People of the Moon(203)

“Bad Cast?” Ironwood asked, a darker question in his voice.

“It has to be above us somewhere, War Chief.” He wiped his face, feeling the dryness of soot, the grit from the forest. Then he resumed his climb, testing his footing, pulling himself up with branches, scrambling ever upward. Behind him, the line of warriors kept climbing.

Over the wind in the trees, Bad Cast could hear them, wood knocking on wood, the rattle of arrows. Sometimes a person slipped, a curse under his breath. Sticks snapped under misplaced weight. The warriors kept coughing from the smoke.

They couldn’t hear that up above, could they?

Bad Cast’s dire imagination filled the heights with armed Red Shirts, each with a nocked arrow or a perched boulder, just ready to rain death down on the foolish little band that dared to scale the impregnable heights. He kept seeing Ripple’s expression, one of longing, his dead eyes wide, blood dripping from his head and neck.

Did you see that coming? Was that why you looked so resigned this morning? He blinked away a sudden tear, wondering at the grief that threatened to flood his breast.

A stone broke loose, and someone gasped in pain before the rock crashed down into the trees.

“Who’s hurt?” Ironwood hissed over his shoulder. The question was whispered down the line.

“Thorn Petal,” came the whispered reply up the line. “The stone knocked him off his feet. He’s fallen into a tree.”

“Go.” The hissed command went back down the line. “Thorn Petal will catch up if he can.”

Ironwood tapped Bad Cast on the back, and the relentless climb continued. A branch slapped him in the face, and painful grit smarted behind his eyes.

If I could just see! Instead he worked his way up, making his way by feel. When he couldn’t brace his foot on a stone or fallen log, he had to dig his sandaled feet into the thick duff. Needles pricked and pierced the tender skin between his toes. Often his first foothold collapsed, and more than once Ironwood stopped him from sliding down atop the others.

More to the left.

Bad Cast hesitated. The voice had sounded like Ripple’s, merged with the wind in the trees. He began edging to his left.

Onward they climbed, the slope getting even steeper, more dangerous. When his foot slipped, and he skidded down onto Ironwood, the war chief braced him. “Easy. Don’t rush. If we start a landslide, they’ll know we’re coming.”

Bad Cast filled his lungs, puffing in the cold air. His fingers were growing numb. Once again he put himself to the task. Hand, foot, hand, foot. Test the toehold, step. Feel around for sticks. Check for loose rocks that could roll underfoot. Hand, foot, hand, foot.

Something wet landed on the back of his neck. Water? Gods, it couldn’t be raining, could it?

He glanced up at the blackness; the wind was still slashing through the trees. They were creaking and grinding, covering the sounds of the climbers. Well, for that, at least, he could be thankful.

She comes!

Bad Cast swore he heard Ripple’s glad cry.

Something else cold and wet spattered on his shirt. He could smell it now: the damp scent of soot. Snake’s blood, they had to hurry. If it rained, every piece of wood would become slick; the rocks, already treacherous, would make each handhold precarious. Fingers growing numb from cold would add to the danger.

He pulled himself past the thick trunk of a fir tree and felt the wind twirling in the night. And what was this? He tilted his cheek, aware that something light pattered down around him. He caught one on his tongue, tasting water and soot.

“Snow!” he whispered in disbelief.

“Snow?” Ironwood asked, confused.

“It’s snowing,” Bad Cast affirmed, and scrambled up on all fours before his fingers encountered wet sandstone. He felt his way up, could see the blacker rock against the night sky.

The rimrock!

He bent down, whispering, “Shhhh! They’re right above us.” But where was he? How close to one of the cracked chutes that could be scaled to the ridgetop?

“Fire and ice!” He barely heard Ripple’s call over the storm. “Cold Bringing Woman has come for us.”

Bad Cast started along the rim, feeling his way, hearing dirt and stones as they periodically rolled down into the trees. He could feel the snow as the wind swept it around him. The cold had increased, and he could hardly feel his wet fingers.

He stopped, exploring a crack in the rock. Yes, here he could find a foothold. “Rope?” he whispered. Moments later Ironwood passed him a coil of braided leather that he hung around his neck and shoulder. Bad Cast began to climb.

He levered himself up, searching for a handhold. His wet, numb fingers clawed at the rough stone, found purchase, and he muscled himself up another half body length.