People of the Moon(215)

“Ironwood!” someone cried. “Leave him to me!”

Wrapped Wrist turned to see a muscular warrior start through the press of the Blessed Sun’s warriors. At mention of the name, the red-shirted warriors began to fall back.

“Ravengrass?” Ironwood strode through his ranks of kneeling warriors. As he approached, an arrow drove into Ravengrass’s throat. The man clutched at the quivering shaft, turned, and wilted onto the packed clay.

Goaded by shouts of rage, the Blessed Sun’s warriors charged. Wrapped Wrist bent, staring down into the kiva. He could see worried Priests picking up ritual clothing, bagging sacred masks, and staring up with fright.

Arrows hissed past his ear as he laid his darts and atlatl aside and grasped the heavy ladder. No ordinary man could have lifted the heavy weight; rung by rung he pulled it from the depths. Below, the Priests were dumbfounded, and in the time it took for them to recover their wits, one of Ironwood’s warriors ran up. As the first of the Priests reached to pull the ladder back down, an arrow sliced down through the man’s chest.

Wrapped Wrist muscled the teetering ladder into the wind, letting it drop atop the milling enemy warriors.

Ironwood’s men shouted, and threw themselves on the disorganized foe.

“Form up!” came the stern order as War Chief Burning Smoke descended the ladder from the third-tier rooms. “We outnumber them! Fight like you’ve been trained.”

Gods, I am no warrior. So what can I do? Diversion, that was it. Something to take the pressure off Crow Woman and Ironwood.

Wrapped Wrist ducked into one of the plaza-level rooms and almost tripped over a coal-filled fire bowl. This he dumped into the neat stack of firewood. Room by room, he made his way around the plaza floor; in each he set fire to the woodpiles, or dropped the coals in rush matting. He poured grease onto cloth bedding and propped it where the oily flames licked at the dry roofing.

When he emerged again, it was to see Ironwood’s men being pushed relentlessly back. Burning Smoke had restored order and spirit. So many warriors.

Wrapped Wrist sucked cold air into his hot lungs. Smoke was billowing from the rooms along the northern wall. Each of the doorways was outlined by a red-orange glow.

What is happening to Crow Woman? Could he set fire to the other side, too? He crouched, sneaking behind the battling warriors to climb atop the dividing line of rooms.

Flames were rising from the western kiva. Red-shirted warriors lurked to either side of the western room block, bows curved as they periodically released arrows into one of the room doors. He studied the bodies illuminated by the burning kiva. None of the sprawled corpses looked like Crow Woman. So, had she taken refuge in the room?

We are losing. He suffered a sinking sensation and dropped to his knees. Wild flakes of snow came whipping past, and in the firelight he could see that they were black, tainted with ash and smoke.

“Ripple, you saw it so well.” And a knot formed in his throat as he remembered his dead friend’s face, and the blood that had pooled under his head and dripped down the half-severed neck.

He raised his hands to the sky, crying, “Ripple? Where are you?”

When he looked back at the high third-floor rooms, it was to see Matron Larkspur as she stood imperiously beside Water Bow and a finely dressed Priest he assumed was Blue Racer.

The battle must have turned enough that they felt safe enough to watch, heedless of the fires that grew one floor down, beneath their feet.

The voice seemed to come from the blowing snow. “We come, good friend. Fire … and ice.”





Larkspur stood before her room, a buffalo robe over her shoulders. She was heedless of the dirty snow that swirled and twisted from the night sky. Smoke was boiling out of the lower rooms, but she was unsure of its origin. As soon as the fighting was stopped, she’d have her warriors retrieve the big water-storage jars from the south-side rooms to douse any flames.

When she looked at the western kiva, however, her heart sank. Even over the shouts and fury of battle, she could hear the screams of the Priests trapped in that inferno. Smoke and flame rose in a huge curling torch that defied the storm. The doomed inside were no doubt huddled where the ventilator drafted cold air into the blaze.

“Kill them! Kill them all!” she shouted, stepping forward and raising an angry fist.

“Who are these people?” Blue Racer asked, stepping up by her side. He raised an arm protectively as hot air came curling up from the room beneath his feet.

“Ironwood’s Outcasts,” Waterbow said distastefully. “Matron, we’re going to have to consider leaving this place.”

She whirled on him. “Why? We’re winning.” She gestured to where Ironwood’s warriors were retreating, their arrows slowed from a shower to a trickle as they backed away from her advancing warriors. Her people needed only to charge, close, and finish them with war clubs.