People of the Moon(220)

“Tomorrow,” he promised, “you will beg me to end it.”

Yes, tomorrow. And after that, he would discover the extent of the frost. Webworm would be needing him more than ever.

He reached into his pouch, pulling out the carved fetish Webworm had given him. The little serpent coiled inside the broken eggshell. In the storm light, the coral eye seemed to glow with an internal light.





Bad Cast made his way past the Eagle’s Fist. Fresh snow covered the bloodstains. He had spent the night at Fir Brush’s, and had taken Ripple’s winter moccasins as well as a blanket for the climb. He nodded to several people who were headed back down the mountain. People were torn, as desperate to see the burned great house as they were to inspect their fields.

Clusters of people hunched in the cold predawn. Their breath hung in frost around their heads. They talked, voices low, as they watched the blue smoke rise into the still air.

Bad Cast found Ironwood standing atop the western plaza by the stairway. The war chief was staring down into the smoking ruin of the kiva.

Heat from the fire had melted the snow here; Bad Cast climbed up beside him.

For long moments he stared down in silence, seeing the black timbers scabbed by white as coals ate into the remaining wood. Dirt and debris had fallen into piles. Heat radiated out in waves that rippled in the cold air. In the gaps between sections of still-burning roof, the corpses could be seen. Where the fire had been hottest, ash and cindered bone remained. A black mass of tangled limbs clustered beside the ventilator shaft. The upthrust arms, twisted legs, and pulled-back heads could only hint at the agony of their last moments. Open mouths exposed blackened and cracked teeth. Noses were mere holes, the flesh turned to ash, eyes but pits of darker black. When the breeze changed, the odor of charred flesh stung his nostrils; smoke brought tears to his eyes.

“The First People are finished.” Ironwood’s stare remained fixed on the macabre and grotesquely distorted dead.

“Perhaps we are all finished. My people are trying to save what they can of the harvest. Some are shaving corn from the cobs, seeking to dry it before it rots. Others are cooking green beans and frozen squash, or trying to rig drying and smoking racks.”

“It won’t be enough,” Ironwood said.

“No,” Bad Cast agreed.

After a long silence, Ironwood asked, “What will you do?”

He glanced to the north, where patchy snow could be seen on the gray slopes of the hills. Burned timber looked like black fuzzy hair. “There’s no hunting up there. The game will have fled. Our crops are frozen. Ripple told me to head to the Great River Valley. He must have seen this, too.”

Ironwood continued to stare down at the corpses. “I was going to exchange them for Night Sun. Now, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll take my warriors, see what can be done at Flowing Waters Town. If the frost went that far south, there may be enough confusion that my people can sneak in and free her.”

“I pray that the gods go with you, War Chief.”

“And with you,” Ironwood answered wearily.

“Oh, I think I’ve had enough of the gods for a while,” Bad Cast said. “Their company comes at too high a price.”





Sixty



Wrapped Wrist led the way, picking a trail that wound down through the thinning timber. The route kept to the brushy valleys where lookouts wouldn’t be apt to spot them. The Blessed Sun would send any retaliatory war parties up the River of Souls Valley to its confluence with the River of Stones, and north into First Moon Valley. Ironwood’s small band of warriors hoped to avoid that main force.

If Webworm attacked First Moon Valley, so much the better. Wrapped Wrist’s people had already dispatched more than enough scouts to give fair warning. So, too, had hunters gone, bearing their atlatls, to ambush the trails. Those who knew the bow had taken to making war arrows. Everyone expected a terrible retaliation, but this time, the red-shirted warriors would have to fight for every step. Feelings in First Moon Valley were running high. Storage of surpluses from previous years—food that would have tided the people through the current disaster—had been emptied for the Blessed Sun’s tribute.

People who faced starvation didn’t fear much from a quick death in battle.

Wrapped Wrist glanced behind him, seeing Crow Woman where she trotted warily along. Behind her, the warriors of Ironwood’s surviving band carried their round shields, both wicker and leather-bound. Arrows bristled from quivers, and war clubs hung from belts.Yucca Sock and Firehorn brought up the rear, often checking the backtrail to make sure that no one followed.

Ten. That’s all we have left. When, he wondered, had he begun to think of himself as one of them?