Leather Hand stared at the distant pillar of smoke and ash. The slanting sunlight began to turn it from purple to blue.
“War Chief?” Turquoise Fox asked.
“Yes?”
“We will find the raiders today.” His deputy had returned his gaze to World Tree Mountain. “Are you serious about driving a stiletto of fear into the hearts of the barbarians?”
“More than serious.”
Turquoise Fox glanced curiously at the men downslope, who laughed as they ate the last of their corn cakes. He lowered his voice. “Are you serious enough to make your men comply, even if it means the most severe of discipline?”
Leather Hand frowned. “Is there some reason you won’t tell me what you have in mind?”
“Do you remember the stories that circulated during that hard summer drought six years ago?”
“I heard a great many stories that summer.”
“Do you remember the stories they told of famine at Deer Mother Village?”
Leather Hand stopped short, frowning. “This isn’t a matter of hunger, Deputy.”
Turquoise Fox smiled. “Oh, yes. It is, War Chief. It’s just that we’re talking about a different kind of hunger than the one that lurks in an empty belly.”
Stunned by the implications, Leather Hand stood quietly for a moment. Gods, was the man serious? Finally he cupped his mouth to call, “Come! We have important work ahead of us. Today, we avenge Right Acorn and the Blessed Sun!”
He started headlong down the hill, long strides taking him toward the narrow wash that meandered its way toward the Dust People’s pathetic farmsteads. Turquoise Fox’s proposed “solution” to their problem left him nervous with its possibilities.
Do I have the courage to order my warriors to do such a thing? Can I go through with it myself.?
Ripple lay on his side in the darkness. He was vaguely aware of the gritty floor. It stuck to his cheek where blood had caked and dried. The chill rising through the clay-covered stone countered the hot rush of pain that pulsed with each beat of his heart. He tried not to move his tongue. Each time he did it was to feel a mouth that wasn’t his. That—more than the throbbing in his jaw——frightened him. But the misery in his mouth was drowned by the white agony in his broken hand and the searing in his genitals.
Thankfully, it was too dark to see the terrible reality of what they’d done to him.
A droplet of something wet ran down the curve of his thigh, the tickle of it lost in the fiery pain in his crotch. Was it blood, or perhaps urine? They had told him to release his water as often as possible.
“It washes out the pus,” Water Bow had told him. “If your penis scabs over, your water has no place to go. It’s a nasty and most painful way to die.”
Ripple sobbed, blood and saliva trickling past his bruised lips. He clenched and unclenched his good right hand. His left he tried to keep still. The slightest movement shot agony up his arm.
“You’ll have time,” Water Bow had told him. “You can think for a while. When we come back, you will tell us about this vision. Remember: You have more teeth on the other side of your jaw. You still have your right hand. Living the rest of your life with one good hand and half your teeth will be much easier than living with no hands or teeth at all.”
I want to die! Please, Cold Bringing Woman. Come and rip what’s left of life from my body.
He heard only silence and felt fluid drip down his thigh.
He remembered the Blessed Larkspur, an indecisive frown marring her beautiful face, as she took his penis in her slim brown fingers. He’d stared down in horror as she turned his defenseless member with great precision, studying it intently. Then she had reached for one of the dried yucca leaves. Still bound, wrists to ankles, he’d tried to wiggle away, only to be jammed hard against the wall by the guards. She had pulled out on his penis, stretching it. With the sharp point of the yucca she had dimpled the tender skin. She had been looking into his eyes when she pushed it in like an arrow.
He’d wailed like a scalded baby as Larkspur drove the yucca leaf crosswise through the center of his penis just behind the foreskin. She’d had to tug to pull it through, the same as if she’d been sewing a rawhide bag.
Through the burning pain he had been vaguely aware of Larkspur saying something, her voice musical.
The laughter of the guards had followed.
“She says that there’s a lot of gristle in there,” Water Bow had translated. “But, unlike our own people, your barbarian bitches are probably used to that.”
He’d been gasping, half choked on the blood that pooled in his ruined mouth. Crimson drool leaked past his bruised lips and down his chest and stomach. He would remember her large brown eyes—deep pools of curiosity—searching his. The lilting tones of her voice seemed to hang in the air.