact. They are our responsibility.”

The warriors shifted, some nodding, others watching with wooden expressions. They would follow their war chief, no matter what they thought of his motives.

Ironwood continued. “Bad Cast knows a trail that will lead us up the slope. When we reach the rimrock, we will stop. Bad Cast will climb up first, making sure of the route. Yucca Sock will follow and take care of any guard he finds up there. At his signal, we will climb one by one. The place we’ve chosen isn’t that difficult, but taking shields will be too cumbersome. Leave them here. Those of us who live will return for them.”

Ironwood reached out. “Friends, companions, we have shared so much. Now, like yours, my heart is worried sick. We don’t know if your wives or children are alive or dead. Tonight, we will strike a blow in retaliation for them.

“I want you to think.” He smacked a fist into a hard palm. “Our first goal is to free the captive elders. Our second is to take First People for hostages. If you kill all of the First People, we will have nothing left to bargain with. Do you understand? We can Trade Matron Larkspur, or Blue Racer, or Water Bow for Night Sun and our women and children.”

Grunts of assent were muttered around the dark circle.

“Good.” Ironwood clapped his hands together. “Next thing: We have no support from the First Moon People. I can’t blame them. Their Prophet is dead. They can’t take the chance of having their elders killed, or even face the Blessed Sun’s retaliation.” He paused. “We are on our own. We have no one but ourselves to depend on.”

More grunts sounded, and Bad Cast could just make out the shadowy warriors as they touched hands and thumped each other’s shoulders, a physical demonstration of their solidarity.

“This night,” Ironwood’s voice dropped, “is a gift from Cold Bringing Woman. I still believe in Ripple’s vision. I think it is she who has blown this dark wind down from the north.”

“As long as she doesn’t blow the fire into this forest,” Yucca Sock added warily. “We could be burnt to a crisp before we reach the summit.”

“On your feet,” Ironwood ordered. “Keep the noise to a minimum. If they hear us, if someone has betrayed us … well, fight like the fury—but run faster.”

Nervous chuckles broke out.

“Bad Cast?” Ironwood asked. “Can you lead the way?”

“Follow me.” A terrible weight had settled in his chest. Step after step, he placed his feet and started up the dark slope. Behind him, Ironwood tried to place his feet in Bad Cast’s tracks.

Find the trail by the lightning-riven tree! Bad Cast hadn’t expected the blowing smoke, the inky darkness of the gloom. Behind him, warriors coughed, their throats smoke-tight and lungs clogged.

Overhead, the trees waved and thrashed as the cold north wind ripped through the timber. Bad Cast muttered under his breath. Any fear of the coming fighting vanished as he waged his own battle with dark branches, slanting deadfall, and treacherous footing. Worse, what if he lost his way?

“Here,” he said, indicating a handhold, or, “Watch your foot. Step inside of the log here.”

It seemed an eternity later that he found himself panting, half-winded. He stared up into the black tangle of fir, pine, and spruce. How far had they gone? Where was the summit? It seemed they’d been climbing all night.