“I bring messages for Deputy Burning Smoke. I thought I’d see what the rumors were before I climbed that last bit. I heard some of the barbarians talking about some Prophet.”
The woman chuckled. “If that’s what he is. A local youth. Claims Old Woman North appeared to him with a promise of the First People’s destruction. He’s up in a back room in the new section of Pinnacle House.” She jerked her head toward the heights. “I suspect they’ll pitch his dead body over the cliff in the next couple of days.” She frowned. “You speak the local tongue?”
Whistle jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “This slave does. I borrowed him from a friend before I left Flowing Waters Town. Thought he’d be useful.”
As she began to call out another question, Whistle waved it off, saying, “I’ll be back. For a hot meal, I’ll tell you all the news.”
Bad Cast, nearly quaking, kept his eyes down and plodded anxiously after Whistle.
Beyond Guest House, the ridge constricted; the trail snaked its way through the clustered pit houses. The structures had been built precariously on the narrow shelf to keep the occupants safely buffered from the First Moon People below. These were the elite, the Made People who served at the whim of Blessed Matron Larkspur. It was here that Deputy War Chief Burning Smoke’s warriors kept their houses. So, too, did Water Bow’s assistants and the specialized weavers, masons, and potters who labored for Matron Larkspur.
As they passed within spitting distance of the houses, people looked up from cook fires, their weaving, or other tasks, and called friendly greetings to the unfamiliar warrior. Bad Cast noted that the small storerooms attached to the backs of the houses were bulging with jars of corn, dried meats, and other foodstuffs. Each of the water jars was full, having been packed up from the distant river on one of his people’s backs.
Whistle spoke to each person they saw, giving a greeting in the Made People’s tongue.
When they passed the last domicile, Whistle drew up and stared at Pinnacle Great House where it stood beneath the two mighty stone pillars that crowned First Moon Mountain. “Quite a fortress, isn’t it?”
Bad Cast studied the precarious way before them. Eons of erosion had left a narrow, rugged causeway of stone that fell away to either side. The precipitous trail led up to a small tower called the Eagle’s Fist, no more than a bow-shot farther up the hill. There, a red-shirted warrior was hanging over the tower wall saying something to Wrapped Wrist and Spots, who simply bobbed before proceeding onward like a clot of two-legged driftwood.
“Good, they’re past,” Whistle noted, and started up the final approach.
Bad Cast glanced down the sheer cliff that fell away on his right. The heights gave him an eagle’s view of the farmland in the valley so far below. Just beyond his left sandal, tall spires of fir, spruce, and ponderosa clung miraculously to the slope.
“Nowhere to run, is there?” Whistle asked.
“Nowhere at all.”
“Then we had better succeed.”
“Why did you leave the Blessed Sun?”
“I made the mistake of following Webworm just after Snake Head demoted Ironwood. I was there when Webworm murdered my old friend Beargrass. Nor was he the only friend I lost during those days. I saw my old companion, Cone, die when he revealed Snake Head’s witchery. Finally, I fought in the ambush Jay Bird laid for Webworm after the sacking of Talon Town. Then, one night after the Rainbow Serpent rose in the southwestern sky, I quietly walked away.”
“I know a lot of Bee Flower people. My wife is Bee Flower. But I’ve never seen you, or heard of you before.”
“It’s a big clan.”
“You’re a noteworthy man.”
“I’ve led a quiet life.”
At the tone, Bad Cast didn’t pursue it. Instead he cast cautious glances at the approaching Eagle’s Fist. The warrior standing watch had propped his arms on the high wall of the tower, his head cocked. Finally he called, “Who comes?”
Whistle’s rich baritone returned with, “A messenger from War Chief Wind Leaf. I would speak with Deputy War Chief Burning Smoke.”
“We saw no signal that a runner was approaching.” The guard sounded skeptical.
A huge hand might have tightened around Bad Cast’s guts.
Whistle never missed a beat when he responded, “There are times, warrior, when the Blessed Sun would prefer that others did not know his messengers are running the trails.”
“Pass,” the guard called. Then added, “Good luck to you.”
“And to you,” Whistle called. He paused to look back down the long valleys, past the layers of evening-purpled mountains, to the distant desert. “But with such a view as this to fill the eyes, I’d say you have all the luck you could use.”