People of the Morning Star(28)

Reassured, he slipped to the Morning Star’s doorway. Placing his weapons on the floor, he carefully lifted the door to the side, before retrieving them.

He couldn’t help but smile as he studied the dim outline of the great wooden bed frame where it had been built into the wall. A wealth of buffalo and bear hides topped a thick goose-down mattress. The Morning Star lay on his side, the length of his body curled around a sleeping woman.

Poor thing. Her night with the god was about to end badly.

Perched on the balls of his feet, Cut String crept to the side of the bed. He flexed his muscles, toned by lifting and tossing stones. God though he might be, Morning Star would be no match. And not even gods woke from deep sleep with a clear mind.

Like rattlesnake, he struck, slamming his war club down on the sleeping woman’s head. The pop-snap of impact accompanied the familiar caving of bone and brains under the blow. He turned loose of the war club, leaving its stone ax head still buried in the woman’s skull.

As Morning Star jerked awake, Cut String was on him. Cupping his left hand under the man’s chin, Cut String twisted as he lifted, pulling the head up against his chest; the angle clamped the mouth shut. Unable to scream, Morning Star thrashed, tangled in the fine blankets. Cut String placed the ceremonial knife’s keenly curved blade around his victim’s throat.

“I’ll see you soon, Morning Star,” he crooned, savoring this last moment before the god’s rich red blood spurted over his blade and hands.

The impact was similar to someone slapping him on the back, and for an instant he didn’t understand. Agony, like a spear of liquid fire, burned through his breast. Another impact, another slice of sharp pain. Then a third.

The knife slipped from his fingers, welling wetness rising hot in his throat. Stunned, he tasted blood. His strength vanished, and he toppled sideways onto the floor. Morning Star twisted away, crying out in fear.

Cut String’s mouth filled with blood, and he coughed, blowing the spray over his arms and the bedding. He tried to crawl, but seemed pinned in place.

Shot! I am shot!

A hand reached out of the night, lifting his weak head. His last image was of Night Shadow Star’s beautiful face, her dark eyes sucking the very souls out of his body, as she said, “Your souls will scream forever now. I give you to Piasa! He’s waiting…”

* * *

Irritation mixed with fear as Blue Heron’s litter bearers carefully worked their way up the slick stairs of the great mound. Not only did the rain continue to fall, but it made the climb treacherous. She swallowed hard as the litter lurched, and wrapped her blanket more tightly around her old body.

In the name of bloody pus, why didn’t I insist on climbing on my own?

As to the purpose of the summons from the Morning Star? And at this time of night? Without so much as an explanation? That truly scared her half to death.

Nothing, absolutely nothing good would come of this.

Living in proximity to a god was fraught with enough danger—especially a god who’d participated in exploits as colorful as Morning Star’s. In the Beginning Times, he’d killed his own father, then hung the dead man’s hand in the sky to mark the path to the Land of the Dead. He’d played chunkey with the giants of the Underworld—and won their heads. Angering a being with a record like that wasn’t conducive to a long or happy life.

Gods, tell me it’s not Night Shadow Star.

She’d taken it on her own authority to send the woman to Rides-the-Lightning. If anyone could call her souls back and tie them to that young and vibrant body, he could.

But in doing so, had she usurped the god’s authority? Was that what this was all about?

I’m the Clan Keeper, she declared to herself. Adding aloud, “He told me to deal with her. It was his order.”

As if that would save her if something had gone wrong.

Tell me she’s not dead … is she?

So what if in life—before the resurrection—the body the god now occupied had belonged to Tonka’tzi Red Warrior’s firstborn male child? As a youth Chunkey Boy, his brother Walking Smoke, and Night Shadow Star had been close. Some said too close. They had shared games, jokes, and secrets. Nor had Chunkey Boy and Walking Smoke been averse to leading her astray. They’d committed enough mischief and downright evil deeds, in addition to teaching her the art of the bow, to play chunkey, how to fish, hunt, and trap.

For a terrible couple of years Matron Wind secretly made offerings to the Spirit World in the desperate hope that Night Shadow Star wouldn’t end up a two-Spirit, a berdache—a woman who dedicated herself to the male arts, as was common when male souls had been born into a female body.