People of the Moon(227)

Wind Leaf scrambled to grab his war club, only to hear the old one-eyed warrior snap, “Don’t! Or you’ll die.”

He froze, staring at the old man. “Ironwood?”

“The very same, Wind Leaf.” He shook his head. “You never were very smart.”

“Get out!” Desert Willow screamed, finger pointing.

“There will be no more getting out,” Creeper said gruffly. “Webworm’s body is already being borne to the great kiva for all to see. And you are right: You should have feared the Made People.”

The man’s frigid smile sent a shiver through Wind Leaf. “Creeper? You know me. I wouldn’t have carried out her order.”

“No,” the old man said sadly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. We all know what lies are worth these days.”

A tall woman warrior stepped past Yellowgirl and grasped Desert Willow by the arm. “Come on, Matron. We’ve a special room for you: One where no one will hear you shouting.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Wind Leaf watched a short muscular man in a hunting shirt kick his war club out of reach.

“Whatever I’m ordered to,” the man said through a thick barbarian accent.

When Wind Leaf tried to struggle, the man’s great strength bore his arms back. Ironwood tied them tightly. Then, bound like a captive macaw, Wind Leaf was carried away.





The torch in Spots’s hand cast guttered yellow light on the room walls. He knew which doorway Nightshade had been taken through, but once inside, rooms led to other rooms; openings in the floors led down to dead ends. Slanting passages with pole-supported roofs led down in different directions. The place was like a giant rabbit warren.

One by one, he and Ironwood made their way, passing through storerooms filled with dried turkeys, stacked jars of corn, net bags filled with squash.

“It’s like following a tree root down to a buried stone,” Spots said. “How do you know which way?”

“Nightshade?” Ironwood cupped his hands and called.

The echo reverberated as the war chief seemed to stagger, placing a hand against one of the buff-plastered walls.

“War Chief?” Spots asked. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little dizzy,” Ironwood answered, blinking. Sweat popped out on his chest and face. He took a couple of deep breaths. “All right. Let’s go down. They like putting prisoners as far down as they can.”

Spots lifted his torch, the pine sap hissing as it burned. He had two more in his pack for when this one flickered its last. As he climbed down a tunnel stairway to the next floor, he shot an uneasy glance at Ironwood. The man didn’t look well. A gray pallor had crept into his complexion, and his movements were those of a man heavy with fatigue.

The room he entered was empty, four bare walls each cut with a doorway. He cast his light into one, finding nothing but rush matting on the floor. In the next, he found scattered trash, cloth rags, broken baskets, and several smashed pots.

When he inspected the third, he stopped short. Several burials had been placed against the walls. Some of the dead were wrapped in matting, split-feather blankets, and the like. Painted jars, seed pots, and cooking ware had been placed close to the corpses to ease their journeys to the Land of Dead.

At sight of the blanket-covered form in the back, his eyes widened. Gods, they hadn’t tied her like a dog.

“Nightshade!” Spots ducked through the door, rushing to the old woman’s side. A mug of water had been placed just beyond her reach, as had a small bowl filled with dry cornmeal. Her upended pack lay beside its contents. The Wellpot from Cahokia gleamed in the light as if it were a mirror. Bits of stone, animal parts, and Spirit Plants were scattered about, as if trampled upon.

“Brother Mud Head?” she asked groggily. “Have you come to Dance at last?”

“It’s Spots, Elder. I came as quickly as I could.”

Her eyes were dull as she opened them, a faint smile on her lips. “My young hunter.” She barely whispered the words. “Come … too late.”

“Nightshade?” Ironwood sank to his knees on the packed clay floor. He was laboring, his breath coming in shallow gasps as if he’d run instead of walked into the room. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch the long stake they’d driven through her pelvis.

“Oh, it’s real, War Chief,” she told him, smacking her lips. “They didn’t want my souls to slip out of my body just yet. I was supposed to confess to witching them with Webworm’s heart. If I called back the curse, they would let me die.”

“We have to get you out of here,” Spots cried, staggering to his feet.